Warnings: Mentions of sex, mentions of blowjobs, swearing, fighting, age difference (seven years - both are adults), underground street fighting, boxing, sweating, the Olympics, modern day (a surprise from me, ik)
Summary: All Roman Prince ever wanted to do in his life was succeed. Whether it be in winning the heart of his childhood next-door neighbor (seven years older, gorgeous, probably straight, and entirely unattainable) or leaving his football career behind in favor of becoming an Olympic boxer, Roman always managed to claw his way to his goals after fighting tooth and nail for them. He had the boy, an Olympic medal was next, and Virgil Brassard planned to do everything in his power to help Roman claim fame.
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Sweat poured down Roman’s forehead and he was forced to blink away the salty beads, small grunts infrequently rupturing the precise sound of the twin ropes slapping the floor. The male standing behind him clicked his tongue, arms crossed against his chest as he studied each and every one of Roman’s movements with disapproval radiating off of him.
“Pick it up, Princey,” he said while stepping forward to place a strong hand between Roman’s shoulder blades and force him to work harder on his core, “or you’ll never wear that crown.”
The boxer’s grip on the ropes tightened as more sweat secreting from his palms threatened to loosen his hold. The hand on his back - why Virgil would want to touch him and his sweaty, now-translucent garment beyond him - was making his movements harder for now he was battling two forces, but he knew that it was only a matter of time, that it was only a few more seconds before-
The last slap of the rope echoed in the silent gym and Roman’s body followed, chest falling over his knees as he gasped for air. He couldn’t bother to feel ashamed of himself, not even as the three-time gold medalist Virgil Brassard stood over him - hard muscles turned lean since his years in the ring - with cold, gray eyes studying him.
It wasn’t until Roman had the strength to look up did his coach finally speak. “Your form is getting better but I expect more from you. You can’t get away with just using your athletic ability anymore, this isn’t football. This is boxing, and it takes actual skill.”
With a nod, Roman forced himself into a standing position. He was two inches taller than Virgil and at least twenty pounds heavier - putting them in different weight groups - but if they ever battled in the ring, Virgil would devour Roman in little time at all. The coach had spent years in the ring before Roman was even born and had fought for his fame and fortune while both had been handed to Roman.
However, he trained hard and after the first few days of enduring Virgil’s relentless tormenting, he felt as if he had earned the other’s respect.
Virgil wrinkled his nose at the title, still not entirely used to the term coach being directed his way. He was only twenty-eight, for fuck’s sake. “Another set, then. Use the bosu ball this time.”
To some extent, at least.
But that’s how they trained, forty-five minutes of straight up one-on-one torture where Virgil worked him into the ground and then fifteen minutes of practice in the ring. Despite Roman’s protests, Virgil insisted that’d it was the way to gold medals. Followed by protein shakes and electrifying sex that worked muscles Roman didn’t even know he had, of course.
The thought alone made Roman’s breaths fall harder, something that his coach instantly noticed. Virgil applied more pressure as he said, “Clear your mind, Prince, focus on the present and what you’re doing right this second. Not of whatever the hell is going on in that pretty little head of yours.”
“If you’re talking, you’re not working hard enough,” Virgil snapped, pressing his hand harder against his back and nearly making Roman topple over. His arms stopped as he focused on regaining his balance and Virgil stepped away. Unamused, to say the least.
“Thirty more seconds added on your first movement, I don’t want to hear it.”
As to why Roman was still attracted to Virgil was beyond him, especially seeing as he still had a few more exercises to go through before he even stepped into the ring, but he merely furrowed his brows and forced his body to undergo the strain of the forces attempting to tear his body apart. The half ball he balanced on, the ropes growing heavier by the second, and Virgil’s firm hand between his shoulders testing his stance were all working together to bring him down, a tangible villain to defeat. He needed only withstand them for a minute and a half longer to arise victorious.
The next time the buzzer from Virgil’s watch rang in his ears, Roman did collapse, falling straight into the awaiting arms of the man who had thankfully been able to recognize the fact that the boxer-in-training had been over-exerting himself.
