a/n :: this one was a bit late😕 it was meant to come out like two weeks ago but wtvs. Anyway, thanks to minnie (@buttlesbunnie) for helping me out!! Go check out her policeman!ab fics they're actually perfect (that's totally not me saying that 'cause I helped her with inspo for a fic). Besides my bias actually go check out her fics, they're quite literally chef's kiss.
(holy yap girl)
George had been doing well.
Like, really well.
But there was definitely an emphasis on had.
He’d put up a solid fight—smart, controlled, everything he was known for. He hadn’t gone down easy, hadn’t embarrassed himself, hadn’t made any stupid mistakes. And still… sometimes good just wasn’t good enough.
Today had been one of those days.
He sat in the octagon now, shoulders slumped as trainers and medical staff hovered around him, checking cuts, shining lights in his eyes, asking questions he answered automatically. Around them, the other bloke was already celebrating—arms raised, crowd roaring, cameras flashing. The sound washed over her, distant and irritating.
She barely noticed any of it.
Because she could tell something was wrong.
She always could.
George was upset. Not angry. Not sulking. Upset in that quiet, inward way he got when he’d decided he’d let himself down. Normally, he was good at shaking losses off. He’d congratulate the winner, say the right things, move on. Professional to the core.
This time, though, he lingered in it. You could see it in the way his jaw stayed tight, in the way his eyes didn’t quite focus. He was doing all the right things—sportsmanlike, polite—but it felt rehearsed. Forced.
Pressure, she realised. His own expectations crushing down on him. Perfectionism chewing him up from the inside.
When he finally stood and made his way over to her and his parents, he didn’t stop. Just flashed a quick, tight smile—one that didn’t reach his eyes—and walked straight past security, muttering something low about them being allowed back with him.
His team followed quietly, someone tossing a towel over his shoulders to soak up the sweat, blood, and water still dripping from his hair. His gloves were already off, knuckle tape still wrapped tight around his hands.
She didn’t hesitate.
Y/N moved ahead of everyone—past his parents, past his team—slowing only when she reached his side. Her hand came up to his bicep, squeezing gently. Reassuring. Grounding.
That’s when his head dipped.
Not dramatically. Not in a way that would’ve worried anyone else. Just… a slight droop. Like his neck had suddenly forgotten how to hold the weight of it all.
Her heart clenched.
“Nope. We’re not doing that,” she said almost instantly.
Her fingers slid up, tipping his chin back up so he had no choice but to look at her. Her voice wasn’t harsh, but it was firm—unwavering.
“Hey,” she added softly, eyes locking onto his. “Eyes up. You don’t get to disappear on me.”
George hummed faintly in response, nodding along like he was listening.
But she knew better.
His mind was miles away, stuck in the fight, replaying it over and over like a broken reel. Every second he could remember. Every opening he thought he’d missed. Every moment where he could’ve hit harder, moved quicker, pushed just that bit further. She could practically see the gears turning, the self-blame settling in.
By the time they reached the locker room, the noise from the arena felt a world away. George dropped heavily onto a bench, shoulders slumping forward as if the weight of the loss had finally caught up to him. His parents and team lingered down the hall, talking quietly amongst themselves—giving them space. They always did.
She stepped into the space between his knees without hesitation.
“Geo,” she said softly. “Look at me.”
“Hm?” he hummed back, almost absent-minded, lifting his head slowly. Like there were a thousand worlds chained around his neck, making the simple act of looking up feel like effort.
Her chest tightened.
“You did well,” she said firmly, making sure he heard it. “And for what it’s worth—amazingly well.” Her hands came up to cup his face, thumbs brushing lightly along his jaw. “Stop telling yourself you aren’t enough. You are, George.”
He swallowed, eyes fixed on hers now.
“There’s a reason you’ve been a main event card since you stepped into the UFC, baby,” she continued quietly. “They know you’re going to deliver. Win or lose. They know they’ll get a proper fight out of you. From you.”
His shoulders eased just a fraction.
“And if—by some chance—you’re thinking this has anything to do with me,” she added, tone sharpening just slightly, “don’t. I don’t play about you.” A faint, almost incredulous smile flickered across her lips. “What makes you think I’d give a fuck if you lose?”
She shook her head gently. “I don’t care about the outcome. Not really. I care that you come back to me. That’s it. That’s all I ever hope for when you fight—that you walk back to me in one piece.”
She leaned down then, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just steady. Reassuring.
“I only care about you,” she murmured against him. “Not whatever happens inside that steel cage full of near-death experiences.”
He stayed there for a moment, forehead resting against hers, breathing her in like it was the only thing keeping him upright. One of his hands lifted slowly, tentative at first, before settling at her waist, fingers curling into the fabric of her clothes as if anchoring himself.
“Feels like I should’ve done more,” he muttered eventually, voice low and rough. “Like I let everyone down.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him properly, brows knitting together. “Everyone?” she repeated. “Or just you?”
He didn’t answer straight away. That was answer enough.
She sighed softly and leaned in again, this time brushing a quick kiss across his cheek, then his jaw. “You don’t owe anyone perfection,” she said. “You owe yourself honesty. And you gave that. You gave everything you had in there.”
He let out a quiet huff, something between a laugh and a breath. “You always know what to say.”
“That’s because you’re very predictable when you spiral,” she replied lightly, one thumb tracing slow circles against his cheek. “I’ve had practice.”
That earned a faint smile from him. Small, but real. His grip on her waist tightened slightly, pulling her a bit closer until she was pressed between his knees, his head resting briefly against her stomach.
“I hate losing,” he admitted. “Not because of the belt or the crowd. Just… the silence afterwards. Makes everything louder in my head.”
