: #000 between rounds - boxer!hollis x cutwoman!reader
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cw: violence, physical injuries, aggressive behavior, prologue, timeline of events that lead to you meeting hollis
content info: boxing au, touch as communication, injury care, tending wounds, professional boundaries, emotional messy boxer, reckless boxer, slow burn
disclaimer: i did age them up a little because hollis would’ve been 14 in 2018, sorry if it’s a problem ;(
summary: you built your reputation the hard way. quietly. carefully. one fight at a time. by the time people stop questioning you, fighters are requesting you. across the country, hollis is building a reputation of his own. brilliant. reckless. impossible to control. so when his team calls and asks you to join his corner, you already know what everyone else does. he doesn’t listen. but when the bell rings and blood starts running down his face, you’re the only one he looks at between rounds.
000 (u r here :) ) -> 001
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the first time someone laughed at you in a gym, you didn’t react.
you were nineteen, standing in a room that smelled like sweat and metal and old tape, the one that never really leaves the air no matter how many times they mop the floors. someone was hitting a heavy bag in the corner, the steady thud-thud-thud vibrating through the walls.
you had transferred from your local boxing gym in Waltham to one in Quincy. bigger space. better fighters. more eyes. along with more doubt.
you carried your kit like you always did. it’s organized, zipped, and clinical. ice packs are stacked neatly. gauze is rolled tight. vaseline is capped.
the fighter in front of you flinched when you pressed gauze to his eyebrow.
“you sure you know what you’re doing?” he muttered, glancing toward his coach instead of you.
someone behind you let out a quiet laugh. it wasn’t loud but you could still hear it.
you didn’t answer. you just continued to work on his face. gentle pressure first. assess swelling. check depth. wipe blood in clean, efficient strokes.
your hands never shook. you’d learned early that if you reacted, they’d smell it on you and make you even more nervous. all the hesitation, insecurity, and hurt. it was best for you to keep yourself quiet in the boxing world.
every time they would push, you didn’t react.
you had grown up in gyms like this. sitting on cracked vinyl benches while your older brother sparred. watching trainers stitch cuts with hands that never trembled. you learned how to wrap hands before you learned how to perfect your eyeliner routine. you learned how to stop bleeding before you learned how to drive, which was pretty embarrassing having to get a ride from your older brother
you always just worked. when they doubted you, you worked. when they smirked, you worked. when they didn’t look at you but looked around you, you worked.
you didn’t mind it, as long as you go the job done and able to clean up your fighter, you were good.
across the country, Hollis knocked a man down in under a minute.
the bell rang and it barely felt like time had started before it ended.
the first punch wasn’t even the hardest one, it was the cleanest. a sharp counter right that snapped his opponent’s head back like a switch had flipped. the second was crueler. a left hook to the body that folded him in half. by the time the third landed, the crowd was already on its feet.
the man hit the canvas hard. his gloves were slipping against the mat. blinking up at the lights like he’d been woken from something violent.
the crowd roared — not just loud, but hungry. it was the kind of roar that builds. many had their phones up. beer sloshing. young girls cheering for him, only because he was hot (hoping to sleep with him). commentators stumbling over his name like they’d just discovered something dangerous.
“—did you see that timing—”
Hollis didn’t celebrate. he didn’t raise his gloves. didn’t even look at his opponent.
he stood in the center of the ring, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his jaw, shoulders rising and falling like he’d run miles instead of seconds. the lights overhead burned hot against his skin. the referee grabbed his wrist to lift it, but Hollis barely reacted.
his eyes weren’t on the crowd. they were distant and unfocused. almost like he was fighting something that wasn’t in front of him. like the knockout wasn’t the point. like the silence inside him hadn’t changed at all.
either way, Los Angeles was just getting the beginning of the new boxer, 2hollis.
you stopped a fight from being called.
your fighter’s eye was swelling fast. the ref hovered too close while the coach was panicking.
