FIC: The Sweet Science (1/3) by rebelxxwaltz, Sam/Gene, Brown Cortina
Title: The Sweet Science (1/3)
Author: rebelxxwaltz
Rating: Brown Cortina (though the first half is fairly tame)
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Summary: In a seasonally appropriate throw forward to the New Year's resolutions of the twenty-first century, Sam tries to convince Gene to slim down and shape up. In the end there's only one form of exercise the Guv will agree to: boxing.
Warnings: Attempts at comedy, thinly-veiled lack of boxing knowledge, Rocky inspired dream sequences.
Word Count: Part 1 around 2500 words.
Notes: In a nod to the self-perpetuating cycle of inspiration in this fandom, this fic came about partly because of a recent viewing of basaltgrrl's portraits of Sam and Gene as boxers-- which I'm told were, in turn, illustrations from lozenger8's Changes series (something I really need to go back and read again). It just goes to show, you can pull from many diverse and awesome sources of inspiration and still end up with a sports comedy slash fic.
There are some boxing quotes referenced and paraphrased throughout this story, which will be credited at the bottom of the entry for anyone who needs and loves Wikiquote as much as I do. :D
The Sweet Science
Part 1
'Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.'
"No."
"Oh come on, Guv. There must be something--"
"Is that overinflated brain of yours plugging up your earhole? I said no, deaf-aid!"
Fortunately the bacon sandwich was victim to the brunt of Gene's aggression in this particular case, since it was too cramped in the Cortina for the Guv to manage any acts of bodily harm against Sam himself. Gene chewed violently, shoving the greasy paper wrapper onto the dashboard and taking a large gulp of his tea. He sputtered in a very unbecoming manner, dripping some of the tea onto a necktie that already looked-- by design, Sam was fairly sure-- like it was covered in splotches of some mysterious substance. "What the bloody shagging hell is this?"
Sam's head jerked back against the headrest as the white takeaway cup was shoved under his nose, presumably for purposes of direct inspection.
"I asked for six sugars, Tyler. Six. Not zero and a sprinkle from your fairy godmother, Wankerella!"
Sighing heavily, Sam sat back and studied the smoke-ravaged ceiling of the vehicle's interior. "You need to cut down. I'd be shocked if you're not pre-diabetic as it is."
Gene wiped his hands on his pants, scowling. "Pre-wot?"
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Never mind. If you just got a bit of daily exercise--"
"For the last time, Dorothy-- I am not, not, going to spend my afternoons watching Skelton prance around in a tracksuit while Ray reasserts his manliness by acting like more of a dumbbell than whatever measly flippin' weights he manages to lift!"
Sam Tyler was a Modern Man, in ways that were frankly unheard of here at the shining dawn of 1974. He was sleek stainless steel in a brown and orange world, an evolved and enlightened creature walking amongst the dinosaurs. Concepts of diet and exercise among his colleagues in CID more or less consisted of fat soaked meals straight from the fryer and the distant, though admittedly motivational, pipe dream of willing women to get the blood pumping. If this were January 2006? Gym memberships would be at an all-time high, the spectre of holiday overindulgence causing a rash of resolutions from citizens promising to greet the new year with increased physical activity and a healthier lifestyle. Television ads for dietary supplements echoed back to Sam from across the void of decades, real or imagined.
The voice of Gene Hunt, real or imagined as it may be, cut across the field of time and directly into Sam's frontal lobe. "I used to box, mind you. Now there is a real man's sport."
"Boxing?" The wheels turned in Sam's mind, taking a steady and mechanical path straight to the vision of a young Gene, built more like a whole block of flats than the proverbial house, bobbing and weaving in a pair of boxing shorts and sporting a facial expression that could melt steel. The image hovered stubbornly, fluttering its wings along a dangerous and unexplored trajectory of thought. Sam's poor overstimulated brain apparently had no discernible instinct for self-preservation. "We could try that."
xxxxx
'To me, boxing is like a ballet- except there's no music, no choreography, and the dancers hit each other.'