She threaded her fingers through his damp hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp. “Then let it be loud for a bit,” she said. “You don’t have to fix it tonight. You’re allowed to feel shit.”
He nodded against her, shoulders rising and falling as he took another steady breath. “Just don’t leave me alone with it, yeah?”
“Not a chance,” she replied instantly. “You’re stuck with me.”
His hand slid up to her wrist, thumb brushing over her pulse. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I don’t think I could do this without you.”
She smiled softly at that, leaning down to press another kiss to his lips—this one warmer, grounding. “You don’t have to,” she said. “That’s the whole point.”
Outside the locker room, voices and footsteps echoed faintly, the world slowly moving on. Inside, though, time seemed to pause.
For now, it was just them—loss, love, and the quiet understanding that tomorrow would come, and he wouldn’t have to face it alone.
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summary: You're entirely certain George is the one. So he hasn't got to put up much of a fight... but in a way, that's all he knows to do.
a/n: I've been so busy!? But like I said, I'm commited to this story so here's part three! Gotta build up that drama..... Some true blue (probably poorly written) boxing content is about to be unleashed. So I've got a question.... would yall mind if the next chapter was written from Georg's point of view? Please let me know!
w/c: 3k
Part 2
───※ ·❆· ※───
The end of another weekend like the one before was shifted by the excitement of a party. The kids had completed their run of the Peter Pan musical, and you made it out to see the last show. All the dances you'd thought up for the musical were made better by the kids who nailed each move, young and old. And when it was over you invited the lot to come to the studio to celebrate all their hard work. You bought sweets and streamers and played music and danced all night long.
And when the kids had packed up and headed home, little Louis was still lingering near the door, standing on his tiptoes to peer out of the glass. You stalled in the middle of your clean up to meet him.
"Your mom isn't here yet, huh?" You knelt to meet him. His big brown eyes looked up into yours as his bottom lip stuck out in a pout.
"Danny is supposed to come get me. He forgot." Louis whimpered, fighting tears. You commiserated and pulled the kid into a hug, assuring that his big brother couldn't have forgotten and was likely just running late. After a quick call to the kids mother, who assured she'd track Danny down and send for Louis, you kept the music playing and offered him an extra slice of left over cake. You even danced around a little more, and taught Louis a watered down fouette that he nailed in the first couple of tries.
But when you glanced up at the clock another hour had passed and the worry in your gut that you'd been trying to suppress was sprouting. As you thought of who to call, there was a knock on the door as it creaked open.
It was Geogre, who you were just as surprised to see as Louis.
"Figured you might want help cleaning up." George grinned, easing into the room. Since the night you spent with him, you stayed two more days in George's flat. When your power finally came back on, you didn't have an excuse to stay any longer, and Geogre let you leave without begging otherwise. The last thing he said to you was that he'd pop round the studio this weekend, to help clean up the party you were planning.
But you didn't take his word for it. You figured he was just offering a polite farewell. You figured you wouldn't hear from him for the rest of the week, and you hadn't. You knew George wasn't like the other people you'd been with. But you didn't expect him to be as good as your imagination made him out to be, either. Nothing ever was. So how, despite your other predictions coming true, did George keep surprising you?
But before you could smile back at the guy you hadn't stopped thinking of since you broke your bloody hand, a question flashed urgently to mind.
"Hey, do you have Danny's number?" You asked, when George's big blue eyes landed curiously on Louis, who stood clutching your bright yellow sweatpants despite having met the brooding blonde once before.
George pulled his phone from his pocket in a flash, after shooting you a sure look. The way you could read his eyes then sent a chill down your spine. You hadn't seen him since he'd made you feel at home in his very own bed. You weren't sure how to act, now.
But before George could raise his phone to his ear, Danny strolled in the door.
"Louis, I'm sorry." He seemed to pant, resting his hands on his knees as you felt the kid relax at your side.
"Nice of you to make it." You frowned, unable to greet him happily. Danny was a nice guy, but this wasn't like him. It cracked your heart to see little Louis so worried, even though he smiled as he ate his extra bit of cake.
"I lost track of time on my run. Cross my heart it won't happen again." Danny nodded to you, seemingly truly apologetic. The dark headed fellow ushered his kid brother to grab his shoes so they could hit the road. And after a polite farewell, Danny and Louis were gone. You and George were left alone.
"Danny started his run before I left the gym, today." George noted, turning his curious gaze from the empty doorway to you.
You didn't want to worry. But something wasn't right. You knew Danny well enough to know that. But not enough to gossip. So you nodded past your furrowed brow and moved to start cleaning up. George followed your lead.
"You didn't have to come and help. But it's nice you did." You noted. There wasn't much to do. Tear down the dozen streamers, toss the rubbish and turn the lights out. No sooner than you'd had the trash in the bin, George had yanked down the streamers, and left them to rest on a shelf in the far back corner.
"Well I left my bag in the gym, so I did have to come back round here anyway." He explained, walking toward you as you turned to listen, "And I did tell you I'd be by to help." George didn't quite smile, but you noticed the turn of his lip and recognized the way his bright blue eyes lit up. As he stalled a step away, you glanced down for a beat to hide your blush.
"Both excuses just to see you again, of course." Geogre's voice softened as his piercing blue eyes locked on yours. You bit your lip to stall from bursting into nervous laughter.
"Oh yeah?" You asked, a small chuckle escaping. George rose a brow, reached over to switch the lights out and nudged your toward the gym to collect his things. You shuffled along, perhaps too quickly, with your shoes in hand, and sat on the bench along the wall to slide them on.
You let out a sigh mentally cursing yourself for putting off buying cheap slide on sneakers, because tying these was a hassle in your current one handed state. George heard you grumbling, crouched without question, and reached for the laces of your shoes.
