Chapter Text
Alfred had a problem.
As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t ignore it any longer.
As much as he tried to distract himself with cold water battering down on fresh bruises, he couldn’t ignore the stiffness between his legs.
If it were once or twice, he could have just written it off as an unconscious physical response, but every time, really?
Stupid fucking commie, he thought to himself as he waited for the water underneath his feet to lose its red colour.
Once the water was well and truly clear again, and his dick had settled down, Alfred stepped out of the hotel room shower to observe the damage.
This time he was only left with a black eye and split eyebrow, some other unimportant bruises, and of course, broken glasses.
What was even the point of replacing them each time if the Russian would just break them again the next time they met?
Still, he took pride knowing the man was sporting similar bruises to him.
Did Ivan have the same problem as him? He wondered.
Was Ivan in a hotel bathroom on the other side of the city somewhere willing his dick to go down too?
His long, thick, swollen-red, glistening - what the fuck, no Alfred!
He chastised himself and ignored a twitch of heat traveling south.
Hopefully a few rounds of whatever liquor the hotel stocked would knock some sense into him, or at least keep him out of his own mind for a while.
Alfred internally cursed out his superiors as he struggled again with Cyrillic letters haphazardly scrawled onto a slip of paper.
He eventually stopped trying to translate and instead looked to street signs, hoping to find one that looked similar to the words in his hands.
Eventually, a grimy, graffitied street sign mirrored the poor handwriting on his piece of paper, leading him into probably the most sketchy looking alleyway Alfred had ever seen.
Now or never, he told himself, and slipped into the shadows of the alley, eyes set on seeking out a red painted door numbered 52.
It was tucked away in a quiet little corner, almost unnoticeable. Almost.
And the door was unlocked too, these commies sure were getting sloppy.
No, Alfred knew that wasn’t the truth. This wasn’t sloppiness, this was cockiness.
It was a punch to the gut is what it was, telling him he wasn’t even a threat to the Russians.
Stupid fucking commie, the American repeated in his mind, stealthily navigating dimly lit corridors.
He recited his instructions yet again; up the stairs at the end of the corridor, then two rights, then his third left.
That would lead him to his target.
Lucky for Alfred, the Russians were strict with their schedule, and he was able to slip in unnoticed during the shift change.
Also lucky for Alfred, Ivan’s office was designed with two sets of doors with a short passage between, the perfect spot for spying.
The blonde crouched down into a corner of the completely dark space, listening for muffles of that certain accent he’d grown to hate.
Eventually, incoherent sounds became clearer and Alfred was able to make out what sounded like a phone call.
Still, he only caught snippets at first.
“...will send over confirmation…”
“...are all ready for…”
Then, the voice paused, for quite some time. Thirty seconds passed, and Alfred was starting to get antsy.
He was about to crawl lower when that infuriating voice began again, loud and clear through the mahogany door.
“But if you want to know unofficially, we have three thousand weapons at our disposal.”
Alfred thought his heart was going to stop dead in his chest.
Three thousand.
The commies were supposed to have two hundred weapons at most, that was what the CIA had prepared for.
Three thousand? They couldn’t even begin to account for such a large underestimation.
Alfred’s head was spinning and his heart was pounding against his ribs, until a low chuckle pierced through his panic.
“Are you going to come in or stay crouched down there?” came Ivan’s voice, deep and slow.
The American froze for a moment, before the stillness gave way to adrenaline.
He burst into the room, hoping to catch the other off guard.
Instead, Ivan was seated carefully behind his desk, amethyst eyes boring into Alfred. He was still as the dead.
The adrenaline rush aided his unease and the blonde shut and locked the door behind him, eyes locked on the Russian.
“I knew you were stupid, but I didn’t know you were stupid enough to believe I really leave the doors to my lair open and discuss business in English,” he practically purred.
“So then why did you lure me here?” Alfred spat back.
The ash blonde didn’t answer immediately. He slowly rose from his seat, silently slinking over to the American’s form.
He settled right in front of Alfred, leaning down until their eyes were level. He touched Alfred’s hair so gingerly he almost didn’t feel it.
Moving some hair from his forehead to inspect the mostly healed gash in his eyebrow, the taller man finally responded, “Maybe I am bored without something to beat up.”
Alfred’s eyes flicked down to Ivan’s lips as he spoke, but then quickly back up to his eyes, noticing his black eye from last time was entirely gone.
“Well, bruises are something I’m more than willing to replenish,” he returned, and wasted no time swinging at the Russian’s gut.
Ivan quickly caught his fist with one hand and hair with the other.
The grip on his fist tightened until Alfred could feel the tension in his knuckles, and the grip in his hair wrenched his head back until their faces were an inch apart.
“You really don’t change, do you?” he spoke disdainfully, throwing Alfred onto his desk by the hair.
The shorter of the two let out a sustained grunt as he steadied his body against the edge of dark carved wood, using the leverage to launch himself back at the man.
