Warnings: mostly fluff, mentions of violence, slightly suggestive at the end <3
Boxer!Duncan who has your name tattooed down his spine in simple, elegant script. You don't find out about it from a late-night confession or a shy reveal at home. You see it for the first time under the blinding, merciless lights of the Lannister Dome, during his first professional title fight. As he shrugs off his robe, his massive back a canvas of scar tissue and coiled muscle, turns to your front-row seat. And there it is. Your name. Tracing the valley of his spine, disappearing into the waistband of his shorts. The crowd roars, but you hear nothing. All you can do is press your knuckles to your lips, tears blurring the ink that he chose to carry, permanently, closer to his heart than anything else.
Boxer!Duncan who always kisses you before a fight. It’s not a quick peck. It’s a ritual. He finds you in the chaos of the tunnel, smelling of liniment and sweat, and he cups your face with hands the size of dinner plates, so impossibly gentle. He pulls you in, eyes closed, and presses his forehead to yours. “One more,” he whispers, a low rumble you feel in your chest. When your lips meet, it’s soft, deliberate, a silent conversation. He pulls back, thumb stroking your cheekbone, and murmurs, “My guardian angel.” He genuinely believes your kisses are the only thing that makes his fists invincible. Without one, he swears he’d be walking into the ring blind.
Boxer!Duncan who teaches you how to fight in the tiny, converted garage he calls his gym. He tries to show you basic combinations; a jab, a cross, a hook, standing behind you like a warm, solid mountain, his arms guiding yours. Your punches land on his raised mitts with a soft thump. He barely feels it. He feels your grunt of effort, sees the adorable furrow in your brow, the way you stick your tongue out just a little when you concentrate. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing with pure adoration. He’ll never tell you that your punches feel like a persistent kitten. He just says, “Good, good, put your hip into it, sweetheart,” even though your best shot wouldn't bruise a peach. He’d never, ever let you need this skill. But he loves watching you try.
Boxer!Duncan who looks for you first after every victory. The ref hasn’t even lifted his arm before his eyes are scanning the sea of screaming faces, searching for only one. The moment he spots you, the ferocious fighter vanishes. His face transforms; the hard lines softening into a boyish, relieved grin. He vaults the ropes (a move far too agile for a man his size) and crosses the canvas in three long strides. Before you can say a word, his hands which still wrapped in sweaty tape, grip your waist and lift you clean off the ground. He twirls you once, twice, the world becoming a blur of lights and noise, until he pulls you flush against his chest, your lips meeting his in a kiss that tastes of iron, salt, and victory. He doesn't care about the cameras. He wants everyone to know who he fights for.
Boxer!Duncan who is terrifyingly, wonderfully quiet outside the ring. The man who yells and bleeds under the lights is a stranger to the one who shuffles into your kitchen at 7 AM in worn-out sweatpants, his wild hair sticking up in twelve directions. He doesn't need to be loud with you. He shows his love in the way he silently fills your water glass before you realize it's empty. In the way he rests his giant, calloused hand on the small of your back while you brush your teeth. He’ll spend an entire Sunday afternoon on the couch, your legs draped over his lap, reading a dog-eared paperback while you scroll on your phone. His love isn't a performance. It's the steady, grounding weight of his presence. The quiet hum of a man who has finally found his corner.
Boxer!Duncan who is secretly, hopelessly sentimental. He keeps a small, battered lockbox under your bed. Inside, there’s no cash or championship belts. There’s the receipt from your first coffee date, the cheap plastic ring you got from a gumball machine and gave him as a joke (“for good luck”), and every single note you’ve ever left him on the fridge. The one that says “Gone to the store, back soon. Love you.” He still has the first one from three years ago, the ink faded. You found it once, by accident. He caught you looking, his ears turning a deep, burning red, and he just mumbled, “Didn’t want to forget.” You never teased him about it again. You just added another note to the fridge that night.
Boxer!Duncan who is almost unbearably gentle with his hands. He knows what they can do. He’s felt a nose break under his knuckles, seen a man’s eyes roll back from a liver shot. So with you, he is meticulous. He washes your hair in the shower, his thick fingers working the shampoo through your scalp with the focused patience of a bomb disposal expert. He traces the line of your jaw, the curve of your ear, the bones of your wrist, like he’s memorizing something precious and fragile. The same hands that shatter jaws will spend an hour learning to braid your hair, getting frustrated and starting over seven times until he gets it right. “There,” he’ll say, holding up a messy, lopsided plait with more pride than any championship belt. “Perfect.” And to you, it is.