In the urge for self-improvement, Sam found a transference onto his new existence. He was here in the 1970's to stay, so why not use a few facets of his twenty-first century knowledge to enhance this environment? With that thought in mind, Sam had asked permission from the Super to create a fitness facility in the basement of the station. It was extremely basic, sure-- no treadmills or ellipticals, no spinning machines or flat screens sporting buoyant and toned aerobics instructors-- but he'd found some decent equipment for weightlifting, some mats, and a rather rudimentary rowing machine that looked like some brand of medieval torture device. Now it seemed like he would need to add a punching bag, or else he might end up being one. Not that it would be the first time...
When Sam thought of boxing, it was in disconnected chunks that he had acquired throughout the years, most of which would be utterly anachronistic and therefore unsuitable for use in his current setting. Since his return from the train tunnel certain aspects of the future were a bit fuzzy, and he hadn't known much about the sport to begin with. He knew there were such things as the 'Rumble in the Jungle' and the 'Thrilla in Manila,' was aware that there was something he should remember about Tyson v. Holyfield, but he wouldn't have been able to pinpoint any of the details even working from within the framework of his former life. He had seen Rocky, but Sam was pretty sure that didn't count for much.
The conversation he'd had with Gene about taking back up the gloves somehow resulted in a Friday evening field trip to one of Manchester's better known boxing clubs. Sam supposed that in the hands of the right athlete the sport could be majestic, graceful, a true expression of the power of the physical form. However, this was a hard concept to cling onto after seeing one of Jimmy Sullivan's bloody teeth pinging off the concrete mere inches from the toe of Sam's Cuban-heeled boot.
Eyes fixed on the small chunk of bone, Sam had to raise his voice in order for Gene to hear him over the buzz of the crowd. "Was he not wearing a mouthguard?"
Gene looked confused. "What for? He's fighting Ralphie Wilson from Oldham, not Jack soddin' Dempsey!"
The fight kept on, lasting far longer than Sam had anticipated. There did appear to be a certain amount of strategy involved when he took the time to notice. Wilson bounced around and aimed swift jabs at Sullivan, who was shorter and broader and seemed to find the most success by crowding in and delivering powerful and well-centered punches at close quarters. With or without his tooth, Sullivan went on to win the match. Sam felt that he now knew the true meaning of the phrase, 'You should see the other guy.'
He realized that he had wondered aloud how it could possibly be considered a victory when the winner came out looking like that, as Gene Hunt offered up his flask with a shrug. "Sullivan's a swarmer. It may not be pretty, but he's got a hard chin on 'im. And once he gets in under the other bloke's guard?" Gene made one driving-gloved hand into a fist, striking it sharply against the flat of the other.
Boxing was turning out to be much more complicated than Sam had expected, and so far he had only watched. If he squared off against Gene without learning a thing or two first he was going to be in serious trouble. Where was the internet when he needed it? Computers wouldn't even come with a mouse for another six or seven years yet, Sam realized. Taking a swig of single malt, he looked at the Guv's large hands. He had seen them inflict many colorful varieties of damage since the day he met Gene, also coincidentally the same day that he had first been punched by Gene. And soon he and Gene would be punching each other. For exercise.
Maybe he was mad after all.
xxxxx
'A boxing match is like a cowboy movie. There's got to be good guys and there's got to be bad guys. And that's what people pay for - to see the bad guys get beat.'
That night Sam had a dream, in vivid Freudian technicolor.
The lights beat down on the center of the ring, harsh and bright. Gene was there in the left corner, bare chest glistening with perspiration, wearing shiny blue-green boxing shorts. Ray appeared behind him in a turtleneck sweater and newsboy cap, handing him a towel and proffering a water bottle with a straw at the end. Gene elbowed Ray in the ribs, and the bottle was swiftly replaced with one of Gene's flasks.