"Two more weeks in this thing, then I won't need you anymore." You chuckled, resting your nonfunctional hand in your lap. You got to take the brace off whenever you pleased, but your doctor recommended another 14 day's worth of support. That meant another 14 days of feeling terribly embarrassed for how long it took you to do most basic things single-handedly.
As he pulled your laces into a bow George said, "But I'll still be around, so you better get used to it." The sweet smile he gave you settled your soul and sent your heart into a frenzy all the same. Where did the two of you stand? Just then, the entry door jostled open.
"What are you two still doing here?" Barney asked, with a hand on his chest, startled to find folks in the gym at such odd hours, relieved it was only you two all the same. The older man let the door shut as he shuffled in for a chat, you presumed.
It was a treat to see him, as you hardly seemed to these days. It was like none had passed since your last chat with the owner of this place, your safe haven, as his crooked smile shone your way. Sure he was a little older and his beard was peppered with white patches, but he was still the brilliant supportive fellow who'd talked more than most of the gym and studio patrons to stick around and be their best selves.
"Just another late night." George shrugged, standing from his spot on the floor at your feet. You started reaching for your jacket as George grabbed the bag he'd forgotten.
Barney explained he'd stopped by to do some paperwork in his office. Apparently, some big annual event was coming up, where all kinds of fighters from nearby states worked toward winning the top title and a pretty penny. You listened to the old man's rambles and watched his eyes glisten as he spoke of the excitement of it all. You wondered what kind of boyhood dream he might have had of the event he spoke of so fondly.
George listened too, offering Barney small grins as he collected his things.
"I know you're weary these days... but don't you miss it?" Barney asked George in a cautious yet obviously hopeful tone.
"I've got nothing to fight for, mate." George let out a small laugh, sliding his bag over his shoulder.
"S'that so?" Barney asked. The room fell silent for a beat as you stood to leave, catching Barney's curious gaze set on you. But before you could leave, the old gym owner had more to say.
"I'm looking for someone to sponsor, George." Barney shifted in his place, glancing at the guy at your side.
"I'm a trainer. Why shouldn't I sponsor someone?" George countered. You stood watching the unexpected standoff, biting your tongue.
"Because you could win this whole thing. You nearly did before throwing in the towel." Barney grew passionate, the sparkle in his eye shining brighter. "Even after all this time, you're better than half the meatheads who've been working for this."
George nodded, but not in agreeance, only in understanding. In a flash, you recalled all the things he'd told you about boxing, so far. Why he loved it. Why he hated it. What it all meant to him. You had no idea what might have been running through his mind now, though.
"It would be a shame for all your talent to go to waste in your prime." Barney challenged. "And winning... it's a lot of money. You could by your future and call this whole scene off for good; leave this moldy gym behind and paint all day, or press your own books or whatever hobby retirees pretend to like."
Barney started to back away as his speech came to an end, reaching for the door to the hall. George reached for your hand, all the same. The only one he could hold. He'd never done that, before.
"Just think about it, yeah?" Barney finished, opening the door, raising his brow and locking eyes with George before shuffling away. "And turn the lights out, you hooligans."
You let a small laugh escape your lips as you were left alone in the gym once more. You bit your lip and glanced up to George who was stood, already looking to you.
"What are you thinking?" You asked in a hush, curling your fingers around his a little tighter.
"I think it's time we head home," George spoke with a shy grin. He stepped toward the door that hadn't shut all the way, and turned the lights out. You floated along in a love-struck haze, glancing at the glowing light from the end of the hall where lied Barney's office, and wondered what the morning would bring.
///
You stayed with George that night, and spent it like the ones before. You woke up and weren't afraid to scurry about the kitchen and make some morning meal. Sadie wove between your feet, meowing in response to some of your questions about where on earth the salt and pepper might be hiding. George awoke to the sound of the kettle whistling and padded in to find you'd set out an impressive spread of things Geogre hadn't even realized he'd had the stock to create with.
He poured your tea, saying something about how he wanted to feel like he was helping, and the two of you ate in a comfortable quiet. He asked about your week ahead, and you asked about his, and then you decided to see yourself out. Because you wanted nothing more than to stay right where you were, but you couldn't overstay your welcome.
George let you go without much more than a pleasant goodbye, and you wondered what the hell was going on. He obviously liked you enough to bring you home, more than once. And your own feelings were seriously sickening.
You tried not to worry much. In fact as you went about your usual routine, you felt glad that you'd gotten the chance to know George as well as you had. If nothing more came of your knowing him, you could only feel elated that you had, in some very lucky ways.
You tidied up your home, called your landlord to send for an electrician, and headed out to the studio. You taught kids to dance, and went to the local college to help the newly established cheerleading squad stick to a certain rhythm. You were talked into thinking up a program for the local nursing home, by one of the mothers who stuck around to watch you teach her child one on one. All the while, you tried not to worry when Louis wasn't showing up as often, and took his mother's word that his schooling was becoming more intense. And then you went home at the end of every day to something falling apart, much like usual. You'd come to treasure the bus ride to your place; the calm before the storm of stepping foot into the dingy old flat.
When the weekend came and ended, George was at the end of the hall, waiting for you. A routine you'd grown fond, and a little tired of. Would you be stuck in this loop with him, forever? You accepted his offer to DeAngelos with a grin, and felt bad that you couldn't invite him over to your place, in turn. Not if he enjoyed staying warm and didn't mind the sound of melting snow dripping from at least one place in every room.
"It's the holidays. What do you normally do for them?" George asked on another drive to your beloved weekend restaurant, at the end of another mundane week. Only this time, the town square was setting up fairy lights and plastic snowmen as Geogre drove by.