Boxer!Duncan who manhandles you like you weigh nothing, but only in the safest, most worshipful way. He'll scoop you off the kitchen floor mid-laugh, throw you over his shoulder like a sack of flour while you shriek, and carry you to the couch just to hear you giggle. He loves the way you feel in his hands, small, warm, entirely his to move. When you're standing in his way while he's trying to cook, he'll simply wrap his arms around your waist from behind and lift you two feet to the left, setting you down on the counter instead, pressing a kiss to your forehead like it was nothing. He loves the contrast: his brutal, powerful frame against your softness. And you love the dizzying thrill of being completely weightless in his arms, knowing he would sooner drop a championship belt than let you fall.
Boxer!Duncan who falls asleep with his head in your lap after every hard training session. He comes home smelling of sweat and the faint metallic tang of the punching bag, his knuckles raw even through the wraps. He says nothing. Just kicks off his shoes, drops to his knees in front of the couch, and lays his massive head across your thighs like a tired, overgrown dog. His breathing slows as you run your fingers through his damp, dark hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. He'll mumble something incoherent with half praise, half exhaustion and his whole body will sag into you, trusting you completely. Sometimes he's so big that his legs hang off the edge of the couch, but he doesn't care. In this position, with your heartbeat under his ear and your hand stroking his brow, Duncan finally feels small enough to rest.
Boxer!Duncan who lets you traces every bruise and cut on his body with your fingertips after a fight, letting you play nurse even though he doesn't need it. You sit on the bathroom counter while he stands between your legs, shirtless, his torso a roadmap of purple and red. Your touch is featherlight as you hover over a swollen knuckle, a split lip, the ugly contusion blooming across his ribs. He hisses once, not from pain, but from the tenderness of your attention. He watches your face as you work, the way your brow pinches with concern, the way your lips purse as you dab antiseptic on a cut. You're so gentle it almost hurts more than the punch did. When you lean down to kiss the edge of a bruise on his shoulder, his breath catches. He'll catch your wrist gently, bring your palm to his mouth, and press a long, silent kiss to the centre of it. "I'm okay," he'll promise, even as he holds you there for another minute, unwilling to let you stop. Because your worry, your soft hands, the way you care for his broken body, that's the only healing he's ever believed in.
Boxer!Duncan who pins you against the wall with his body after a bad day, not to intimidate, but to ground himself. He comes home silent, jaw tight, something dark lingering behind his eyes from the gym. He doesn't explain. He just steps into your space, one massive hand bracing the wall beside your head, the other finding your hip. He leans his forehead against yours, breathing you in: your scent, your warmth, the soft sound you make when his thighs press against yours. He doesn't move. He just stays there, caging you in, letting you feel the weight of him, the heat of his chest against yours. His thumb traces small, maddening circles on your hip bone through your shirt. "Just need a minute," he murmurs, voice rough. But his minute stretches into two, then five, his body slowly relaxing against yours as your hands come up to rest on his broad shoulders. He's not holding you hostage. He's reminding himself that something soft and good still exists in his world of fists and blood. And when he finally pulls back, his eyes are darker than before, but this time, it's not anger you see.
Boxer!Duncan who lifts you onto the kitchen table mid-conversation just because he can. You're rambling about something, your day, a grocery list, a show you want to watch and he's nodding along, but his hands are already moving. He grips your waist, hoists you up like you're weightless, and sets you down on the edge of the table, stepping between your parted knees before you can finish your sentence. You lose your train of thought immediately. He smirks; a rare, crooked thing and rests his palms flat on the table on either side of your thighs, leaning in so his face is level with yours. "You were saying?" he asks, innocent as a wolf. But his thumbs are now tracing the inseam of your jeans, back and forth, back and forth, slow and deliberate. His eyes drop to your mouth, then back up. He doesn't kiss you. Not yet. He waits, watches you squirm under his quiet attention, enjoys the way your breath hitches when his knuckles brush the inside of your thigh. "Duncan," you breathe, half a warning, half a plea. He hums, low in his chest. "Yeah, sweetheart?" He knows exactly what he's doing. And he's not going to stop until you say his name again, the way he likes it.
