#boxer x reader

Boxer!Duncan who looks for you first after every victory. The ref hasn’t even lifted his arm before his eyes are scanning the sea of screaming faces, searching for only one. The moment he spots you, the ferocious fighter vanishes. His face transforms; the hard lines softening into a boyish, relieved grin. He vaults the ropes (a move far too agile for a man his size) and crosses the canvas in three long strides. Before you can say a word, his hands which still wrapped in sweaty tape, grip your waist and lift you clean off the ground. He twirls you once, twice, the world becoming a blur of lights and noise, until he pulls you flush against his chest, your lips meeting his in a kiss that tastes of iron, salt, and victory. He doesn't care about the cameras. He wants everyone to know who he fights for.

Boxer!Duncan who is terrifyingly, wonderfully quiet outside the ring. The man who yells and bleeds under the lights is a stranger to the one who shuffles into your kitchen at 7 AM in worn-out sweatpants, his wild hair sticking up in twelve directions. He doesn't need to be loud with you. He shows his love in the way he silently fills your water glass before you realize it's empty. In the way he rests his giant, calloused hand on the small of your back while you brush your teeth. He’ll spend an entire Sunday afternoon on the couch, your legs draped over his lap, reading a dog-eared paperback while you scroll on your phone. His love isn't a performance. It's the steady, grounding weight of his presence. The quiet hum of a man who has finally found his corner.

Boxer!Duncan who is secretly, hopelessly sentimental. He keeps a small, battered lockbox under your bed. Inside, there’s no cash or championship belts. There’s the receipt from your first coffee date, the cheap plastic ring you got from a gumball machine and gave him as a joke (“for good luck”), and every single note you’ve ever left him on the fridge. The one that says “Gone to the store, back soon. Love you.” He still has the first one from three years ago, the ink faded. You found it once, by accident. He caught you looking, his ears turning a deep, burning red, and he just mumbled, “Didn’t want to forget.” You never teased him about it again. You just added another note to the fridge that night.

Boxer!Duncan who is almost unbearably gentle with his hands. He knows what they can do. He’s felt a nose break under his knuckles, seen a man’s eyes roll back from a liver shot. So with you, he is meticulous. He washes your hair in the shower, his thick fingers working the shampoo through your scalp with the focused patience of a bomb disposal expert. He traces the line of your jaw, the curve of your ear, the bones of your wrist, like he’s memorizing something precious and fragile. The same hands that shatter jaws will spend an hour learning to braid your hair, getting frustrated and starting over seven times until he gets it right. “There,” he’ll say, holding up a messy, lopsided plait with more pride than any championship belt. “Perfect.” And to you, it is.

Boxer!Duncan who manhandles you like you weigh nothing, but only in the safest, most worshipful way. He'll scoop you off the kitchen floor mid-laugh, throw you over his shoulder like a sack of flour while you shriek, and carry you to the couch just to hear you giggle. He loves the way you feel in his hands, small, warm, entirely his to move. When you're standing in his way while he's trying to cook, he'll simply wrap his arms around your waist from behind and lift you two feet to the left, setting you down on the counter instead, pressing a kiss to your forehead like it was nothing. He loves the contrast: his brutal, powerful frame against your softness. And you love the dizzying thrill of being completely weightless in his arms, knowing he would sooner drop a championship belt than let you fall.

Boxer!Duncan who falls asleep with his head in your lap after every hard training session. He comes home smelling of sweat and the faint metallic tang of the punching bag, his knuckles raw even through the wraps. He says nothing. Just kicks off his shoes, drops to his knees in front of the couch, and lays his massive head across your thighs like a tired, overgrown dog. His breathing slows as you run your fingers through his damp, dark hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. He'll mumble something incoherent with half praise, half exhaustion and his whole body will sag into you, trusting you completely. Sometimes he's so big that his legs hang off the edge of the couch, but he doesn't care. In this position, with your heartbeat under his ear and your hand stroking his brow, Duncan finally feels small enough to rest.

Boxer!Duncan who lets you traces every bruise and cut on his body with your fingertips after a fight, letting you play nurse even though he doesn't need it. You sit on the bathroom counter while he stands between your legs, shirtless, his torso a roadmap of purple and red. Your touch is featherlight as you hover over a swollen knuckle, a split lip, the ugly contusion blooming across his ribs. He hisses once, not from pain, but from the tenderness of your attention. He watches your face as you work, the way your brow pinches with concern, the way your lips purse as you dab antiseptic on a cut. You're so gentle it almost hurts more than the punch did. When you lean down to kiss the edge of a bruise on his shoulder, his breath catches. He'll catch your wrist gently, bring your palm to his mouth, and press a long, silent kiss to the centre of it. "I'm okay," he'll promise, even as he holds you there for another minute, unwilling to let you stop. Because your worry, your soft hands, the way you care for his broken body, that's the only healing he's ever believed in.