“I think we should take a break,” Virgil said, one hand softly brushing at the strands of Roman’s hair as the other remained firmly wrapped around his waist to support him.
“I think you should suck my dick.”
Normally, such a comment in the gym would earn him a glare on a good day, a punch in the gut on a worse one, but Virgil merely chuckled in response. “Don’t want you passing out on my watch, kid, not good for business.”
Roman’s response was muffled against his coach’s shoulder - an inaudible “I’m twenty-one, hop off your high horse” - as he awaited the return of his strength. When he finally felt his breathing even to an appropriate level, he gave a small nod and Virgil released him.
“Alright,” Roman said while standing up, offering Virgil his hand to pull him back up to his feet, “what’s next?”
The other’s eyes glimmered at the sight, joy and pride swelling in the silver pools. Virgil allowed his lover to pull him to his feet, their hands still entwined as he led Roman Prince towards the ring. “We’ll start a little early today, you need all the practice you can get for next week.”
With a small nod, Roman grabbed his boxing gloves - as red as the blood running through his veins - and laced them up. He looked up and there, in the ring, was Virgil waiting with his own gloves, the very same that won him medals and titles. His hair was slicked back with sweat and in his fitted black t-shirt that clung to his muscles, Roman was unable to look away. His breath hitched.
“Come on up here so I can beat the shit out of you, you prepubescent fuck,” Virgil called, lifting up the lowest rope so Roman could slide under.
“In your wet dreams,” replied Roman, a playful grin across his lips as he made sure to tuck the image of Virgil in the ring into a special corner of his mind for safe keeping. It was something he’d never want to forget. Something to look back upon when they were gray and old.
Virgil, the smirk that spread across his lips the only flicker of emotion he dared show, motioned once more to the rope and Roman obliged, slipping beneath it. When he rose, he pecked his boyfriend’s cheek before stepping back and squaring up, bouncing on the soles of his feet.
“Be nimble,” Virgil instructed, readying his hands in front of him and sporting a slight bend in his knees. He looked intimidating despite his size, like a true athlete. “And when you strike, make it count.”
It was nearly impossible to drown out the world around Roman when he stepped into the ring, there were always things to think about. His parents, for one thing, had never seen him in mits before - let alone cornered and taking punch after punch to the face, gut, and sternum - so that was a pressing subject he had to ignore between the ropes. There was his older sister looking like she would pull her hair out before the night’s end, his best friend Patton beside her offering him encouraging glances whenever Roman looked their way, and a silent Virgil watching each and every one of his movements calculatedly.
Then there was the hundreds of strangers circled around them - another ring orbiting around him and his opponent - all screaming various things, cheering, and pressing against one another to get closer to the fight.
As any man, woman, or otherwise would do during an Olympic qualifying match, especially after Roman was knocked down for a second time in the third round and struggled to pull himself to his feet.
“TKO, TKO!” they screamed and the words spun in Roman’s head, spiraling and he closed his eyes for a moment while bringing a hand up to his head.
“Can you get up, son?” the referee asked and Roman forced his eyes open, face scrunching in determination as he pulled himself to his feet.
“Yes, sir,” he grunted, “just tripped.”
After his opponent’s fist collided with his face, but luckily, the referee said nothing of it, only lowering his hand and allowing the fight to continue.
Roman swung first this time, packing as much as he could into it and watching the other recoil. It pulled him back into the moment, the rest of the world, Virgil included, fading to black.
There was nothing but Roman and his opponent, their gloves - both shield and sword for their respective wielders, and a raised platform that they danced atop of, circling one another like rival wolves. And a voice closing in on him, ringing louder in his ears than anything else. Be nimble.
Roman maneuvered around a string of punches, taking one to the stomach so he could throw an uppercut. His opponent grunted and took a step back, and Roman pounced as Virgil’s voice sang in his ears, when you strike, make it count.
Because even when the world faded from his eyes, nothing could make him forget Virgil. He was more likely to lose sight of the blinding sun that awoke him each and every morning or the love he felt for his sport.