“look at me,” you said, gripping his jaw firmly. “you’re fine. breathe.”
you worked fast. ice. pressure. vaseline. control the bleeding. reduce the swelling.
he went back out. he won by split decision. after that night, people stopped questioning you and started taking you serious.
so serious that they started requesting you.
Hollis made headlines. not just in the sports section. everywhere.
the first article called him promising. the second called him dangerous. by the fifth fight of the year, the phrase stuck.
“the kid’s brilliant but unstable.”
it followed him everywhere.
the controversy started after a late stoppage. his opponent had been wobbling for almost an entire round. the crowd was screaming for the ref to step in while Hollis kept landing clean, brutal shots.
then the referee finally waved it off, Hollis didn’t stop moving.
the adrenaline was still roaring through his body, chest rising and falling like he’d just crawled out of something violent and unfinished.
the ref grabbed his arm. Hollis shoved him off. not hard enough to knock him down but it was hard enough that the arena went silent to realize there wasn’t anything stopping him.
commentators tripped over their words seeing it happen in real time.
the clip circulated online within minutes.
“young prospect loses composure.”
“future champion or future problem?”
he got fined and suspended for a short stretch. He didn’t even apologize.
when reporters finally caught him after his next fight, microphones were shoved in his face, they expected yelling. defensiveness. some kind of spectacle.
instead, Hollis spoke quietly. he was soft spoken and gentle.
“people get emotional in the ring,” he said, shrugging slightly. “it happens.”
the reporters exchanged looks. he contrast was unsettling.
because the man standing in front of them, pale lights reflecting off sweat-damp hair, voice calm and almost tired, didn’t match the one who had just knocked someone unconscious three rounds earlier.
he kept winning. violently. quick knockouts. body shots that folded opponents in half. a left hook commentators started replaying in slow motion.
but something about the way he fought made people uneasy.
he wouldn’t smile after, wouldn’t celebrate. half the time he barely looked at the man he’d just beaten.
he’d stand there in the center of the ring, gloves still up, breathing hard like the fight inside him hadn’t ended yet.
people started saying the same thing ringside.
“he’s not fighting the other guy.”
they watched him stalk opponents with that distant look in his eyes.
“he’s fighting angry.” was what most people said.
your fighter retired. there was no crowd for that part.
no announcer. no lights. no roaring arena. just a quiet locker room that still smelled like sweat, antiseptic, and damp towels.
you sat across from him on the wooden bench, fingers working slowly at the tape around his wrists. the routine felt automatic now. peel. unwrap. fold the gauze away neatly.
his hands were shaking. not from the fight.
you’d seen that kind of shake before. It came from somewhere deeper — the moment a fighter realizes the body that carried him for years isn’t going to cooperate anymore.
you loosened the laces of his gloves and pulled them free. the leather thudded softly onto the floor.
for a moment neither of you spoke.
the arena noise was still faintly echoing the concrete walls somewhere down the hall, but it felt far away now. like it belonged to another world.
he flexed his fingers slowly, staring down at his knuckles “guess that’s it,” he said, voice rough.
you didn’t respond right away. you finished cleaning the cut above his brow, a small one, nothing serious. the kind you’d handled a thousand times.
but tonight you worked slower than usual. careful. like stretching the moment out might delay what it meant.
he let out a quiet breath and looked at you. “wouldn’t have made it this far without you.”
before you could react, he pulled you into a brief hug.
it was awkward. fighters weren’t usually sentimental, or maybe they were and you had never received one. but his grip lingered for a second longer than expected. you gave him a small smile when he let go. professional even then.