Notes:
I was writing part 3 for 'The PR stunt' where Duncan's a fighter and I just COULDN'TT get him out my mind so I had to write a few headcanons for this fine man 🤭🤭
What about Boxer!Duncan getting seriously hurt?? And Reader being worried about him while he's in the hospital?
oooh... something angsty for my baby :(
also i apologize that im not writing full length one shots/blurbs for the boxer concepts right now! gonna try to finish the tribes of eden before i take on something else!
buuuuut i do hope youre all enjoying my small ramblings (screaming) about them in the mean time!
Every time Duncan stepped foot in the ring, whether it was just for practice or another million dollar fight - Y/N's heart pounded with cortisol.
She knew it was part of the gig - fiancee of light-weight champion Duncan Shepherd - he always ran the risk of serious injury.
He'd been lucky enough to not been harmed in a pressing manner, but tonight, when the back of his head hit the ground at full speed, Y/N, and the rest of the stadium fell silent for a moment that felt like an entirety.
Her whole world stopped as she watched from the stands. The referee yelled for a medic when he realized Duncan was unresponsive.
Y/N heard her friends voice, a thousand miles away even though she was standing right next to her. Muffled. Far. Y/N wasn't there. She was frozen and couldn't tear her eyes away from the medics who were lifting Duncan on to the stretcher.
She barely registered as security shuffled her through the crowd - hundreds of patrons standing in respect as they watched her being taken back, following on the medical teams heels.
Once she was close enough to actually see Duncan, she snapped out of her shocked state. He had dried blood around his nose and his purpled eyes were drooping close. His chest barely moved with his slowed respiration.
"Dunc!" she tried to push past the first responder who had a stethoscope to his chest. Hot tears quietly fell down her face. "Dunc, please, baby," her voice broke. "Baby, I'm right here," she grabbed on to his hand with all her strength.
"Miss," the paramedics gave her an apologetic look, but they needed her to move to be able to work, "Please, step back."
Y/N was about to argue back, but right as she opened her mouth, one of Duncan's colleagues had his hand on her shoulder and led her back to give them room to work. She'd seen him around the gym plenty of times working out and practicing with Duncan. Jim, she thought his name was.
"Come here, let's give them some room, yeah?" he spoke softly, taking her to the black leather couch before he handed her a bottled water. She was pretty sure he kept trying to talk to her - probably trying to calm her down, but again, his voice sounded a million miles away.
She kept focused on Duncan. Y/N couldn't imagine what she would do if something happened to him - she couldn't bring herself to think it.
Anger and frustration boiled within her, "What's happening! Is he going to be okay?" she stood up from the couch, too on edge to be still.
"We're taking him to the hospital. We need to do a scan - he hit his head pretty hard," one of them explained.
The entire ambulance ride to the hospital, Y/N held on to his hand. She quietly spoke to her unconscious fiance, bargaining with him to just... wake up.
"Please, Duncan," she whispered. The paramedics pretended they couldn't hear her so she could process what she was feeling in peace, "I need you here with me, baby." She kissed his forehead, tears falling on to his chest.
"I love you so much, baby...."
Duncan was rushed into the emergency room and taken away from Y/N.
She paced the empty waiting room all night waiting for an update. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, kiss every bruise on his skin, and tell him again how much she loved him.
After about two hours in the waiting room, more people from the fight started to show up. His manager, his friend from the gym, his coach - everyone coming in to show not only Duncan their support, but Y/N as well.
Everyone gave her hugs and told her if there were anything she needed to just let them know.
The only thing she knew she needed was Duncan.
"Y/N?" she looked up at the sound of her name. She looked up at the doorway to see Duncan's opponent, the one who knocked him down - the one who hurt him, standing there.
He had changed from his boxing uniform to a pair of sweats and clean thsirt.
"I can't tell you how sorry I am," he bowed his head. They all knew it wasn't intentional. It was all part of the sport.
Rationally, Y/N knew - she and Duncan had had conversations about this very thing countless times. There had been instances where Duncan had injured other boxers pretty badly.