"Not much, these days." You shrugged, already dreading the coming week your landlord would be an ocean away, with his family, leaving you quite literally, in the dark.
"Good." George said. It made you laugh. He invited you to come and stay on Christmas eve. You tried to pretend it wasn't a big deal, but agreed in a hurried manner, in case too much silence set in and changed his mind to take back the offer.
So you stayed with him that night.
And then the next.
And the next.
And one morning you woke up and realized a whole week had passed, and you'd been totally unaware of anything besides George. Besides the way he'd taken to holding you close as you fell asleep. The way he'd wake earlier than you to make breakfast, even when you tried to beat him to it. Even the way he kept to himself, as you watched films or sat in the quiet of the same rooms. He'd shoot you a look with those crystal blue eyes and you'd feel dangerously right at home.
So one night, when the threat of another average work week was one sleep away, you got the guts to say something.
"I could tell you that my shower stopped working. And my ceiling is leaking. Or, I could just tell you I really like staying with you, anyway." You grinned, lingering in the kitchen doorway. George looked up from whatever he was so concentrated on making and said,
"Good."
It made you giggle.
"I wouldn't like to see you go." He added, before waving you over to try the recipe he'd been working on.
So you stayed with him that month. And you shared his bed. But nothing else had much changed. You went about your separate jobs and duties. You met up for dinner, and chatted over things you always used too. And then you'd go to sleep.
It perplexed you, but you knew better than to question what was going on between the two of you. And you were too scared of ruining a good thing by pushing to make it better so you didn't curl into his side unless he pulled you in first. And you didn't ask any of the millions of questions you had unless he'd approach the topic himself, and those times were more rare than anything.
And in between it all, there was the hell hole of a place you called your own apartment. On trips over to collect a new set of nightclothes or switch out the buckets that caught the numerous leaks, you didn't know what to do. This place was only worth it, because it's all you could afford. You still needed to save up for another year to even dream of moving. Even though it was a mess, it was all you had.
As you sat going through bills and junk mail, a knock came on your door. You rushed over to answer it, ready to give your landlord an earful. But your slimey, frail landlord wasn't looming in the doorway. Instead, you found George with a worried expression on his pretty sculpted face.
"I've been trying to call you for ages." He spoke, batting the hood of his jacket away and stepping past you, inside. He'd been around a couple times, but only to help you shut the broken window, and another to bring you back to his place. You hated to let him in, though you kept the place clean and in order, it felt as if you were living in a damp cardboard box.
"My phone died," You sniffled, wrapping your sweater a little tighter around your frame to beat the cold. You could have charged it, but sure enough as you plugged something into an outlet your power would have gone out. So you didn't.
You followed George's lead toward the kitchen where you'd only just come from. He took in a seat in the chair you'd been sat in sorting through the mail, and before you could pull out the other seat, George latched onto you. He pulled you to his lap without a word, and ran his strong hands along your arms in an effort to stop you from freezing. You dared not question it. You only settled against his chest and lost yourself in the feeling of George's embrace.
"What did you need?" You wondered after a while, keeping your head tucked against his shoulder. George kept his hands traveling against your arms, slower than before, but still. You could feel the rumble of his gentle response when he spoke.
"I wanted to ask you something."
You meekly encouraged George to go on, and stayed glued to his side. He stilled his movements to loosely wrap his arm around your middle.
"I've been thinking of what Bareny said." George spoke softly. You rose a brow and waited. After a beat of silence George asked,
"If I do it... if I say yes," George chose his words with great care, and you felt his fingers curl around the fabric of your sweater. "Would you be there?"
You had to peel yourself from him now. You had to see his piercing blue eyes lock onto yours.
"Of course I'd be there." You said, searching his face and the barely unchanged furrow of his brow.
"Why would you ask that?" You wondered through a small grin. Hadn't you made it obvious you were well attached to George by now? That you'd go any place he so much as nodded you toward following along?
He searched your face now too, keeping one of his fists balled around the fabric of your top, and the other of his hands wrapped around you.
"No one ever used to come." George shrugged. "Well, my dad just the once." You thought back to the photo framed in the hall of George's home, as he spoke to the tune of the drip of your ceiling. "But then he passed and... well there was no one. And that's why I stopped."
George explained that coming home to an empty house night after night seemed to make his aches and pains from all the fights seem even harder to handle. He said it wasn't worth it, hurting all the time. He said he wasn't sure if it was worth even thinking about now, but that he couldn't get Bareny's offer off his mind.
When he'd finished saying the most at once than he ever really had, you placed both hands, even the bandaged one, on either side of his face and felt George's arm tighten around your middle.
"Whatever you decide, I'll support you. I'll be there if you go. And I'll be here if you stay."
You watched George watch you with those brilliant eyes of his, and felt his calloused hands pull you ever closer toward him. You could tell, somehow, that George had already made up his mind. And you realized that even though you couldn't tell what was running through his head, that you'd managed to learn how to read him, and a wave of some kind of contentment washed over you.
And after stamping an assured kiss to his lips, George moved to stand, nudging you to do the same. Then he said,
Reader sat in the front row, right beside Nicki and Sean, so close she could feel the heat rolling off the chain-link fence. She watched as George unleashed absolute hell on the poor bloke trapped with him in the ring. He tossed the guy around like he weighed nothing, wrenching him into brutal holds, squeezing just long enough for panic to set in—then letting go seconds before the tap could even come.
It wasn’t just fighting. It was psychological.
George was playing with him.
