i desperately need boxer!coryo to teach me how to do everything he does like yes i’m bored teach me how you wrap your hands, teach me how to throw a punch without breaking all of my fingers
⋆.˚ Baby Steps 🂱 ˚✧ ₊
Boxer!Coryo x Reader
Coryo teaches you how to box, and more importantly how to defend yourself when he isn’t there to do it for you.
thank you for the ask boo ❤️
“Shouldn’t be fighting with nails,” Coryo rubs a thumb pad over your acrylics, clicking his tongue against his teeth disapprovingly.
“But don’t they look nice?”
“Gorgeous, baby.”
You’re sitting on two stools in the dingy basement he fought in, against the wall a good distance from the ring. You insisted— pressured, really— your boyfriend into teaching you how to box. And no, he was completely he against it for a while. But you found a loophole, telling him that you should know how to defend yourself. In your words, “You can’t protect me all day, every day.”
He had chewed on his cheek, then narrowed his eyes at the floor. You knew from the way he scratched at his jaw that he would, though, he would want to protect you all hours of the day. If you let him, he’d be your guard dog on a leash. But you had a point. He couldn’t leave his girl without some guns.
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.
I’m imagining he’s absolutely wrecked, he feels like his teeth are about to fall out despite his mouth guard and he’s sweaty and exhausted and his nose is crusted with blood— and then he hears you calling his name, giving him this look that reminds him he’s got a girl to impress. Or better yet, that he’s got a reason to win, and that’s enough to give him a second wind, to make him crack the other guy so hard he can hear it
