#was so so fun doing my first request !! :DD thx again rach <33

[tigertofu]

Heyyy! I’m very glad you’re doing requests cos your writing is AMMMAAZZZZINNNNGGGG

I’d love to see some headcanons of North Yankton Trevor with a fem!reader who does boxing🫣🫣 No worries if not! :)

TY GIRLIE <3333 and u got it! as i worked on this i discovered its difficult for me to just list off headcanons w/out some sorta story attached so i hope this like,, mini-story with headcanons interlaced throughout is ok !! ^^ ;;

pairing: fem reader/Trevor

summary: a barfight involving a stranger in a little north yankton tavern turns out to be the start of something much more.

cw's: mild, non-explicit smut

wordcount: 1,335

you'll meet him in a bar one night.

the place is a seedy little affair with concrete floors and weak lights that fill the smokey air with a buttery glow. it's the only tavern in the little podunk town you live in, and tonight, just like every night, it's filled with the usual slew of patrons. cattle farmers sleepily nurse at sweating beer bottles at the bar. railway workers sit slumped in chairs at the round tables taking up the rest of the cramped room. a lazy country song spills out of the jukebox in one corner of the room. johnny cash? bob dylan? something like that. you aren't really paying attention to the music. you're only interested in downing your beer and letting the booze warm you up a bit before you venture back out into the snowstorm and trudge the rest of your way home.

suddenly, the music stops. you look up from your seat in the corner of the bar. a man you've never seen before is fiddling with the jukebox, a cigarette drooping from his scowling mouth. you watch him, curious, because you could swear you've never seen him in town before. his dark brown hair is slicked back into a long, scraggly mullet; strands of it fall around his face. he's wearing a roadworn bomber jacket, dirty jeans, black rubber boots caked in mud. definitely not a local.

as you stare, you realize that the atmosphere of the entire bar has shifted. Mr. Mullet finally figures out how to work the jukebox. a punkish rock song begins to blare from its speakers, causing the other patrons' heads to swivel in his direction. he plants his hands on his hips and looks at it triumphantly.

a particularly burly farmer heaves himself out of his seat at the bar and trundles over to the stranger. he taps him on the shoulder. says something that you can't hear, but can tell isn't nice. Mr. Mullet snaps back at him loud enough for you to hear: something about how the previous music was about to put him to fucking sleep and that this is a "free country." the farmer doesn't back down from the stranger's posturing and, in the blink of an eye, their altercation turns physical.

for reasons you can't parse, you immediately jump to the stranger's aid. muscle memory pounded into you by years of boxing makes quick work of the drunk farmer, but not before he's able to get a few good hits in on the stranger, who fights with blind, wild passion. while the both of you reel back from him to catch your breaths, the bartender yells at you two to get the hell out of his bar. you both do, but not before the stranger calls everyone in the establishment "a bunch of braindead stick-in-the-mud yokels."

outside, you both share a cigarette, shivering in the snowfall. he tells you his name is Trevor. he asks where you learned to fight like that, and you tell him in the ring. he smiles, and despite the bruise blooming around his busted lip, you can tell it's a handsome smile. he says he likes a girl who knows how to scrap. you smile back and tell him you like his music taste. he asks what you're up to that night, and you tell him that you just want to get back to the warmth of your home at this point. he offers to walk with you, and you accept.

once you reach your place, he tries to invite himself in so he can show his "appreciation" for helping him beat the shit out of the farmer at the bar. you laugh and tell him maybe some other time. he huffs, but relents, so long as you give him your phone number. you do.

"some other time" comes around quick, because in the few days following your night in the bar you realize that you can't stop thinking about him for some reason. you invite him over; he shows up with a six pack and a grin plastered over his face. you spend an evening talking and listening to music on your old cassette player. you're delighted to find out that he likes all the same bands you do. the six pack is quickly emptied, and the both of you get a bit tipsy. at some point, he brings up the barfight again. he asks to wrestle so he can see what you're "really capable of," slurring his words, giving you a sly look. you laugh and try to tell him that wrestling is hugely different from boxing, but he insists, and you give in.

he lets you win almost immediately. the way he lets you playfully sock him in the arms without fighting back tells you that maybe he has no intention of fighting back. afterwards, as you both lay on the floor of your bedroom, catching your breaths from the little tussle as he's pinned beneath your muscular form, you notice a hungry sort of glow in his dark brown eyes. before you can ask why he's looking at you like that, he leans up and smashes his mouth against yours.

you fuck him there on the floor and it feels almost like a fight; the most satisfying fight ever, that ends with the both of you winning.

one hookup turns into two, then three, then four. soon enough, you're meeting up with Trevor regularly. he never spends the night, always slinking off sometime after you've fallen asleep. you try to learn more about him, and he freely unloads his personal history on you. he's from the "Canadian border region of America." he likes flying planes; used to be in the air force before getting discharged. when you one day ask him what he does for work, he suddenly gets cagey. tells you not to ask questions you don't want the answers to. you guess he doesn't make his money in entirely legal ways, and don't bring it up again.

a few weeks after meeting him, you invite him to the local boxing club to watch a match you've been training for. he shows up, of course, and cheers you on from the sidelines with embarrassing yet oddly adorable enthusiasm the entire time. it's a hard fight that winds on and on. by the end of it you feel like you've been thrown into a box and rolled down a hill, but still, you pull a win out of thin air. and as the ref announces you the winner, you see Trevor standing in the crowd, yelling triumphantly while others awkwardly stare at him: "That's my girl!"

you rush home with him afterwards. the entire short car ride, he can't keep his hands off of you, almost crashing the car into a snowbank on the way. the second you reach your home, he pounces on you. he rips the boxing garb off of you; passes hungry kisses over your figure before your sweat has even had a chance to dry. in bed, he worships you as you straddle him, his hands unable to stay still as they grab and rub over your muscles. he whines that he loves you, that you're amazing, that he's so lucky, over and over, and at the peak of your climax, you pant out that you love him, too.

as you both lay in a sticky heap afterwards, he kisses all the sore spots on your body: the places your opponent had gotten hits in on you. the kisses turn into unskilled but eager massages. you fall asleep, soothed by his jittery hands.

the next morning, you wake to find him still with you. in the morning glow seeping in through your bedroom window, you pass a hand over his forehead, brushing back his hair so you can see his sleeping face.

and in that moment, you decide that throwing yourself into that now-long-ago barfight was one of the best decisions you've ever made.