#boxer!coryo

So here you sat, your legs crossed and slotting between Coryo’s lazily spread ones, as you let him wrap your hand. Your eyes flick twixt his focused expression and his deft hands— his split knuckles still scabbed over from the last fight night. His lips pressed and brows furrowed in concentration, muttering to you, “Thrice ‘round the wrist, okay? Then over this space, right here—“ —He taps his finger holding the roll of wrap on the skin twixt your thumb and pointer— “and then ‘round your knuckles. Thrice again.”

You hum as if you follow, but you’re really just enjoying the face that you can hear his breathing, smell his cologne. His fingers are gentle and soft on you, but he pulls the white wrap firm and taut. “Then fill in the space, y’know. That’s all.” Coryo shrugs, pushing out his bottom lip as if it’s no big.

‘Cause it’s not, not to him. This is his world. It’s been years, maybe 7th grade, since he didn’t have atleast three dents in himself. Right now, he has a purple eye underlined with a scabbing-over scrape, a split brow (though he thought it looked pretty good,), wrecked knuckles and the bone of his nose was nice and sore. He wasn’t exactly a pageant poodle. Well, maybe to you.

He stooped over to tear the wrap with his teeth, tucking the tail end under another layer and handing you the roll. “You get it?”

“I get it,” you agree, hesitantly going about wrapping the red cotton around your wrist, once, twice, thrice.

“Mhm,” Coryo encourages as you continue, following his example with a slightly less sure hand, but still doing okay nonetheless. He was convinced you were good at everything you picked up, the second you tried.

Once your fists are crimson, he grunts approvingly and reaches behind himself for a pair of tied together, white boxing gloves. He unties them, opens the mouth of the left glove for you to wiggle your hand into. “So will I not feel anything?”

There’s a hint of a laugh in Coryo’s voice as he laces up the side of your mitten, “Not exactly, baby.” With a bratty huff you mock an uppercut to your boyfriend jaw, whispering a “pow!” and trying not to smile at his recoil.

“Don’chu laugh at me, Coryo! How am I supposed to know?” He seems to get a real kick out of your fake indignation ‘cause the smile that pulls his lips fully over his teeth is just precious to you. He could act macho all he wanted, but that had to come with your mockery of it from time to time.

He helps you get the second glove on, and pushes himself to his feet. “Sorry, ma’am. You’re absolutely right.” You shoot him a snarky look while he pushes up the ropes framing the ring for you to duck under.

“So, what? I just punch until I knock you down?”

Coryo’s smile broadens at the prospect of you knocking him down. He shakes his head once, lifting his brows to say don’t know about that one, in the kindest way he can muster. “Kind of.”

He watches you mock a dramatic blow to his gut and decides he might as well double over and grunt like you really have knocked the wind out of him. The laugh it gets out of you is worth it.

You tap your gloves together, feeling macho, while Coriolanus slips on some red punch pads, raising them to your shoulder length. So, really, at his chest. “Spread your feet further apart, baby. Wider stance.” You shuffle your feet out, but he finds something new to correct, “looser, too.”

“Do you want me to do a front flip too?” Your scowl makes laugher bubble up from Coryo. You had a way of cracking him open, getting to the goods inside.

Well, goods was subjective. He swore up and down that he was rotten sour, deep at his core, and though he was a bit scared to warn you aloud, he was just as scared of you rifling a bit too deep into his flesh and finding that rot for yourself. Something in him knew you wouldn’t stop prying your hands through his guts until you did find it.

He was torn, Coryo. A part of him wanted to hide those flaws, that tainted organ that spewed out poison into his body. Another wanted to reveal it, bare himself to you, lay his whole, naked self at your feet and see if you’d still stick around.

God, he hoped you’d still stick around.

“Take me a little serious.” Coryo huffs though he’s grinning like a little boy. He nudges your elbows upward with his knuckles, bringing your boxing gloves in front of your face. “Protect your head, that’s a big one.”

“Right. Protect my head, okay. But how do I punch?” You mock an overdramatic punch to Coryo’s punching pads, only lightly tapping them.

He mulls it over. “Let’s start simple. throwin’ a hook. Just.. rotate your body—“ you do what he says, he pauses to nod, “— and pivot on that foot. Keep that spare elbow close, baby.”

You guess that while watching Coryo’s matches you must’ve not been paying close enough attention— maybe the art of it gets lost in the scuffle. “Exhale on the punch,” he snaps you from your thoughts as you try and throw a hook, following those instructions. You didn’t think beating people ugly had technique to it, really.