“get some rest,” you told him.
he nodded, already somewhere else in his head.
you gathered your supplies, slung your bag over your shoulder, and stepped out into the hallway.
your phone started ringing before you’d even taken five steps.
most calls after fights were the same. trainers asking for advice. promoters fishing for availability. fighters wanting reassurance about cuts that would heal in a week.
you sighed and answered anyway. “yeah?”
for a moment, there was only breathing on the other end.
then the voice spoke. “we need you on Hollis’ corner.”
you stopped walking. the hallway suddenly felt a little colder. silence stretched between you and the caller.
you knew the name. everyone did.
you’d seen the clips. the knockouts. the headlines. the way commentators talked about him like he was a storm they couldn’t predict.
“brilliant but unstable.”
the voice on the phone exhaled. “he doesn’t listen,” they said bluntly. “burns hot. real hot. he can’t control himself.”
you leaned your shoulder against the wall, staring down the empty hallway.
“we need someone steady,” they continued. “someone he can’t intimidate.”
your fingers tightened slightly around the phone.
you thought about the fights you’d watched.
the way he stood in the ring afterward, breathing hard, looking like he’d barely come back from somewhere violent.
you thought about the shove. the fines. the anger in the way he fought. the parties he would attend with his boxing mates.
then you thought about the quiet locker room you’d just left behind.
your fighter was done. your career wasn’t, it couldn’t be.
“when’s the fight?” you asked.
Hollis sat in the locker room with blood running down the side of his face.
it wasn’t dripping or dramatic. just a slow, steady line sliding from the split in his eyebrow, down his temple, along the sharp edge of his jaw.
the room smelled like antiseptic, sweat, and leather gloves that had been used too many times.
across from him, his coach paced like a man waiting for bad news.
Hollis didn’t move. he leaned forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, hands loosely hanging between them. his knuckles were already swelling. a thin smear of someone else’s blood was drying across his wrist tape.he looked bored, like the cut wasn’t a problem, like none of it was.
the locker room door creaked open. he didn’t bother looking up.
“your new cutwoman’s here,” his coach said.
Hollis scoffed quietly, wiping his thumb across the blood on his cheek.
he expected noise after that. nervous energy. the usual shuffle people had around him, trainers talking too fast, assistants trying too hard not to stare.
instead, there were just footsteps. slow. even. unhurried. they crossed the room without hesitation.
hollis noticed that. people usually hesitated around him, even more after remembering everything online. the footsteps stopped in front of him.
something shifted in his peripheral vision.
a pair of gloved hands appeared in his line of sight. steady. prepared. holding gauze like it had always belonged there.
then a voice, calm and low. “look up.”
it wasn’t a question. it wasn’t polite. it was a quiet command.
Hollis finally lifted his head. his eyes met yours. for a moment, the room seemed to pause with him.
you didn’t react to the blood, you’ve seen plenty of that. you didn’t comment on the swelling forming under his eye. you weren’t impressed, intimidated, or nervous.
you just studied the cut with a clinical focus, already reaching for gauze. and for the first time in a long time, Hollis stilled. not because of pain, he’s been in a lot of that, curiosity took over him.
you didn’t say anything after he looked up. you just stepped closer.
close enough that he could smell the antiseptic on your gloves. close enough that the light above caught the shine of the vaseline you were already opening.
your fingers tilted his chin slightly to the side. “hold still.”
Hollis let out a quiet breath through his nose.
“people usually introduce themselves first,” he said.
you pressed gauze against his eyebrow. firm and efficient.
“they also usually hold still,” you replied quickly.
he huffed a quiet laugh at that, but didn’t move.
up close, the cut looked worse than it did from a distance. split clean across the brow ridge. still bleeding slowly.
you wiped the blood away. your thumb steadied his temple without thinking.
Hollis watched you. not the cut. you.
your hands were precise and confident. like you had done this a thousand times before and never once rushed.
“you’re not nervous,” he said after a moment.
You didn’t look up from your work. “should I be?” you asked as you continued to work
you pressed the gauze again, stopping the bleeding. most people aren’t responsible for keeping your face intact.”
that made him smile slightly. the first real expression he’d had since the fight ended.
you reached for the ice, pressing it against the swelling forming under his eye.
he flinched, just barely.
your grip on his jaw tightened, “don’t do that.”