In the opposite corner Leslie Johns snarled, obviously out for blood. Sam could practically hear the bones cracking as Johns rolled his neck, adjusting his mouthguard and jamming his wrapped hands back into his bright red boxing gloves. The bell rang for the next round and Frank Morgan appeared, wearing the traditional referee's uniform of white oxford shirt and black bow tie. Morgan gave the signal for the fight to resume, gliding out of the way with a typically sour-faced expression.
The fighters circled each other, locked in a battle of wills. Johns barreled in and delivered a couple of jabs to Gene's jaw in quick succession, but the Guv rolled with the punches and emerged unfazed. The dark-haired opponent continued his assault, becoming angrier each time Gene absorbed a savage blow with unflappable composure. For his part, Gene Hunt was not swiftly dodging to avoid the attacks, merely accepting the punishment and waiting for an opening.
At last Johns made a fatal error, putting all his weight into a powerful roundhouse. With devastating alacrity Gene eluded the punch by a paper-thin margin, using Johns' misplaced momentum and every ounce of his own strength to throw a right cross directly into the center of the other man's face. As if in slow motion Johns spun in a half circle, eyes rolling up into his skull as he crashed onto the mat in an unconscious heap.
Knockout delivered and victory complete, the crowd burst into pandemonium. Sam's dream-self watched in amazement as every suspect he'd ever interviewed, every criminal he'd arrested or bystander he'd passed on the street cheered and celebrated around him. The noise was deafening. Confetti rained from the ceiling. Back in the ring Morgan raised one of Gene's gloved hands into the air, officially declaring him the winner. Ray bounded toward the Guv, clapping him on the back before taking his gloves and helping him slide his arms into a slightly flashy robe made out of the same material as his boxing shorts. Gene was oblivious to the congratulations being showered upon him, looking smug but distracted. His sharp gaze searched the crowd for something-- or someone?
Sam was suddenly aware of his own physical form within the dream, at once relieved to be wearing what appeared to be his usual clothes and panicked because of the chaos erupting all around him. He found himself waving his arms without preamble, attempting to catch Gene's attention. Their eyes met and Sam nearly lost his footing as the post-brawl revelers jostled him to and fro. He couldn't tear his gaze away, watching Gene's mouth as he shouted for him.
"TYLER!!!!"
He was compelled to move forward, seeking a path through the crowd, a way to get to Gene. "Guv? GUV!!!" Sam pushed past Annie and Phyllis, who were drinking huge tankards of beer and chanting with the rest of the CID boys and the Women's Department. Up on the stage Chris Skelton appeared next to Gene, wearing coke bottle glasses and a glittery metallic suit, clutching his microphone like a lifeline.
"Right. So, Guv. Now that you've punched out Leslie Johns-- I mean now that you're The Champ, like-- well, what are you gonna do next?" Chris waited with bated breath, cautiously holding the microphone toward Gene.
"Do? What am I going to do?" Gene grabbed the microphone out of Chris' hands and flung it over the ropes into the first row of the crowd, where it clocked DCI Litton square between the eyes. "I'm going to bloody Disneyland, you twat! TYLER!!! Get your arse up here now!"
The closer Sam got to the edge of the ring, the more eager he was to reach Gene. For some reason, it was important. "Guv, over here!" Stepping over Litton's prone form, Sam levered himself up onto the platform and shimmied between the ropes. Gene pushed Chris out of the way, sending the younger man crashing into Ray hard enough to knock the hat off of Ray's moustached head. Then, at last, they were face to face.
"Took you long enough."
Gene stood before him in all his pugilistic glory. Bruises were purpling on his slightly stubbled cheek, his hair disheveled and shining golden under the harsh fluorescent light. Sam stepped closer, transfixed, barely aware of the wildness of the surrounding rabble or the numerous projectiles sailing through the air around them. "Gene…?"