“C’mon, harder. You aren’t gonna knock me over.” Coriolanus insists, his voice sterner than you’re used to as you punch the red square he holds up. You put a little more oomph behind your arm, keeping the other glove tucked almost under your chin, but he still doesn’t look satisfied. “C’mon.”

“I’m doing it.” You huff, frustration putting a scowl on your face. Coryo shakes his head, lowering the pads.

“Don’t gimme that.” You scoff at him, lifting a brow. Your hair was up in a ponytail but you already felt your baby hairs sticking to the nape of your neck. When you don’t say anything he just repeats himself. “Come on, don’t gimme that, baby girl.”

“Give you what?”

“That attitude.” Coryo insists, you see a smile tugging at his lips, the bastard. He raises his hands again and nods to beckon you forward. “If you’re mad, hit me like it.”

You roll your eyes. You aren’t mad, atleast not yet, but frustration was catching fire in your gut, the flames licking at your stomach. He was so damn bossy, and you muttered as much under your breath.

You keep your non dominant mitt a few inches below your chin, your leading hand curling and throwing a punch with every ounce you could give it. Coryo doesn’t even stumble, but he grins at you, easy and real, eyebrows lifting. “Good. Good!”

“Just keep doing that.” Teacher sent from hell, you’re tempted to retort, but there’s something sweet about how eager your boyfriend is to get you boxing. There’s this boyish, almost giddy look on his usually hard features. He’d look like a little boy, you think, if the bone above his eye wasn’t blackening, his cheekbone dotted with a skidding cut and scabbed over (you had been there when he got that one, the stitching of his opponent’s glove had whistled past his cheek enough to rip up skin in a dashed line.)

You take another go at it, pivoting on your foot and driving your fist forward. Coryo’s your personal cheerleader. “Great, baby.”

With an exasperated breath you draw your brows, “When am I gonna fight you?”

Coryo laughs at that, shaking his head and muttering, “Nah, nah, I’m not fighting you.”

“Why not?” You huff, dropping your fists. Coryo lifts his own hands, bracing the back of his head with his arms up.

“I’m not gonna fight my girl,” He says it like it’s common sense, lifting his eyebrows at you as you step up to him. You mock another punch to his chest, standing much closer than two fighters in the ring should be standing.

“‘Cause you’re scared, ah?” You try to rile him up, but lord knows Coryo had all the patience in the world for you. Not like he wasted it on anybody else anyway. You turn up your chin anyway, stepping up on your toes and acting like a macho street fighter, pretending to get up in his face. You were closer to his chest, really, your height not very intimidating. That silly smile on your cheeks doesn’t help the image either.

“Scared? You think I’m scared of you?” He’s throwing that smile right back at you, though. You nod, and you open your mouth to taunt him further, but Coryo bends down, his shoulder to your stomach, and flips you up onto his shoulder like you weigh a clutch of grapes.

The sound effects he makes with his mouth are downright boyish, blowing through his teeth to mimick the sound of slamming you down on the ring, with a real lean over to boot, though his hands grip your back too tight to let you go to the ground. Your sound of surprise falls into a laugh as you clutch at his white t-shirt, once he straighens you’re reaching down to swat at his butt with your boxing gloves, guffawing, “Coryo, you ass! Put me down!”

“Little miss trash-talk,” Coryo mutters, you hear but can’t see the grin on his face. A strong arm wraps over the small of your back, parading you around the ring a bit like a trophy on his shoulder. “Can’t bring you no-where!”

“You can bring me out to lunch,” you pipe up from behind him, tapping the white leather of your gloves at his back. He grunts as if to say, yeah, okay. Sure I will. Even though between you, he really, definitely will.

He decides he’ll just have to pick this lesson back up tomorrow.

Coryo shouldn’t be with you. He doesn’t deserve a girl like you, he could live a hundred times over and never deserve a girl like you. You’re kind, and generous and so, so thoughtful and fucking smart, you’d think you’d be smart enough to stay miles away from him.

But no. Here you are, standing in the dingy basement the fights are held in, among a crowd of shitty and disgusting people— Coryo’s people. Not yours. He’d rip his own teeth out before he let them be your type of people.

Speaking of which, he has one of his guys standing beside you, a looming warning that nobody could touch you. Coryo knew somebody would try. You were wrapped up like a piece of candy in a prison yard, and he was nothing if not protective. You already didn’t belong in the dank room, watching your boyfriend either scramble somebody’s brains or get his brains scrambled— he got some peace of mind knowing you atleast weren’t alone in a crowd of violent assholes.