Hollis watched you again.
there was something about the way you worked. no hesitation. no performance. no fear of touching him, correcting him, telling him what to do.
like he wasn’t the fighter everyone whispered about. like he was just another job.
“you’ve done this a while,” he said.
“and they sent you to deal with me.”
you finally glanced up then. your eyes met his again. “they sent me to keep you from bleeding all over the canvas.”
for a moment, neither of you moved. your hand was still holding his jaw.
his eyes flicked briefly to your fingers, then back to your face.“you always this nice to your fighters?” he asked.
“only the difficult ones.”
his smile widened a little. “good,” he said quietly.
“because I plan on being one.”
you released his face and stepped back slightly, reaching for the vaseline again. “i figured.”
you finished sealing the cut.
then you pulled your gloves off slowly, tossing them into the trash beside the bench.
“try not to reopen it next round,” you said.
Hollis leaned back against the locker behind him, studying you now with a different kind of attention.
you met his eyes again. they’re calm and certain.
“You’re not done fighting tonight,” you said.
then Hollis smiled again.this time slower. like something had just started. “good,” he said.
the fight ends with Hollis’ hand raised.
the crowd is still roaring when he steps out of the ring. sweat runs down his neck, gloves already half-untied as he walks toward the locker room.
his coach is talking. someone from the commission is talking.
he barely hears any of it.
all he remembers is your hands on his face. the way you held his jaw steady like he wasn’t someone people were careful around. like he was just another fighter.
the locker room door shuts behind him.
the noise from the arena dulls instantly. and there you are again.
you’re at the small counter, calmly packing gauze and tape back into your kit like this is just another night for you.
hollis drops onto the bench.
“you still bleeding?” you ask without looking up.
you glance over briefly anyway to check
your eyes move across his eyebrow, the swelling under his eye, the cut you sealed earlier.
you go back to organizing your kit. Hollis watches you for a moment.
“you didn’t watch the finish.” it’s not a question.
you shrug slightly, “I heard it.”
you finally look at him again, “i’m not paid to watch.”
he lets out a short laugh, “you’re cold.”
“i’m efficient. if i was cold i wouldn’t have agreed to help you.” you zip the bag halfway closed.
the room falls quiet again.
Hollis leans forward, elbows on his knees. “you always this serious?”
you shrug again.“comes with the job.”
“saving people from themselves.”
he studies you again for a second. “what’s your name?”
it’s small. barely noticeable. but he catches it.
you meet his eyes. “Y/n.”
he repeats it quietly, like he’s testing how it sounds, “Y/n.”
your hands move again, closing your kit the rest of the way.
“well,” he says, leaning back now, “thanks for not letting my face fall apart tonight.”
“that’s the bare minimum.”
you lift your bag onto your shoulder.
“for the record,” he adds.
“you’re the first cutwoman they’ve sent who didn’t look terrified of me.”
your expression doesn’t change, “should i be?”
Hollis studies you for a second then he shakes his head slowly,“No.”
something about the way he says it makes the room feel smaller.
you move toward the door. your hand reaches the handle. “you fight angry,” you say suddenly.
he looks up again. “and?”
“you’ll lose like that eventually.”
then Hollis smirks slightly. “you gonna fix that too?”
you open the door. “not my job.” you step out into the hallway.
the door shuts behind you. Hollis sits there for a moment.
then he runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek and laughs quietly to himself.
“Y/n,” he mutters like he’s already decided he’s not done with you.
a/n: hey beautiful slushies, lmk if you want to be in taglist or removed…. so i can just call my uber…. but i hope you enjoyed this! i’m not a fighter, i never claimed to be a fighter😂✌🏻 is how i’m feeling cause i had to research sm boxing terms 😭 if you guys don’t like lmk so i can just..