Dragging it out. Drawing blood, backing off, then diving straight back in. Breaking the man down bit by bit, stripping away any confidence he’d walked in with. It was like he’d memorised a manual on torture and knew exactly which screws to tighten to get inside the bloke’s head.
He didn’t want a quick win. He wanted exhaustion. He wanted the kind of defeat where the guy could barely stay upright, where a stiff breeze would knock him over and keep him down for the full ten count.
She’d never seen George like this. Ever.
There was something feral about him now, something raw and ugly that had crawled out from wherever he usually kept it buried. A primal switch had flipped, and once it had, there was no turning it back off.
She didn’t get it. Not really. What had the poor bastard done, aside from being good enough for the officials to think he stood a chance?
By the time the fifth round rolled around, the air felt thick. Then George stepped in and threw a right hook straight into the man’s jaw. She heard the crack before she saw the blood.
The sound snapped through the arena like a gunshot. Everything went deathly quiet, as if the entire stadium had collectively stopped breathing. It all unfolded in slow motion—the opponent’s body crumpling, his legs giving way as he slammed into the mat.
Teeth, spit, and blood spilled from his mouth as his head bounced off the canvas, the rest of him wobbling uselessly, limbs flopping like jelly.
George didn’t rush in.
He hovered. Hands up, balanced, circling the mat with lazy precision, keeping himself loose and ready. Watching. Waiting. Almost daring the bloke to somehow drag himself back up and swing.
And as he did, there was that smirk—cruel and unmistakable—curling around his mouthguard.
The ref dropped to his knees almost immediately, sliding into position as the count began.
One.
The bloke didn’t move. Just lay there, chest stuttering, eyes unfocused as if he’d no idea where he was anymore.
Two.
George lingered a few steps back, hands resting loose at his sides now, watching with something close to curiosity.
Like he genuinely wanted to see how much the human body could take before it finally quit.
Three.
A twitch. Barely noticeable. One glove scraped weakly against the mat.
Four.
The crowd started to murmur, a low rumble of disbelief rolling through the seats. No one thought he’d make it this far. Honestly, neither did she.
Five.
The opponent rolled onto his side with a broken groan, spitting blood onto the canvas. His jaw looked wrong, swollen and already purpling, but there was something stubborn flickering behind his eyes.
Six.
George tilted his head slightly, that same wicked grin still etched around his mouthguard. Interested now. Amused.
Seven.
The bloke got a knee under him, shaking so badly it looked like his legs might just fold again. The ref hovered, arm raised, ready to wave it off at the slightest sign of collapse.
Eight.
Somehow—somehow—he forced himself upright, dragging his battered body up using the fence for balance. He swayed on his feet, eyes glassy, blood running freely down his chin and dripping onto his chest.
Nine.
The ref hesitated, searching his face, clearly questioning whether this counted as “standing”. The opponent lifted his gloves, sluggish and uneven, but they were up. Barely.
Ten.
The bell didn’t ring. The fight wasn’t over.
A roar tore through the arena, half shock, half horror. She felt her stomach drop as George’s grin widened, something dark flashing in his eyes.
Because now?
Now George knew he could keep going.
And judging by the way he rolled his shoulders and stepped forward again, he was more than happy to pick up right where he’d left off.
The noise in the arena hadn’t even settled before George moved again.
Not rushing. Not lunging. Just stalking forward, slow and deliberate, like a predator that knew its meal wasn’t going anywhere.
The opponent barely had time to steady himself before George was back in his space, crowding him, cutting off every possible escape.
He didn’t throw another big shot straight away. That was the worst part.
Instead, he tested him. A sharp jab to the ribs. A short elbow that clipped the side of his head. Enough to remind him exactly where he was and who he was standing in front of. The bloke winced, guard coming up late, feet dragging as if the mat had turned to mud beneath him.
George leaned in close, close enough that reader could swear he said something to him—something only the two of them could hear. Whatever it was, it made the man’s shoulders sag just that bit more.
Another right. Not full force this time, but accurate. Surgical. George was pacing himself now, drawing it out, making every hit count without ending it outright. He wanted him standing. He wanted him aware.
The opponent swung back—slow, desperate, sloppy—but George slipped it easily, like he’d been expecting it. He answered with a knee to the body that folded the bloke in half, air whooshing violently from his lungs.
Still, he didn’t go down.
That alone seemed to earn a flicker of respect. George paused for half a second, breathing steadily, eyes locked on the man swaying in front of him. The crowd had gone quieter again, the energy shifting from excitement to unease. Everyone could feel it now—this wasn’t about winning anymore.
Round by round, second by second, George chipped away. Working the body. Targeting the same spots until the bloke’s reactions dulled and his guard dropped lower each time. Blood smeared the mat beneath their feet, mixing with sweat until it was slick and dark.
The ref kept circling, eyes sharp, ready to jump in. More than once, his hand twitched, but every time the opponent stayed upright. Stubborn. Refusing to quit, even when his legs betrayed him.
Eventually, George started to slow too—not from exhaustion, but control. His movements became heavier, more grounded.
No rush now.
Just inevitability.
One final exchange dragged on longer than the rest. George backed him towards the fence, pinning him there with his presence alone. A hook. A pause. Another to the body. The bloke tried to clinch, arms weak and trembling, but George peeled him off with ease.
When the last punch came, it wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t flashy.
Just a clean, heavy shot that landed square and ended what little resistance was left.
The opponent slumped forward, knees buckling as he slid down the fence and collapsed onto the mat. This time, there was no attempt to rise. No twitch. No miracle.
The ref was in immediately, waving it off as George stepped back at last, chest rising and falling, the fire in his eyes slowly dimming.
The bell rang late, almost reluctantly.