Coriolanus was a good boxer. A damn good fighter. Of course he knocked the other guy out, short and burly with a mop of stick-straight hair, by the time Coryo was done he was missing a tooth. Coriolanus was baring his own teeth in a sneer, lip curled and nostrils flaring as he spat out a bit of blood onto the ground beside the man.

He stumbled a bit as the referee grabbed him by the forearm tugging him to his feet and raising his glove up to announce his win. Coryo's bare chest was heaving, covered in a sheen of sweat. His nose was surely broken, blood drying under his right nostril, his eyes wide and crazed as he looked 'round for you. A crooked smile split his lips, revealing his maroon mouthpiece as he lifted his brows at you.

Coryo, bloody and battered, was definitely a sight.

Maybe it was wrong to find it so hot, as you cheered with the rest of the crowd for him. But that attraction always, always delved into a distraught concern for your boyfriend by the time he was in the locker room.

Coryo lifts his head as he hears footsteps. His elbows are on his knees, his hand that had been rubbing his shaved head falling down as his lips pulled into a smile. “Hey, baby.” He’d cooed to you while you stepped close, slotting yourself between his spread legs. His hands found a home on your waist as he grinned dopily up at you.

“Hi.” You mumbled, your hands cupping his cheeks. Your brow furrowed, you gently pressed both thumbs along the length of his aquiline nose. Coriolanus curled his lip and grunted at the pain, you sigh. “You broke it again.”

“It’ll heal.” Coryo shrugs, watching you with puppy-dog eyes as your thumb swipes some blood from under his nostril. He rubs your hip affectionately as a thanks. God, he was love drunk. Absolutely whipped for you. He just hated how much he made you worry. Coryo didn’t think himself worth your peace of mind.

“Oh, but it looks like it hurts.” You frown, your thumb dropping down to brush over his busted lip. Your gaze trails over his blackening eye.

Coryo shakes his head a little, pressing a kiss to your thumb pad. “I’ve had worse.” He reaches up, clasping your hand in two of his. He thinks he catches a smile, but it quickly falls when you see the state of his hands. Bloodied and battered, his skin split at each knuckle, your expression melts.

He doesn’t protest as you reach for his bag, rifling through the duffel. When you find what you need, you slip into his lap, your knees straddling his hips. The boyish grin that splits his face is almost hilarious as you reach for one of his hands.

The alcohol wipe is ripped from its packaging with help from your teeth. With a tender, delicate touch, you swipe the pad along Coryo’s knuckles. His fingers flex against the sting, his lips pulling in a grimace. “It’s not that big a deal.” He whispers almost plaintively, pressing the concave ridge of his nose into the slope of your shoulder like jigsaw pieces.

“It’ll make me feel better, how about that?” You huff, letting go of his hand to fully unravel the wipe and clean the blood caking on his skin. His nostrils flare, but he nods. Coriolanus watches as you lean for the bench beside him. His hand on your side tightens to keep your balance for you as you grasp the roll of bandages, coming back upright and wrapping the material around his knuckles.

He lets you go about fixing him up (though he’d argue there wasn’t anything to fix, nothing worth your peace of mind,) with surprising lenience. Only when he grits his teeth against the sting of alcohol on the other hand does he speak. “You didn’t bet on me, did you?”

“I did.” You let a faint smile creep across your features. Your thumb brushes along his metacarpal bones. Coryo scoffs, averting his eyes with a shake of his head. “I told you not to.”

“So? You won anyway.”

“It’s the principle.” He insists, his nose brushing your jaw as he cranes his neck forward in frustration. You orbit those bandages ‘round his hand, on and on until you’re satisfied. “What principle?”

Well. On plenty of things, Coriolanus thought. He wasn’t something to waste money on. He wasn’t even something to waste time on, frankly. There wasn’t a point in putting in effort with him. He felt a bit like a vicious mutt; who cares if he’s got a muzzle on him? Or if he can sit, and fetch, and give you paw? He bites. In the end, he will always bite.

“What if I lost?”

(What if he screws up?)

“You’d lose money. It’d be a waste.” Coryo mumbles, presses a faint kiss into the tender skin of your neck. Your pulse is warm under his lips.

(You’d lose time you could be spending with somebody… he doesn’t know, better.)

“It’s not a waste. It’s just trust.” You shrug, and he wonders for a moment if you can crack his head open like a walnut, peer inside and read his mind like a book; one you were simply rereading for lack of new novels.