They stared at each other, a tense island within the ocean of insanity. Gene made no verbal reply, instead employing a raw physical gambit as he caught Sam's slimmer body up in his arms and attacked his lips with a ferocious kiss. All Sam could hear was the blood rushing in his ears as their tongues collided, hot with the flavor of whisky and violence. One of Sam's hands was fisted in Gene's hair as the larger man pushed him back to the edge of the ring, lifting him against the ropes and sliding one hand down to give his arse a firm squeeze.
This was deliciously out of control, and there was no way Sam was letting go any time soon. His hands wandered, feeling their way along Gene's bare torso and onto the muscles of his back beneath the slippery fabric of the bright blue boxing robe. Gene growled and sucked on Sam's tongue, communicating his appreciation by maneuvering so that their groins ground against each other, rock-hard erections straining through layers of satin and corduroy. Sam threw his head back in abandon…
…and woke to find himself lying on the floor of his dingy flat. His tingling limbs were twisted in the bedsheets in the midst of a damp mess that definitely wasn't composed entirely of sweat, hand wrapped around his cock and bewildered senses still impossibly full of Gene Hunt.
Part 2...
xxxxx
xxxxx
Oh, did I mention this is only the second time I've written slash, ever? That might be a pertinent fact, although I've certainly read enough of it over the years and across fandoms. Nevertheless, please be gentle with me!
Also, concerning Sam's dream? I woke up at six o'clock this morning with this idea fully formed, so it's possible that I actually dreamed this insanity myself. Therefore, I suppose Sam can't be blamed for the entirety of the crackiness contained herein (only most of it). For anyone who may not be familiar, it also owes a bit to the famous scene in Rocky where Rocky repeatedly yells "ADRIAAAANNNN!" and in a great feat of modern scriptwriting Adrian replies, "Rocky?! ROCKY!!!"
Quotes referenced in this chapter:
'Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.' Muhammad Ali
'To me, boxing is like a ballet- except there's no music, no choreography, and the dancers hit each other.' Jack Handy
'A boxing match is like a cowboy movie. There's got to be good guys and there's got to be bad guys. And that's what people pay for - to see the bad guys get beat.' Sonny Liston
This isn't a long fic, so the rest should be along soon. I hope you guys find it enjoyable! :D
Author: rebelxxwaltz
Rating: Brown Cortina (though the first half is fairly tame)
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Summary: In a seasonally appropriate throw forward to the New Year's resolutions of the twenty-first century, Sam tries to convince Gene to slim down and shape up. In the end there's only one form of exercise the Guv will agree to: boxing.
Warnings: Attempts at comedy, thinly-veiled lack of boxing knowledge, Rocky inspired dream sequences.
Word Count: Part 1 around 2500 words.
Notes: In a nod to the self-perpetuating cycle of inspiration in this fandom, this fic came about partly because of a recent viewing of basaltgrrl's portraits of Sam and Gene as boxers-- which I'm told were, in turn, illustrations from lozenger8's Changes series (something I really need to go back and read again). It just goes to show, you can pull from many diverse and awesome sources of inspiration and still end up with a sports comedy slash fic.
There are some boxing quotes referenced and paraphrased throughout this story, which will be credited at the bottom of the entry for anyone who needs and loves Wikiquote as much as I do. :D
The Sweet Science
Part 1
'Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.'
"No."
"Oh come on, Guv. There must be something--"
"Is that overinflated brain of yours plugging up your earhole? I said no, deaf-aid!"
Fortunately the bacon sandwich was victim to the brunt of Gene's aggression in this particular case, since it was too cramped in the Cortina for the Guv to manage any acts of bodily harm against Sam himself. Gene chewed violently, shoving the greasy paper wrapper onto the dashboard and taking a large gulp of his tea. He sputtered in a very unbecoming manner, dripping some of the tea onto a necktie that already looked-- by design, Sam was fairly sure-- like it was covered in splotches of some mysterious substance. "What the bloody shagging hell is this?"
Sam's head jerked back against the headrest as the white takeaway cup was shoved under his nose, presumably for purposes of direct inspection.
"I asked for six sugars, Tyler. Six. Not zero and a sprinkle from your fairy godmother, Wankerella!"
