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fleuraimer · 2 days

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Wait wait wait can I perhaps ask for a blurb or like ur hcs on how boxer!carmy and reader get together??

ask and ye shall receive 😁

tw!! descriptions of violence + carmy's f*ckass family

boxer!carmy pt.3 even tho a series is in the works🙂‍↔️

first part. previous part.

boxer!carmy who usually holds a fair amount of nerves on every fight night. he's undefeated, sure, but that doesn't make him any less anxious. it's good for him—keeps his ego small. healthy, even (healthy in a twisted, mutilated sort of sense. where you strain your eyes staring at the ceiling until daylight and there's small crimson crescents in the palms of your hands when the sun crawls into your bedroom, head swirling with scenarios—memories—of failures, instead of just getting sleep.

like it was that fucking simple).

the only butterflies in his tummy tonight, however, are because of a certain pretty broad in pink.

boxer!carmy who, despite wanting to be disrespectful, prepares himself to tap gloves with timmy boy. he steps to the center of the ring, stops right before he bumps into the referee’s outstretched arm, just short of toe to toe with his opponent. the ref drones on and on about proper conduct and good sportsmanship, but carmy’s heard it so many times, it’s in one ear and out the other. but, even if the referee’s instructions are a distant ringing in the back of his mind, the commotion of the crowd, their cruelty—pussy! quitter! leave while you’re still breathin’, bitch! hope he knocks you so hard you di—it’s a raging roar in his mind

(too resemblant of his hysterical mother, glass of rouge in hand, spilling onto the floor in time with her flailing, we could’ve been something! too reminiscent of his hotheaded father, his heavy hand, curled around a belt.

one cannot be separated from the other, indiscernible. it’s easier to see one thing, anyway. easier to see red—).

he walks to his corner with a tremble in his hands and a quiver in his heart. plops down on his bench, and lets nacho work the knots of ingrained fear from his body, until nothing’s left but hurt. rage.

“hey, carm,” eddie utters from his crouched position in front of him, but he doesn’t register his attempt to grab his attention. he’s not here; carmy is gone, locked away somewhere safe where no one can hurt him anymore.

his chest shakes with stuttered breaths and his eyes rove over the arena with rapt anticipation, adrenaline coursing through his body; epinephrine, shot up his very veins. his knee bounces impatiently, jaw ticks (gums sore, jowls pooled with spit, hungry for a fight; thirsty for blood) in restlessness.

eddie catches the enfolded gaze of his boxer (sees somewhere, buried, murky, the small boy with no meat on his bones that came knocking on his gym door with a pain in his soul bigger—too big—than him, an ire in his body he could smell off his sweat, his tears, curled up in a corner with a beast by his side, a protector), and knows he’s ready.

“bear,” he says this time, and carmy’s eyes snap to his. eddie huffs a raspy chuckle with a soft shake of his head, smirks. “let it rip, kid.”

(real men wear pink).

boxer!carmy who’s on timothy the second the bell rings (he’s got a hunger to quell, after all, a thirst to quench). he leads with a cross to the body, and immediately follows with a corkscrew that spilts timmy’s cheek and sends him tumbling back. carmy can’t help the smile that twitches at his lips as he watches grayson trip over his feet. timmy returns with a vengeance, attacking carmy with a fakeout that bleeds into a left hook. carm’s head snaps to the right on impact, tastes the distinct tang of metallic in the bed of his maw. he spits his ichor onto the canvas, rolls his tight shoulders, and barely lets timmy get another blow in for the rest of the round.

he’s got a sore left cheek and a cut on his brow bone by the time he saunters back to his corner, but his head ain’t poundin’ and his vision is crystal clear—and he’s hungry for more, ready to sink his teeth in and lock his jowls—

benny ices any places that were hit particularly hard, and slabs a thick glob of vaseline over his brow wound before he’s sending him back into the ring with the encouragement to rip him apart.

boxer!carmy who’s only had a few knockouts in his career. he’s made people tumble, take a knee or fall back into the ropes plenty, but he can count on one hand the amount of times he’s made someone crash flat on their back, their stomach, their face, that crack of canvas against skin, blackout. knockout.