George stood there for a moment longer, staring down at the man he’d broken, before finally turning away. The crowd erupted then—cheers, boos, disbelief all blending together. But she barely heard it.
She was still watching George.
Trying to understand how something so calm could leave that much destruction behind.
He got wiped down by his trainers, the white towel already soaked through with sweat and dotted with little red splotches—his blood, the other bloke’s blood, all mixed together until you couldn’t really tell where one ended and the other began. Someone dabbed at a cut near his brow while another pressed ice against his shoulder, rattling off questions to check he was still fully there.
George’s mouthguard was popped out and dropped into a plastic cup of water, swirling faintly pink as it soaked. He barely reacted as they checked him over, prodding ribs, tilting his chin, shining a light briefly into his eyes.
First aid moved past him towards the opponent, who was still being tended to on the mat, looking half-gone and miles away from reality.
Then George looked up.
His eyes found hers across the gap like it was nothing, like the noise and chaos didn’t exist. A sly, knowing grin tugged at his mouth, slow and deliberate, and he leaned back into the metal chair like he’d expected all of this.
Like the outcome had never once been in doubt.
Because everyone knew.
A clean K.O.
There was never a version of tonight where he didn’t walk away the winner.
He didn’t linger in the ring for long. Just muttered something to his trainers, sharp and low, and then he was on his feet, towel slung over his shoulders as he and his team started making their way out.
Security closed in fast, blocking hands and phones and people trying to surge forward as he cut through the crowd. He stopped briefly by his parents first, bending down to kiss each of them on the cheek, quick and familiar, before turning towards her.
Up close, he smelt like sweat. Thick, salty, clinging to him. But underneath it was something else. Not a real scent, not something you could bottle or explain.
Just the smell of a win.
Of dominance.
Of someone who’d gone in, done exactly what they meant to do, and come out untouched where it mattered.
She swore she could feel it in the air around him as he stepped closer, still buzzing, still riding whatever high had taken hold of him in that cage.
“Hey, baby.”
“Don’t hey ‘baby’ me when you’ve just about tortured a bloke in the ring,” she muttered, staring up at him with a deep frown. Her arms folded tight across her chest, more defensive than angry, really. Like she was trying to work out when exactly someone had swapped her usually empathetic, soft-around-the-edges boyfriend for whatever that was in there.
She shook her head slightly, eyes still fixed on him. “If you weren’t in a boxing ring, people would genuinely think you were trying to kill him. You’d probably be in jail right now. For… I dunno. Excessive force. Unnecessary violence. Something like that.”
George huffed out a breath, half a laugh, half a sigh, and ran a hand through his damp hair. There was still adrenaline buzzing under his skin, she could tell. He hadn’t fully come down yet.
“He said some shit about you online,” he replied, flat and unapologetic. “He deserved it.”
Her frown deepened. “George—”
“No,” he cut in gently, stepping a little closer, lowering his voice. “I saw it. The comments. The messages. Thought he could run his mouth and get away with it.”She searched his face then, really looked at him, and for the first time since the fight, she saw it—not just the aggression, but the protectiveness underneath it.
Twisted, sure, but familiar.
“That doesn’t mean you get to go feral,” she said quietly.
He shrugged, lips tugging into something closer to a smirk now, though his eyes softened. “Maybe not. But no one talks about you like that. Not on my watch.”
She let out a slow breath, uncrossing her arms at last, still conflicted—but a little less angry than she’d been a moment ago. She stared at him for a few seconds longer, jaw tight, clearly torn between being furious and understanding him a bit too well for her own liking. Then she sighed, rubbing her face with both hands.
“That’s not how you deal with things,” she said, quieter now. Arms crossing again, like she couldn't decide what to do with herself. “You don’t… dismantle someone in front of thousands of people because they were a dick on the internet.”
George tilted his head, watching her carefully. The smugness faded just a touch. “I didn’t plan it like that,” he said. “I just… saw red. Once I got in there, it didn’t feel like a fight anymore.”
“That’s what scares me,” she replied immediately, eyes snapping back up to his. “You didn’t look like you. You looked like you were enjoying it.”
He didn’t answer straight away. Instead, he glanced off to the side, jaw working as if he was chewing on the words. “Maybe part of me was,” he admitted finally. “I won’t lie to you.”
Her stomach flipped at the honesty.
“But it wasn’t about him,” he went on, voice lower now, rougher. “It was about what he said. About thinking he could drag you into his crap and not face consequences. I needed to make a point.”
She scoffed softly. “You made about six points. With your fists.”
That earned a brief, tired huff of a laugh from him. He stepped closer again, slower this time, giving her space to pull away if she wanted to. She didn’t.
“I don’t want you thinking I’m some monster,” he said. “I just—when it comes to you, I don’t have a great middle ground.”
She looked up at him then, really looked. The bruises starting to bloom under his skin, the split lip, the exhaustion creeping in now the adrenaline was wearing off. This was still her George. Just… sharpened by the ring.
“I know you’d protect me,” she said. “I don’t doubt that for a second. I just don’t want to be the reason you lose yourself.”
He reached out, hesitated, then gently hooked a finger under her crossed arms, easing them down. “You’re not,” he said firmly. “I choose what I do. Always.”
She studied his face, then leaned in, resting her forehead briefly against his chest. He smelt the same as before—sweat, metal, and that strange, intangible edge of victory—but underneath it was comfort. Familiarity.
“Next time,” she murmured, “try not to look like you’re auditioning for a murder charge.”
He laughed properly this time, a low sound vibrating through his chest. “I’ll see what I can do.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him again. “I mean it.”
He nodded, pressing a quick kiss to her hair. “Alright. But if someone comes for you again—”
She cut him off with a look.