Sighing heavily, Sam sat back and studied the smoke-ravaged ceiling of the vehicle's interior. "You need to cut down. I'd be shocked if you're not pre-diabetic as it is."
Gene wiped his hands on his pants, scowling. "Pre-wot?"
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Never mind. If you just got a bit of daily exercise--"
"For the last time, Dorothy-- I am not, not, going to spend my afternoons watching Skelton prance around in a tracksuit while Ray reasserts his manliness by acting like more of a dumbbell than whatever measly flippin' weights he manages to lift!"
Sam Tyler was a Modern Man, in ways that were frankly unheard of here at the shining dawn of 1974. He was sleek stainless steel in a brown and orange world, an evolved and enlightened creature walking amongst the dinosaurs. Concepts of diet and exercise among his colleagues in CID more or less consisted of fat soaked meals straight from the fryer and the distant, though admittedly motivational, pipe dream of willing women to get the blood pumping. If this were January 2006? Gym memberships would be at an all-time high, the spectre of holiday overindulgence causing a rash of resolutions from citizens promising to greet the new year with increased physical activity and a healthier lifestyle. Television ads for dietary supplements echoed back to Sam from across the void of decades, real or imagined.
The voice of Gene Hunt, real or imagined as it may be, cut across the field of time and directly into Sam's frontal lobe. "I used to box, mind you. Now there is a real man's sport."
"Boxing?" The wheels turned in Sam's mind, taking a steady and mechanical path straight to the vision of a young Gene, built more like a whole block of flats than the proverbial house, bobbing and weaving in a pair of boxing shorts and sporting a facial expression that could melt steel. The image hovered stubbornly, fluttering its wings along a dangerous and unexplored trajectory of thought. Sam's poor overstimulated brain apparently had no discernible instinct for self-preservation. "We could try that."
xxxxx
'To me, boxing is like a ballet- except there's no music, no choreography, and the dancers hit each other.'
In the urge for self-improvement, Sam found a transference onto his new existence. He was here in the 1970's to stay, so why not use a few facets of his twenty-first century knowledge to enhance this environment? With that thought in mind, Sam had asked permission from the Super to create a fitness facility in the basement of the station. It was extremely basic, sure-- no treadmills or ellipticals, no spinning machines or flat screens sporting buoyant and toned aerobics instructors-- but he'd found some decent equipment for weightlifting, some mats, and a rather rudimentary rowing machine that looked like some brand of medieval torture device. Now it seemed like he would need to add a punching bag, or else he might end up being one. Not that it would be the first time...
When Sam thought of boxing, it was in disconnected chunks that he had acquired throughout the years, most of which would be utterly anachronistic and therefore unsuitable for use in his current setting. Since his return from the train tunnel certain aspects of the future were a bit fuzzy, and he hadn't known much about the sport to begin with. He knew there were such things as the 'Rumble in the Jungle' and the 'Thrilla in Manila,' was aware that there was something he should remember about Tyson v. Holyfield, but he wouldn't have been able to pinpoint any of the details even working from within the framework of his former life. He had seen Rocky, but Sam was pretty sure that didn't count for much.
The conversation he'd had with Gene about taking back up the gloves somehow resulted in a Friday evening field trip to one of Manchester's better known boxing clubs. Sam supposed that in the hands of the right athlete the sport could be majestic, graceful, a true expression of the power of the physical form. However, this was a hard concept to cling onto after seeing one of Jimmy Sullivan's bloody teeth pinging off the concrete mere inches from the toe of Sam's Cuban-heeled boot.
Eyes fixed on the small chunk of bone, Sam had to raise his voice in order for Gene to hear him over the buzz of the crowd. "Was he not wearing a mouthguard?"
Gene looked confused. "What for? He's fighting Ralphie Wilson from Oldham, not Jack soddin' Dempsey!"