It was only when the referee placed a hand on Roman’s chest did he stop, so lost in the moment that he hadn’t heard the bell signaling the end of the bout.
Roman eased up and turned towards his corner, licking his bottom lip as the physical trainer checked him for any serious injuries - seeing as had he fallen a third time in that round, even if he had been able to get up, the match would have been over due to a technical knockout - but Roman paid her no mind. No, his eyes were on his coach, and the other man offered him nothing but a wet towel to put on the back of his neck to cool off.
“Both falls were the result of careless mistakes,” Virgil criticized and Roman nodded because yes, he already knew that. By trying to get in a left hook, he left himself exposed and after a quick block, vulnerable. The second time, he had been taken by surprise (which was even worse), and had Virgil had more time, he would have torn Roman to shreds about it then and there in front of his opponent, the referee, the five judges, and the hundreds of eager fans.
Instead, all he said was, “Get it together, I don’t have much else to say. Just stay focused, be nimble, and when you strike-”
Roman hardly heard him over the roar of the crowd but he nodded anyway, allowing the words to seep into his skin and flood into his veins. To give him strength.
He wouldn’t fall again, but not only was he going to remain conscious, he was going to win with a clean knockout.
There was nothing like a sport where the whole purpose was to push one’s opponent to the line to toe death.
After settling into his position, light on his feet and awaiting the okay, the referee blew his whistle and they were off. Roman swung first, a quick jab at his stomach, followed by a block, right hook, duck, fake jab left uppercut, and then the other stumbled back. Roman followed, fist colliding with his opponent’s exposed face.
Who knew that a little blood would drive the fans up a wall? The sound of them all deafening and swallowing up his senses from a bloody nose? But Virgil was still there, Roman aware of the other standing behind him at the edge of the ring and waiting, making notes of missed opportunities. Roman would hear all about them later, not immediately, of course, not unless he made a fatal mistake that cost him an Olympic spot.
No, Virgil would take him home and he would shower, leave the bathroom door invitingly ajar and wait only ten minutes or so before the other joined him. There, Virgil would pull aside the curtains and Roman would teasingly raise a brow, aware of exactly what the other was thinking when Virgil saw drops of water sliding down his muscular torso and his half-hard cock already in his hand. It wouldn’t be until their morning run the next day would Virgil even bring up boxing, the match, and everything Roman could have done to win it sooner.
It had hardly been ten seconds into the fourth and final bout, so Roman had a long way to go before he needed to even begin thinking about any of that, so he pushed non-motivating thoughts of Virgil out of mind.
The fight continued, Roman landing more impactful punches than he received. He was lost in the heat of the moment, feeling as though he aged years in those three minutes. His muscles begged him to quit, to drop to his knees and cave in to defeat, but the dynamic duo that was his heart and mind refused to yield, determined to keep Roman on his feet and doing damage to his opponent. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike like a cobra and end it.
And then there it was, Roman hardly able to believe it. His opposition was a southpaw, favoring his left side heavily. The punches he gave with his right were significantly weaker and whenever he attempted a right hook, he freed his core. Roman took a blow to his side as he pushed forward with all his strength, fist colliding with his opponent’s sternum. He stumbled and Roman lunged again, two quick jabs to the face and then he was down, groaning and struggling to rise as the referee counted. The audience attempted to join in on the countdown, but of course, they were off by about half a second.
Roman was panting but didn’t look away, not until he knew ten seconds had passed and that he had won.
The bell rang and Roman smiled, basking in the glow of victory. He turned his head and there. His mother was crying, his father was giving him a thumbs up, his sister and Patton were grinning from ear to ear and hugging one another, and-
“Not bad,” Virgil said once Roman had kneeled near the ropes, reaching down slightly to cup his boyfriend’s cheek and pull him into a passionate kiss.
“We’re going to Tokyo, baby,” Roman grinned when he finally pulled away, hand falling to Virgil’s shoulder and gripping him in disbelief. Despite all of his training, the past three years he had spent under Virgil’s guidance after tearing his ACL in college and losing his scholarship, he hadn’t truly thought that he’d pull through.
