⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘Spar me to fuck me~⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Real world AU masc!reader x Jabber
You train at a gritty underground boxing gym on the wrong side of town. Nothing too fancy—cracked walls and mirrors, mats with mysterious substances, the smell of sweat and liniment. It's the only place that allows you to turn off your mind and allow your body to take over.
Jabber has been here longer.
He's got a reputation—cocky, sharp-tongued, fights dirty but good. Light skin always glistening, dreads tied back, that infuriating grin plastered on his face like he knows something about you that you don't...maybe he did.
Until you showed up.
You're not as flashy as him, but you were relentless. You never quit. You take hits and keep coming back, and for the first time in a long time...Jabber has to try.
He hates it. He loves it.
The gym is loud—gloves smacking, feet shuffling, someone yelling in the corner like they're some top-tier coach. You set your bag down and started wrapping your hands when a tall shadow falls over you.
"New face. Cute."
You don't look up. "If you're gonna flirt, at least buy me dinner first."
He laughs, low, dangerous, surprised. "Nah, I'd rather see if you can back up that mouth."
You finish wrapping your hands, finally meeting his gaze. "You first, pretty boy."
The grin that spreads across his face is evil.
"Oh, I'm gonna enjoy this."
He jerks his chin toward the ring. Doesn't wait for your answer — just turns and walks, rolling his shoulders like he's shaking off a lazy afternoon. You follow because there's no way you're backing down now. Not in front of him. Not in front of anyone.
Someone tosses you a pair of gloves. You catch them one-handed, never taking your eyes off him.
He's already in the ring, bouncing on the balls of his feet, loose and ready. His dreads are pulled back tight. That stupid grin is still plastered on his face.
"Don't worry, newbie. I'll go easy on you." "Don't."
His eyes flicker. Something shifts in them — surprise? Interest? — before he masks it with a laugh.
"Bold words for someone about to get their ass handed to 'em."
You step through the ropes. The bell rings.
And then there's no more talking.
He's fast. You knew he would be, but knowing and feeling are two different things. He moves like water — slips your first jab, ducks your second, comes up inside your guard and taps your ribs twice before you can react.
"Gotta be quicker than that, baby."
You grit your teeth. Reset. Watch his feet this time.
He circles. You circle. The gym fades out — the shouting, the smacking gloves, the smell of sweat. All of it disappears until there's only him. His breath. His movement. The tiny tells you're starting to read.
He throws a jab. You slip it.
He follows with a cross. You block.
His eyes widen — just a fraction — and you move.
You step into him, close the distance, and drive a hook into his side. Not full power. Just enough to let him know you're paying attention.
He stumbles half a step. Recovers. And when he looks at you again, that grin is gone.
In its place is something hungrier.
"...Okay."
He rolls his neck. Settles back into his stance.
"Okay."
The round ends. Then another. Then another.
You lose count of how many times he hits you. You also lose count of how many times you hit him back. By the end, your ribs are screaming, your knuckles are raw, and there's a split in his lip that's dripping blood down his chin.
He doesn't wipe it away.
He just stands there, chest heaving, eyes locked on you like you're the most interesting thing he's seen in years.
"Same time tomorrow?"
You pull off your glove with your teeth. Spit out the Velcro.
"I got class until six." "Seven, then. Don't keep me waiting."
He winks — actually winks — and drops out of the ring like he hasn't just spent the last hour trying to knock your head off.
You watch him grab his bag and head for the door.
He stops at the exit. Looks back over his shoulder.
"Oh, and newbie?"
He tosses something at you. You catch it — a protein bar. Cheap brand. The kind that tastes like cardboard.
"Eat something. You're gonna be sore tomorrow."
And then he's gone.
You look down at the protein bar in your hand.
You don't even like protein bars.
But you eat it anyway.
It's a few weeks later. Late. The gym is empty except for the two of you.
Everyone else cleared out hours ago. The lights are dimmed — just a few overheads still buzzing — and the only sounds are the rain against the corrugated roof and the heavy rhythm of your breathing.
You've been sparring for over an hour. Both of you are exhausted, moving slow, breathing hard. He's got you in the corner, throwing lazy jabs that you're blocking with heavy arms.
"Tired, pretty boy?" "You first."