The fight kept on, lasting far longer than Sam had anticipated. There did appear to be a certain amount of strategy involved when he took the time to notice. Wilson bounced around and aimed swift jabs at Sullivan, who was shorter and broader and seemed to find the most success by crowding in and delivering powerful and well-centered punches at close quarters. With or without his tooth, Sullivan went on to win the match. Sam felt that he now knew the true meaning of the phrase, 'You should see the other guy.'
He realized that he had wondered aloud how it could possibly be considered a victory when the winner came out looking like that, as Gene Hunt offered up his flask with a shrug. "Sullivan's a swarmer. It may not be pretty, but he's got a hard chin on 'im. And once he gets in under the other bloke's guard?" Gene made one driving-gloved hand into a fist, striking it sharply against the flat of the other.
Boxing was turning out to be much more complicated than Sam had expected, and so far he had only watched. If he squared off against Gene without learning a thing or two first he was going to be in serious trouble. Where was the internet when he needed it? Computers wouldn't even come with a mouse for another six or seven years yet, Sam realized. Taking a swig of single malt, he looked at the Guv's large hands. He had seen them inflict many colorful varieties of damage since the day he met Gene, also coincidentally the same day that he had first been punched by Gene. And soon he and Gene would be punching each other. For exercise.
Maybe he was mad after all.
xxxxx
'A boxing match is like a cowboy movie. There's got to be good guys and there's got to be bad guys. And that's what people pay for - to see the bad guys get beat.'
That night Sam had a dream, in vivid Freudian technicolor.
The lights beat down on the center of the ring, harsh and bright. Gene was there in the left corner, bare chest glistening with perspiration, wearing shiny blue-green boxing shorts. Ray appeared behind him in a turtleneck sweater and newsboy cap, handing him a towel and proffering a water bottle with a straw at the end. Gene elbowed Ray in the ribs, and the bottle was swiftly replaced with one of Gene's flasks.
In the opposite corner Leslie Johns snarled, obviously out for blood. Sam could practically hear the bones cracking as Johns rolled his neck, adjusting his mouthguard and jamming his wrapped hands back into his bright red boxing gloves. The bell rang for the next round and Frank Morgan appeared, wearing the traditional referee's uniform of white oxford shirt and black bow tie. Morgan gave the signal for the fight to resume, gliding out of the way with a typically sour-faced expression.
The fighters circled each other, locked in a battle of wills. Johns barreled in and delivered a couple of jabs to Gene's jaw in quick succession, but the Guv rolled with the punches and emerged unfazed. The dark-haired opponent continued his assault, becoming angrier each time Gene absorbed a savage blow with unflappable composure. For his part, Gene Hunt was not swiftly dodging to avoid the attacks, merely accepting the punishment and waiting for an opening.
At last Johns made a fatal error, putting all his weight into a powerful roundhouse. With devastating alacrity Gene eluded the punch by a paper-thin margin, using Johns' misplaced momentum and every ounce of his own strength to throw a right cross directly into the center of the other man's face. As if in slow motion Johns spun in a half circle, eyes rolling up into his skull as he crashed onto the mat in an unconscious heap.
Knockout delivered and victory complete, the crowd burst into pandemonium. Sam's dream-self watched in amazement as every suspect he'd ever interviewed, every criminal he'd arrested or bystander he'd passed on the street cheered and celebrated around him. The noise was deafening. Confetti rained from the ceiling. Back in the ring Morgan raised one of Gene's gloved hands into the air, officially declaring him the winner. Ray bounded toward the Guv, clapping him on the back before taking his gloves and helping him slide his arms into a slightly flashy robe made out of the same material as his boxing shorts. Gene was oblivious to the congratulations being showered upon him, looking smug but distracted. His sharp gaze searched the crowd for something-- or someone?
Sam was suddenly aware of his own physical form within the dream, at once relieved to be wearing what appeared to be his usual clothes and panicked because of the chaos erupting all around him. He found himself waving his arms without preamble, attempting to catch Gene's attention. Their eyes met and Sam nearly lost his footing as the post-brawl revelers jostled him to and fro. He couldn't tear his gaze away, watching Gene's mouth as he shouted for him.