it’s halfway through round six when carmy knocks a beaten bloodied and battered timothy grayson right onto his ugly fuckin’ mug in front of 80,000 people.

he could now count on two hands the amount of times he’s knocked someone out in his career. blackout (lights out. night-night, timmy boy).

boxer!carmy who defends his title like the bear he is, and somehow makes it out on the other end with a relatively spotless face, minus a cut to his brown bone and split in the corner of his lip. he skips most of the pleasantries he’s usually so eager to debrief after the fight (it’s nice to have someone who wants to listen, who wants to know the struggle and indignation it took to get where he is), he’s got no time, doesn’t care when thoughts of a certain girl in a pink sweater dress with spaghetti straps and tiny triangle cups and gold jewelry and pink kitten heels and a sultry, killer smile framed by the plumpest, shiniest lips are running rampant in his mind.

boxer!carmy who slips through the ropes and into the crowd in search of said girl, that pretty broad in pink, who he finds making her way to him.

boxer!carmy who forgets about any and everything that isn’t her the second they stop in front of each other.

“nice belt,” she utters softly, the first to break the silence. hands clasped behind her pretty arched back and long lashes fluttering over molten, impish brown sugar eyes.

“you doin’ anything later?” carmy asks, her acknowledgement of his accomplishment flying straight over his head. she smiles coyly up at him.

shakes her head, “mm-hmm.”

he notes the way her eyes snap down when his tongue peaks out to lick over his chapped bottom lip. bites back a smirk as his head tilts curiously.

“wanna come back to my hotel with me, cub?”

it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s implying.

her smile seems to widen, “sure, bear.”

boxer!carmy who leads the pretty broad in pink back inside the ring—opens and sits on the rope for her to slip through first—and into his corner. he sits on the little bench while she introduces herself to the others—Y/N, a pretty name for a pretty broad—and leans his head against the padded pole as he huffs out still shallow breaths. shuts his eyes (goes into his mind and toward the dark corner with the boy and his protector, tells them it’s all over).

he flinches softly when her feels something scratch at his forearm, a weight on his wrists. cracks his eyes back open to find his pretty broad, on her knees, before him, delicately undoing the laces of his gloves.

“we’re matching,” she says, tone dripping with molasses. she tugs at his boxing shorts, and it’s only then carmy realizes why the crowd was probably so very rowdy and cruel tonight (i mean, it’s not every day you see a boxer who calls himself the bear wearing baby pink boxing shorts and matching gloves, is it?)

“you do that on purpose?” she mumbles, trying and failing to hide her pleased smirk, and tugs his gloves off. they both stare at the pink tape around his fingers. she quirks a tonic brow at him.

“can’t say i really noticed,” he mutters back, which is… scarily accurate.

boxer!carmy who doesn’t go to the post fight after party.

“c’mon, dude! y’just whooped him!” benny groans, talking to carmy on the other end of the shower, toothpick between his teeth.

“yeah, and now he’s whipped,” nacho mumbles under his breath.

carmy only rolls his eyes and continues to shower. he doesn’t care that its technically his celebration, he’s already got his dream present that he’s fucking gagging to unwrap.

after changing in his locker room (and satiating—benny more than nacho—both benny and nacho with $150 each and a promise to join them next time) he walks hand in hand with his pretty broad out the back exit

(it’s a wonder he doesn’t knockout one of the paps on their way out. he has grace, though, and he’s not that stupid, he did just brutally beat his opponent and then steal his girl).

he opens the door to the limousine for her and lets her climb in first, literally. he watches with a set, unreadable expression as she crawls into the backseat, inviting him in with a look over her shoulder.

boxer!carmy who’s never had sex in a limo before.

boxer!carmy who’s in the mood to change that tonight.

he climbs in behind her, and slams the door shut just in time to muffle the squeal his cub lets out when he issues a bruising smack to her wiggling ass.

they’re in for a hell of a night.

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