It was a sport.
A very dangerous and stupid sport.
Knowing all that didn't stop the angry tears that followed. And it didn't stop her from going up to him and sobbing. Her fists balled up and she punched at his chest - getting out her frustrations against his toned chest.
"How could you!" she cried.
He took her advances like a champ - understanding she was upset. He let her hit at his chest a couple of times before Jim stood up from his seat and pulled her away.
"Y/N," Jim spoke a little louder than he had earlier. "Duncan is going to be okay. You know it's not his fault. He's here for Duncan too," he led her back to her seat.
"Sorry," she mumbled to everyone in the room, "Just... so scared,"
As the night went on, people slowly started to trickle out of the hospital, leaving her with condolences.
"Miss Y/L/N?" a doctor finally called her over. She got on her feet immediately. She walked up to the doctor, holding her breath as she waited for what he was going to say next.
"The good news is Mr. Shepherd is awake," she released the breath she held in, "He is going to be fine..." the doctor placed his hand on her arm, sorrow in his eyes, "He's experiencing what we believe is short term," he paused watching as she processed his words, "amnesia."
"Mr. Shepherd appears to have lost some of his memory,"
What did that even mean?
Her heart started to accelerate again, "What does that mean? What doesn't he remember? Can I see him? Will his memory come back? Do-" her million questions were stopped.
"There are still some tests we need to do before we can determine any of that," he sighed.
"Would you like to see him?"
She silently cursed the doctor for the stupid question - of course she wanted to see him.
She needed to.
--
okay I'm gonna stop there before i go down the rest of this rabbit hole bc this was supposed to be like a paragraph vkdfjv vjfs
ill answer some other boxer dunc stuff that isn't as angsty fjksdf I'm sorry vfjsv
I wanna ride shy boxer duncs thigh while jealous boxer jim watches after a fight between them and dunc winning 😩😩
this one sent me into orbit when i first got it vfjkgd omfg
riding his thigh... your dressed bunched up around your waist... his hands on your hips... feeling his fingers dig into your skin...
jim stopped halfway through the door when he saw your back facing him moving on duncans lap
he knows he should have stopped looking. knows he should have left. but he couldnt tear his eyes away from the way your hips rolled on duncans lap... couldnt stop listening to the soft pants that came from you... he imagined the way your face would look... glossy eyed and desperate for release...
duncan would catch a movement in the corner of his eye and look up to see jim standing there, jaw slack, eyes trained on your ass.
he knew your history with him... felt like he should be angry at jim for intruding... angry for looking at you so lustfully... but he finds himself... more aroused than ever.. he wants to make jim jealous.. make him hear how you belong to him and only him...
"fuck, baby," he'd give you sloppy wet kisses... trailing them down to your neck.
little moans would start falling off your lips as you got closer and closer... duncan would his thigh a little making you yelp and grind down harder on his lap.
"say my name," duncan would look at jim dead in the eyes as he tugged on your hair, "tell me who's lap your covering with your sticky mess," he'd nearly growl in your ear.
jim would still be frozen as duncan smirked over at him when he heard you whining and moaning his name
"thats my girl," he'd grip your ass, "tell him who's making you feel so good," he'd nod his head towards jim, making you look over your shoulder to see jim's been watching
"dont stop, princess," he'd instruct.
youd keep working yourself on his thigh... putting on a show for them... showing jim.. that you were duncans... youd attach your lips to his ear.. bite down on his neck, sucking on it gently.. leaving your mark..
"its you... its you.. dunc..."
jims cheeks would be flushed red... his forehead sweaty... his cock straining in his pants... he wouldn't be able to watch you finish before scurrying off to find a place to.. take care of himself...
no because boxer!duncan you would love nothing more than to have you on his lap with your hands secured behind your back, making you grind down on his thigh… while he wears his little red athletic shorts 🤤
both boxer!Duncan and archer!Xavier winning a gold medal in their respective categories at the olympics and deciding to sneak out of their bedroom at night when everyone has surely fall asleep to celebrate by having the most amazing and passionate sex after their win 😳🥵
OLYMPIC BOYFRIENDS!!
this is so cute kjvsfv
theyre both just so proud of each other!!! sneak out to celebrate bc those cardboard beds... just wont do kfvskj