"TYLER!!!!"
He was compelled to move forward, seeking a path through the crowd, a way to get to Gene. "Guv? GUV!!!" Sam pushed past Annie and Phyllis, who were drinking huge tankards of beer and chanting with the rest of the CID boys and the Women's Department. Up on the stage Chris Skelton appeared next to Gene, wearing coke bottle glasses and a glittery metallic suit, clutching his microphone like a lifeline.
"Right. So, Guv. Now that you've punched out Leslie Johns-- I mean now that you're The Champ, like-- well, what are you gonna do next?" Chris waited with bated breath, cautiously holding the microphone toward Gene.
"Do? What am I going to do?" Gene grabbed the microphone out of Chris' hands and flung it over the ropes into the first row of the crowd, where it clocked DCI Litton square between the eyes. "I'm going to bloody Disneyland, you twat! TYLER!!! Get your arse up here now!"
The closer Sam got to the edge of the ring, the more eager he was to reach Gene. For some reason, it was important. "Guv, over here!" Stepping over Litton's prone form, Sam levered himself up onto the platform and shimmied between the ropes. Gene pushed Chris out of the way, sending the younger man crashing into Ray hard enough to knock the hat off of Ray's moustached head. Then, at last, they were face to face.
"Took you long enough."
Gene stood before him in all his pugilistic glory. Bruises were purpling on his slightly stubbled cheek, his hair disheveled and shining golden under the harsh fluorescent light. Sam stepped closer, transfixed, barely aware of the wildness of the surrounding rabble or the numerous projectiles sailing through the air around them. "Gene…?"
They stared at each other, a tense island within the ocean of insanity. Gene made no verbal reply, instead employing a raw physical gambit as he caught Sam's slimmer body up in his arms and attacked his lips with a ferocious kiss. All Sam could hear was the blood rushing in his ears as their tongues collided, hot with the flavor of whisky and violence. One of Sam's hands was fisted in Gene's hair as the larger man pushed him back to the edge of the ring, lifting him against the ropes and sliding one hand down to give his arse a firm squeeze.
This was deliciously out of control, and there was no way Sam was letting go any time soon. His hands wandered, feeling their way along Gene's bare torso and onto the muscles of his back beneath the slippery fabric of the bright blue boxing robe. Gene growled and sucked on Sam's tongue, communicating his appreciation by maneuvering so that their groins ground against each other, rock-hard erections straining through layers of satin and corduroy. Sam threw his head back in abandon…
…and woke to find himself lying on the floor of his dingy flat. His tingling limbs were twisted in the bedsheets in the midst of a damp mess that definitely wasn't composed entirely of sweat, hand wrapped around his cock and bewildered senses still impossibly full of Gene Hunt.
Part 2...
xxxxx
xxxxx
Oh, did I mention this is only the second time I've written slash, ever? That might be a pertinent fact, although I've certainly read enough of it over the years and across fandoms. Nevertheless, please be gentle with me!
Also, concerning Sam's dream? I woke up at six o'clock this morning with this idea fully formed, so it's possible that I actually dreamed this insanity myself. Therefore, I suppose Sam can't be blamed for the entirety of the crackiness contained herein (only most of it). For anyone who may not be familiar, it also owes a bit to the famous scene in Rocky where Rocky repeatedly yells "ADRIAAAANNNN!" and in a great feat of modern scriptwriting Adrian replies, "Rocky?! ROCKY!!!"
Quotes referenced in this chapter:
'Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.' Muhammad Ali
'To me, boxing is like a ballet- except there's no music, no choreography, and the dancers hit each other.' Jack Handy
'A boxing match is like a cowboy movie. There's got to be good guys and there's got to be bad guys. And that's what people pay for - to see the bad guys get beat.' Sonny Liston
This isn't a long fic, so the rest should be along soon. I hope you guys find it enjoyable! :D