He was an Olympian, a candidate for an Olympic fucking medal. It was better than playing Division I college football and having a shot at being drafted in the NFL - plus, he could stay loyal to the team he had grown up loving instead of being forced to switch because he wasn’t drafted by them.
And Virgil would be with him, the thought alone greater than gold.
Roman couldn’t help but kiss him again, losing himself in his lover’s lips and the clamorous crowd chanting his name.
A true champion, crown and all.
The shower ran cold by the time Roman and Virgil were done, fresh bruises and bites peppering their skin as they laid besides one another in bed. Some of Roman’s were from the fight, but most blossomed beneath Virgil’s lips, teeth, and fingers. He looked wrecked, skin sleek with sweat and hair slick to his forehead. And yet, he was grinning from ear to ear.
An Olympian, he thought, still incapable of wrapping his head around the idea despite Virgil’s countless remarks. He didn’t feel changed, not suddenly stronger or faster. In fact, when looking back at the match from an objective eye, he hadn’t done too great of a job at all. And yet.
And yet he was able to turn his head just so to gaze upon a beautiful creature that would praise his accomplishment to no end.
Roman’s fingers brushed up Virgil’s torso, traveling up the plains of his chest until he was touching the soft strands of hair at the top of his head. Virgil leaned into the touch, eyes meeting Roman’s.
“How do you feel?” he prompted while raising his own hand to caress Roman’s bicep. Intimate and familiar, almost too gentle to belong to a boxer.
After a moment of silence and debating, Roman confessed, “Not much different, Virge. Is that strange?”
Virgil shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. It doesn’t hit you until you’re in the parade, I don’t think, not even when you’re flying to wherever. And then you’re in the ring and the stakes are high and … no, it’s not weird to not feel that yet. You’ll get there.”
And you’ll be there with me, Roman unable to help the way his grin widened at the thought, and he playfully tugged at the strands of Virgil’s hair to pull him closer.
“How about that blowjob now,” he said, nibbling at Virgil’s jaw and looking up hopefully.
Virgil cocked a brow in disbelief, “And when did I promise you that?”
“Before the match,” Roman shrugged, allowing himself the luxury of sucking on a hickey that had been forming from earlier. He loved marking Virgil, probably more than he should, but the older didn’t seem to mind. Even as he pretended to be against the idea of blowing Roman, he turned his head to allow the other more access to his neck.
“I …” Virgil paused, taking a shattered breath to remain in control of himself, “I don’t seem to recall.”
He was obviously hard and so was Roman. Thank god.
“Plus, we just had sex like, half an hour ago. I’m old, you know, I get tired.”
Roman scoffed, “Oh please, you always insist that you’re only twenty-eight. You’re still in shape and horny, so come on, I deserve it.”
Virgil couldn’t help but laugh, pushing Roman’s lips off of his neck, “Debatable … oh, alright, jesus christ, just stop with my neck. You’re like a fucking leech.”
Before Roman could snap a retort, Virgil had him pinned and was kissing him hard. Roman’s stomach flipped and he submitted, blunt fingernails digging into the defined muscles of Virgil’s back as the other moved down his body with a trail of kisses.
They were both breathless and far gone by the time Virgil reached Roman’s abdomen, each just as lost in the other man’s touch. And once again, the entire world faded for Roman, everything accept for Virgil, his own, personal blinding sun.
so first things first, I’m quite literally exhausted right now and didn’t really look the fic over so if there are any glaring mistakes, let me know (slightly unprofessional but give a girl a break)!
next order of business, just thought you should know that v’s last name means “armor of the arms” which is the cutest thing in the entire world!
okay, so now I know what you’re thinking: where’s my underground street fighter virgil? good question, he’s there, but that’s not what this fic was about. I needed to right something cute, and that would be nothing but angst (but hey, if you guys are interested, maybe either mac or I could write something in the future).
again, I’m tired so there’s probably more I could say but I can’t think lmao