He grinned, unapologetic. “I’ll try to be quicker about it.”
pm or comment if you want to be added to the taglist
! nsfw under the cut ! minors do not interact ! sexual innuendos , handcuff play , mentions of "rough" play
boxer!george... who gets his mouthguards customised to have your name on the inside.
boxer!george... who genuinely pays attention. Maybe a little too hard. A little too near the range of snooping. Like how he unlocked your phone just to browse your pinterest boards to find your 'dream' ring.
boxer!george... who will always talk positively about you if, and the minimal times when, he goes on podcasts and you're brought up in some fashion. Being in the world he was in, there were few things he liked to keep close to the chest. Private, but not a secret. He also didn't want to get to over excited and spill too much.
boxer!george... who wears a chain you bought for him years ago. Like will only ever take it off if he knows it could get damaged (training, boxing, having a shower or activities that could damage it).
boxer!george... who will teach you how to box. Not only to make sure you know how to keep yourself safe if he isn't there to do so, but he also finds it attractive.
boxer!george... who will make a playlist of songs that remind him of you and listen to them before fighting or during training.
boxer!george... who spoils you. If you look at something for more than two seconds, if you mention liking the look of something, or do a double take at a dress in a store. It's in your closest, vanity, or on the bed the next day.
boxer!george... who's camera roll is you. It's mainly you. If not all you. With a few landscapes, food, maybe a few photos of himself (actions shots at most), and family photos sprinkled in the mix.
NSFW
boxer!george... who's chain will brush your face with each thrust. The cold metal a harsh difference to the heat between you two.
boxer!george... who will use you to take his frustrations out. It's never a mean, harsh rough. It's rough, sure. But he's still mindful.
boxer!george... who will smirk if he sees you swaying a little, unable to walk straight after the night you'd had together. (and maybe will just bend you over the kitchen counter and take you again)
boxer!george... who broke handcuffs. You'd tried to handcuff him on his birthday, give him a little gift. And he snapped them into two barely a minute in. He didn't apologise, either.
boxer!george... who will get hard at the sight of you in activewear. Which, admittedly, is often, you like to train with him. Not doing nearly as much intenistity he trains at. There have been a few times his trainer had to snap him out of trances as he watched you work on your glutes.
boxer!george... who is an ass guy. No doubt. He appreicates all of you equally, but your ass just gets a little something extra.
boxer!george... who has, without a doubt, traced each and every one of your tattoo's with his tongue.
nsfw below the cut ! minors do not interact ! injuries , mentions of blood ,
boxer!george... who, besides his family, only allows you in the room before the fights. Too many people in his prep room before fights overwhelm him.
boxer!george... who writes your name, the date you two met and a little heart on his knuckle tape before he puts his gloves on.
boxer!george... who, when asked who keeps him pushing and gives him motivation in a press conference, without hesitation, says your name.
boxer!george... who laughs at the comments under your social media pages asking if your boyfriend can fight. Sometimes even posting a little cheeky reply himself.
boxer!george... who has been saving up for a ring since you guys first talked about a future.
boxer!george... who has a few tattoos, one of which being roman numerals of the day you guys met.
boxer!george... who simply walks up behind you when you're getting hit on at the bar, his mere presence scaring the little boys away.
boxer!george... who makes sure you're the first he goes up too, after his parents, when he wins, and always pulling you into the ring.
boxer!george... who's first thought when he hears the cracks in his jaw from punches, is you. Knowing you'd worry yourself sick if he showed truly how much pain he was in. He always told his trainers, of course, just never showed it for your sake.
NSFW...
boxer!george... who, at first, was very vanilla in bed. Too scared he might accidentally hurt you, so he held back.
boxer!george... who, the longer you were together for, the more adventurous he got. Though he still hardly suggested things to do, usually you were the one when it came to the requests
boxer!george... who, when you got your first house together, was determined to christen every square inch of that place. Even the in-home gym he had.
boxer!george... who will unexpectantly pick you up from behind and take you wherever, whenever (with consent of course)
boxer!george... who will give you this little sly smirk after he's won a match, and it's been caught several times on camera.
pm or comment if you wanna be added to the taglist 🫶
George’s schedule was starting to get absolutely packed. Fights every other month, sponsor ads to film, meetings to attend, press conferences, weigh-ins, training sessions that never seemed to end. Everything was happening all at once.
It was… a lot.
For both of them.
She didn’t mind, really. Not one bit. Not at all. She made it work, stayed supportive, stayed present, even when she could see the frustration bubbling off him like steam from a kettle.
Tonight, she was sat front row at another of his fights. Another night of sweat, strategy, and sheer brute force. But something was off.
He was losing.
Not that George lost often—he really didn’t, but tonight, it was obvious. He was getting sloppy, missing openings he usually exploited in a heartbeat. Mistimed punches, misread footwork, a rare lapse in focus that made her stomach knot with worry. Dangerous sloppy.
It was the main event, pressure piled high on his shoulders, and the opponent wasn’t just anyone. A multiple-time world UFC champion, someone George respected on every level. No bad blood, no petty rivalries—just pure skill, and it was going to be a hard fight.
And hard it was. Brutal, intense, taxing every ounce of his focus and strength.
By the end, he came out the other side a loser.
A very contendable loser, she reminded herself.
A close fight.
Very close.
Even his opponent admitted as much in the post-fight interview, nodding towards George with respect.
But she could still see it in him.
The frustration. The irritation. The flicker of anger that refused to die even as he shook hands with the victor. She knew it annoyed him—he hated losing. Always had. And tonight had been one of those fights where losing stung hard.
She braced herself for the drive back to the hotel. She already knew what was coming.
It was going to be a long night.