With his newly dressed hands he rubs his palms over your back. Coriolanus studies every crease of your face with a strange reverence, his brows tense for a brief moment to match the divots twixt your own. “You shouldn’t bet on losing dogs.”

Your shoulders lift, fingers sneaking ‘round his head to run your nails through his cropped blonde hair, “Who says you’re a losing dog?” A laugh sings from your lips. Coriolanus only smoothed his hands down your waist, his own lips pulling taut in a guilty expression.

You’re putting all your money on him, and it’s not literal. You love him, that much is true, and that much is too much. It tightens his chest, it chokes the air from his lungs and the pink from his cheeks. Atlas had a puny burden to carry, since he never had to fear letting you down.

Come on now. He just made a couple hundred bucks off of decking a guy until he looked more beetle than boy— all spasms and twitches and whimpers that make Coriolanus’ head spin with a power trip to put vermillion behind a man’s eyes. They all say violence is gut-churningly horrific, and maybe it is. But it isn’t if you’re winning, if you’re the one with his fist curled. If you’re the one landing on top.

Coriolanus is the kind of guy to get high off the crunch of somebody’s nose under his glove. You creep into the deeper corners of his mind, weaving cobwebs to lay in and inadvertently instilling a disgust, a self-loathing that not even a parent could plant. You don’t mean to, sure.

He wants to be better. He wants to cut his bad leg, he wants to behead the serpent in his belly, so that it’s safe for you to reach your delicate little hand in there. He wants to be deserving of all the goodness you wreath him in.

He’s fully aware you deserve a guy that doesn’t have to carve himself to be good to you. What can he say besides Snows tend to be selfish?

Coryo would slit his skin from his Adam’s apple to his navel to let you crawl inside. But he’s certain. It’s in his nature, it’s his body, not his heart and not his mind, that will reject you like an organ donation, will spit you out. Perhaps you would fit better elsewhere, in another man’s cavity, for his is too large to be comfortable. He felt like a scrambling man trying to sew you in, a rare organ, a piece that he’d fill his own gaps to make fit.

“All roads.” Is all he could whisper, his azure eyes glassy, hoping that his eyes were glassy in the sense of a window pane. That way you could see without forcing him to wrap his tongue ‘round the words, which is getting increasingly difficult. Coriolanus speaks like an Olympic sprinter, he’s sure that he’ll chicken out of it if he takes his time. “All roads lead to Rome, to me being a shithead.”

Your lips pull taut. For a moment, a gut-churning, pain-staking, bile-rising-to-the-throat moment, Coryo thinks he got through to you. Maybe you’ll dump him right there in the locker room. He didn’t think the prospect would put such an anchor in his stomach. Again, he thinks, Snows tend to be selfish.

But then your lips are moving again, your hands are bracing the back of his head with intertwined fingers, your perfume filling his nostrils and distracting from the dank stench of the locker room, it’s not too strong, it’s the best thing he’s ever smelled, but he can’t focus, he can’t, words the greatest poet couldn’t conjure after a lifetime of pensive thought are rolling off your tongue, somehow to him, somehow all of this is for him, and it’s all so sickly sweet that he’s dizzy with it.

“You’re doing your best.” Already your visage is blurring like ink in the rain. He believes he’ll chew through his cheek. “You don’t see what I see, Coryo.”

Damnit. A pearly tear slips down Coriolanus’ flushed cheek, the scarce light shooting diamonds from his azure eyes, your hands twisting to hold his face. He looks like a boy in your hands, and if it weren’t for his purpling eye, his lip split, you think he’d pass for a little boy.

He sucks in a breath through his nose as your lips connect, his lip painful whether the kiss was tender or bruising. Coryo was fierce in his love, fierce in everything about you, always, but oh, how grateful is he for how soft your lips move on his. His hands roam to the plane of your back again, a relieved exhale leaving his nostrils against your cheek.

It didn’t seem to matter whether Coriolanus thought you fit into the crevice (gaping hole, ravine, sink hole, call it what you will,) of his heart or not. You found your way in, you’d crawled deep into his heart, his body, his soul, and sewn the door behind you. How silly of him to believe that he had any choice in allowing you in or keeping you out. How foolish to believe that if the hole in his belly was too weeping for a single other soul to fill, that you wouldn’t stretch your arms high above your head and your legs as extended as possible.

How utterly idiotic of Coryo to believe that the hollow in his chest was a tower to selfishly keep you in, and not your rightful home.