He laughs — breathless, genuine — and drops his hands.
"Alright. Truce."
You lower your guard. He steps closer. Closer than he needs to.
The rain is pounding on the roof. The lights are flickering. His face is half in shadow, half in fluorescent glow, and he's looking at you like he's trying to memorize something.
"You know I been comin' here longer than you." "I know." "I never waited for anyone before."
Your throat goes tight.
"...I know."
He reaches out. Slow. Like he's giving you every chance to move away. His hand cups the back of your neck, warm and calloused and gentle in a way that doesn't match anything you know about him.
"Tell me to stop."
His voice is barely a whisper. His forehead presses against yours.
"Tell me to stop, and I will. I swear."
You grab his shirt. Pull him closer.
"Don't."
He kisses you like he's been holding his breath for weeks.
Like you're the first real thing he's let himself want in a long time. His hands slide into your hair, your jaw, your waist — pulling you against him like he's trying to close a distance that's been killing him.
You kiss him back just as hard. Teeth and tongue and the taste of sweat and copper. His back hits the ropes and you follow, pressing into him, and he groans against your mouth.
But then — he moves.
One hand drops to your thigh. Grips. Lifts. You're suddenly off balance, your back hitting the corner post, and he's there — crowding into your space, pinning you between the wood and his body.
He whispered against your throat. "Nah. My turn."
Your breath catches.
"...Yeah?"
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark. That infuriating grin is gone — replaced by something hungry. Something that makes your stomach flip.
"You been runnin' that mouth since day one."
His hand slides from your thigh to your hip. Squeezes. Hard enough to leave a mark.
"Think it's time I did somethin' about it."
He doesn't ask.
He takes.
His mouth is on your throat — teeth scraping, tongue soothing, leaving marks that'll bruise by morning. His hands find the hem of your shirt and yank it over your head before you can breathe.
"Been thinkin' about this." Breathless. "Yeah?" "Yeah." Bite to your collarbone. "Every time you landed a hit. Every time you looked at me like you wanted to kill me." "I didn't wanna—" "Yeah, you did."
He pulls back. Looks you dead in the eye.
"You wanted this just as bad as I did. Don't lie to me."
You can't. You can't lie to him. Not when he's looking at you like that.
"...Yeah."
He grins. Sharp. Victorious.
"Good."
He spins you around. Pushes you face-first into the corner post. Your hands catch the ropes on either side, and you feel the heat of his chest against your back, his breath hot against your ear.
"You're gonna take what I give you." "And you're gonna love it."
He doesn't wait for an answer.
His hands work your shorts open. His mouth traces down your spine. And when he finally — finally — gives you what you've both been craving, your head falls forward, your knuckles go white on the ropes, and his name falls from your lips like a prayer.
"That's it." "Let me hear you." "Let the whole block know who's got you."
He takes his time.
He's thorough. Methodical. Every movement is deliberate — designed to pull sounds out of you that you didn't know you could make. His hand finds your hair, grips, pulls your head back so your spine arches.
"Look at you." "So tough in the ring." "And now you're mine."
You can't argue. You don't want to.
Because he's right.
When you finally come undone — back against his chest, his mouth on your neck, his hand working you through it — he follows close behind, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath ragged and warm against your skin.
"...Fuck."
You laugh weakly. Dizzy. Spent.
"Yeah."
He pulls out slow. Careful. Turns you around to face him.
His hands cup your face. His thumbs trace your cheekbones. He's looking at you like you're something precious — which is funny, considering how roughly he just handled you.
"You good?"
"...Never better."
He smiles. Soft. Real.
"Good."
He kisses you. Slow. Lazy. Like he's got all the time in the world.
You're both still in the ring. The mat is a mess. You're a mess. He's a mess.
He's sitting against the corner post, legs stretched out, one arm wrapped around your shoulders. You're leaning into his side, too tired to move, too satisfied to care.
"Same time tomorrow?"
You snort. "You tryna kill me?"
"Maybe."
He grins. You shove him. He laughs. Pulls you closer.
"Nah. I'm just... not done with you yet."
You look up at him. He's already looking down at you. "...Yeah. Same time tomorrow."
His grin softens into something quieter. "Good."
idk the word count...i don't count...mkay bye✌️