George’s jaw would be tight, hands fidgeting, pacing. Maybe slamming a door, muttering under his breath, replaying the fight in his head over and over. And she’d be there, patient, quietly firm, ready to catch him when the storm hit.
Because that’s what she did.
She held space for him, even when he didn’t want it.
And tonight? Tonight, she knew she’d have to hold all of it—the disappointment, the exhaustion, the barely-contained fury—while somehow convincing him it was okay to let it out, but not to destroy the hotel room in the process.
She exhaled, straightening in her seat, her hand brushing lightly against the edge of the barrier. The crowd roared, lights flashing, cameras snapping, but her focus was only on him.
He was hard on himself. Possibly too hard.
He carried every mistake with him, tucked it into his chest, replayed it over and over until it burned. And when he lost. When things didn’t go exactly the way he wanted. They didn’t just irritate him. They cut deep, and he felt every one of them in his bones.
He got frustrated fast, too. Impatient with himself, with the world, with the smallest things that didn’t land exactly right.
She’d learned that quickly. Early on. And that didn’t mean she liked it. It didn’t mean it didn’t sting when she felt the tension radiating off him like static electricity in the air.
It did sting.
And it didn’t hurt any less now, in the quiet of their hotel room. The lights dimmed low, the hum of the air conditioning filling the spaces between heavy sighs. He paced a little, hands tugging at his hair, muttering under his breath. Not at her, not exactly, but his frustration hung in the air thick enough to make her chest tighten.
She hated it. Hated the way it made her feel powerless. Hated the weight of it pressing down on her even though she knew he didn’t mean it to land on her.
But she stayed. She always stayed. Sitting there on the edge of the bed, hands clasped loosely in her lap, holding her breath when he muttered, letting his anger roll over her like waves she couldn’t stop.
She took it.
Quietly. Patiently.
Because that was what she did.
Because she loved him.
Even when it hurt.
Even when she wanted to shake him and tell him it wasn’t the end of the world.
Even when she knew it was going to be a long night.
But then… it was directed at her.
He didn’t meet her eyes when he said it. Not once. But his words cut sharp anyway, like a blade she couldn’t dodge. He kept repeating it—he didn’t need her pity. Didn’t need her looking at him like he was some fragile little lamb, poised to shatter at the gentlest touch.
It made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with his fight. Her heart silently splintered, a quiet, unbearable cracking that she couldn’t share with him. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, biting the inside of her cheek so hard she could taste iron, just to keep the tears from spilling.
Her heart was breaking—for him, seeing him so hard on himself, and because of him, feeling the sting of his words like they were hers to carry.
The silence stretched, heavy, almost suffocating, until she finally whispered, voice low, barely more than a breath: “…I’ll be back.”
She didn’t wait for him to respond, didn’t give him the chance to say anything else, because she knew she wouldn’t stop herself from speaking if he did. She turned on her heel and made for the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind her.
Sliding down the smooth wood against the door, she folded her legs to her chest, curling into herself as if she could somehow shield her heart from the ache. Her hand stayed pressed to her mouth, trembling, as silent tears ran freely down her cheeks, each one burning with the weight of helplessness, frustration, and the ache of loving someone so fiercely, even when they hurt themselves—or her—with the same words.
She stayed there for a long moment, letting it out in quiet bursts, the only sound the soft, almost inaudible sobs that escaped despite her efforts to keep them contained. The room outside remained heavy with his frustration, but in here, it was just her—and the raw, aching truth of caring for someone who refused to let you in.
George noticed. Almost straight away.
The moment the door shut, something in his chest dropped. Hard. The room felt emptier, heavier, like the air had been sucked out with her. And it hit him all at once. What he’d said, how he’d said it, the way she’d looked at him right before she left.
It made him physically recoil at himself.
His heart splintered into tiny, jagged pieces because he had done that. No one else. Not the fight. Not the loss. Not the pressure. Him.
He had driven her into that bathroom.
He had made her cry.
And even though she was trying so hard to hide it, he could hear it. The walls were thin, the door thinner. Through the wood, he caught the quiet, broken sounds—the hitch in her breathing, the stuttered little sobs she was choking back, like she didn’t want to take up any space even in her own hurt.
It made his body ache in a way no punch ever had.
This was worse than bruised ribs, worse than a split lip or swelling knuckles. This sat deep, heavy, right behind his sternum, spreading out until it felt like he couldn’t breathe properly.
He dragged a hand down his face, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard like he could pull the anger out of himself that way. Frustrated didn’t even cover it—not at the fight, not at the loss, but at himself.
At how quickly he’d lashed out.
How easily he’d let his pride turn into cruelty.
He sank down onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might have answers. He felt hollow. Stripped bare. Like whatever made him strong in the ring had turned him weak everywhere else.
A shell of a man.
ty @buttlesbunnie for giving me the idea queen xx
pm or comment if you want to be added to the taglist !
The Boxing Universe masterlist! If you want to be tagged for any of these specific fics (and au), comment under this post!
sweat and passion , perfectly curated workout playlists , black eyes and split lips , sports cars , early mornings and late nights , ice baths and steaming hot showers , leather duffle bags , customised mouth guards and ring gear , tattoos , sponsorships ,
BOXER!GEORGE (all x fem!reader)
- headcannons: pt 1 , pt 2 ,
- stand alones: wicked games , don't worry I'll make you worry , stand by me
- other: boxer!george's mrs
AMATEURBOXER!ALFIE (all x ringgirl!reader)
- headcannons: pt 1 , pt 2
- stand alones: 1 , 2
UNDERGROUNDBOXER!ARTHURTV (all x fem!reader)
- error 404...
pm or comment if you'd like to be in the taglist !