He caught Ivan in a tackle, using the grip around his torso to keep the Russian in place as he landed successive hits to his ribs.
He only got three or four hits in when Ivan ripped their bodies apart by Alfred’s hair and punched him square in the face.
Alfred heard a crack, and blood started pouring from his nose, but he was disappointed to find that what broke were his brand new glasses rather than his nose.
Furious, the American attempted an uppercut, only to be kneed in the stomach, hard.
As Alfred doubled over, the taller man fled his vision.
The blonde let in a strained breath before getting back up, and Ivan was standing waiting for him from the corner of the room, small smile on his face. Metal pole in his hand.
Alfred’s gut twisted in knots. And he felt his dick twitch, but he was terrified enough to forget about the excitement.
Seeing the flicker of fear in his eyes, Ivan teased, “Come on, don’t you get bored of the same old script? Don’t you want to try something new?”
The American narrowed his eyes and set his jaw, silently accepting the challenge.
The ash blonde moved faster than Alfred could see, swinging the length of metal straight into his side in one step.
Alfred buckled, managed to dodge the next swing, but suddenly, Ivan had him against the desk, pipe against his throat.
One of his large hands held the pipe against his neck with a firm but stable pressure, while the other began to rain down punches against his face.
The Russian slotted a knee between his legs to keep him from kicking, pressing up against Alfred’s member and suddenly making him hyperaware of the fact that he was already half-hard.
He clawed against the Russian’s assault with more fervor, desperate to hide his… problem.
He jabbed two fingers into Ivan’s side, digits sinking against the soft spot.
The man bucked, his grip on the pipe faltering for a moment.
A moment was all Alfred needed to tighten his own grip around the metal and force it up sharply against Ivan’s jaw.
He forced it up again, hitting the jaw and the neck until the Russian was disoriented enough for the American to squirm out of his grip.
Now, he flipped the taller man against the desk, leg hooking in with his to throw him off balance.
Both still gripped the pipe, and Alfred struggled to force it down against Ivan’s scarf concealed throat.
His thighs clamped down over the ash blonde’s hips, keeping him in place, but also creating a dangerously enjoyable friction against his cock.
The American accidentally ground down against the wall of flesh as the man beneath him struggled, concealing a moan with another swing to Ivan’s face.
Seeing as Alfred only had one hand on the pipe, Ivan took the opportunity to wrench it sideways and completely out of his grip.
Without properly seeing, he swung down, and hearing a crack, found he’d hit the blonde’s skull.
Alfred paused a moment, feeling hot and sticky blood coat his hair and drip down his forehead.
At the same time, he could feel his pants starting to wetten with precum. Alfred hoped Ivan thought the flush spreading across his face and ears was just out of frustration.
While the American was dazed, the other rolled them over once again, until the shorter man was crushed beneath Ivan yet again.
Using his hand to hold the younger man down, Ivan came down on his head with the pipe again and again and again.
Alfred coughed up blood and other sounds, trying his best to focus on the pulsing in his head and not the pulsing in his dick.
It seemed that every time the metal came in contact with him, every time he felt Ivan’s callused knuckles pummel his skin, he grew closer and closer to the edge.
His legs were still firmly secured on either side of the Russian’s hips, and Alfred couldn’t remember when he finally gave in and wrapped them fully around Ivan’s body.
He didn’t know if he was doing it intentionally, but the ash blonde kept pressing closer, harder, their bodies completely flush.
While Ivan threw another hook to his jaw, Alfred shallowly thrust his hips up, seeking the delicious friction of his warm, thick body.
His back arched when the Russian pressed their bodies impossibly harder into the wood, and Alfred knew he was getting close.
Knew this needed to stop.
He flailed his arms against the taller man’s sturdy chest, choking out his name through blood and saliva.
This only prompted Ivan to snake his hand up and secure it around his throat, squeezing with considerable force.
That only made it worse, Alfred soon realised, as he felt his orgasm coming on.
“Wait, stop-” he cried, silenced by another punch.
“For once in your life, shut up,” Ivan hissed, voice cold and wild.
Alfred was so close he could feel tears beading the corners of his eyes, he didn’t know how to get the Russian to stop. To stop before it went too far.
Then, with an unconscious roll of Ivan’s hips, Alfred’s body finally spilled over into the most sensitive orgasm he’d ever experienced.
As pleasure rushed and reverberated throughout his body, Alfred called out, “Ivan!” with a loud moan.
After a few moments he was still out of it, but there was no mistaking what had just happened.
The American snapped out of it when he realised he wasn’t being pummelled anymore, and the sticky sensation he felt in his pants was a burden weighing a ton.
This was the first time he’d ever seen the ash blonde taken aback, the first time it didn’t look like he’d calculated for everything.
His wide amethyst eyes travelled from Alfred’s flushed face to the wet spot on his slacks and retreating erection and then back up to his face again.
The metal pipe slipped from his grip and rolled along the table until it landed on the wooden floor with a distinct sound.
After a few more moments, Ivan finally broke the silence.
“What the fuck.”