Boxer!Duncan who pins you against the wall with his body after a bad day, not to intimidate, but to ground himself. He comes home silent, jaw tight, something dark lingering behind his eyes from the gym. He doesn't explain. He just steps into your space, one massive hand bracing the wall beside your head, the other finding your hip. He leans his forehead against yours, breathing you in: your scent, your warmth, the soft sound you make when his thighs press against yours. He doesn't move. He just stays there, caging you in, letting you feel the weight of him, the heat of his chest against yours. His thumb traces small, maddening circles on your hip bone through your shirt. "Just need a minute," he murmurs, voice rough. But his minute stretches into two, then five, his body slowly relaxing against yours as your hands come up to rest on his broad shoulders. He's not holding you hostage. He's reminding himself that something soft and good still exists in his world of fists and blood. And when he finally pulls back, his eyes are darker than before, but this time, it's not anger you see.

Boxer!Duncan who lifts you onto the kitchen table mid-conversation just because he can. You're rambling about something, your day, a grocery list, a show you want to watch and he's nodding along, but his hands are already moving. He grips your waist, hoists you up like you're weightless, and sets you down on the edge of the table, stepping between your parted knees before you can finish your sentence. You lose your train of thought immediately. He smirks; a rare, crooked thing and rests his palms flat on the table on either side of your thighs, leaning in so his face is level with yours. "You were saying?" he asks, innocent as a wolf. But his thumbs are now tracing the inseam of your jeans, back and forth, back and forth, slow and deliberate. His eyes drop to your mouth, then back up. He doesn't kiss you. Not yet. He waits, watches you squirm under his quiet attention, enjoys the way your breath hitches when his knuckles brush the inside of your thigh. "Duncan," you breathe, half a warning, half a plea. He hums, low in his chest. "Yeah, sweetheart?" He knows exactly what he's doing. And he's not going to stop until you say his name again, the way he likes it.

Notes:

I was writing part 3 for 'The PR stunt' where Duncan's a fighter and I just COULDN'TT get him out my mind so I had to write a few headcanons for this fine man 🤭🤭

Hope you enjoyed <33

-Sage

Permanent Taglist: (ily guys <33)

@somewhereindorne @mademoisellepetite @saracasticxx @autumnevanescence @dreammiiee @icebearcucumber @theogannon @turquoiselace 

————————————————————————

The first time you met Anthony, you were standing in the middle of a small bookstore café in London, holding a cup of chai that had already gone lukewarm because you were too busy arguing with the cashier about your missing loyalty points.

“I’m not saying you personally stole them,” you said, trying to keep your voice polite even though your patience was already fading. “I’m just saying they were there yesterday, and now suddenly, they’re not.”

The cashier looked like she wanted to disappear. “I can call my manager?”

Before you could answer, a deep voice behind you said, “I can cover it.”

You turned around slowly, already prepared to reject the offer, because that was not the point. You didn’t need saving. You needed justice. But the second you saw him, the words got stuck somewhere between your throat and your pride.

Anthony Joshua stood behind you in a black hoodie, matching joggers, and sneakers that looked too clean for the rainy London pavement outside. He was tall enough to make the cozy café feel smaller, broad enough that people naturally moved around him, and handsome in a way that was honestly inconvenient. His expression was calm, amused, and polite, like he hadn’t just stepped into your very serious financial dispute over café rewards.

You blinked. “That’s not the point.”

His mouth curved slightly. “I figured.”

“So why offer?”

“Because you looked like you were about to fight over a cappuccino.”

“It’s chai.”

“My mistake.”

“And I wasn’t about to fight,” you said, lifting your chin. “I was about to advocate.”

That made him laugh, low and warm, the sound rolling out of him so naturally that you almost forgot to keep your face serious. The cashier quickly fixed the issue, probably grateful that the extremely tall man had distracted you long enough for her to sort it out, and after your points were restored, you stepped aside with your drink and your book tucked under your arm.

Anthony ended up beside you at the pickup counter a moment later, still smiling to himself.

“You always that passionate?” he asked.

“Only when justice is involved.”

“Loyalty points are justice?”

“In this economy? Absolutely.”

He laughed again, and this time you smiled before you could stop yourself. That was the first thing that annoyed you about him. He was too easy to smile around. He didn’t have the loud, performative energy you expected from someone so famous. He wasn’t trying to own the room, even though he easily could have. He simply stood there, calm and grounded, like a man who knew his size but didn’t need to use it.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

You told him, and he repeated it carefully, like he wanted to make sure it sounded right.

“I’m Anthony,” he said.

You gave him a look. “I know.”

He dipped his head, smiling. “Had to check.”

Your drinks came up at the same time, and for a second, it felt like the moment was supposed to end there. You were supposed to take your chai, find a corner table, open your book, and pretend you hadn’t just been flirting with Anthony Joshua over a rewards balance. But then his eyes dropped to the novel tucked under your arm.

“What are you reading?”

You held it up. “A romance novel.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Any good?”

“So far, the male lead is emotionally unavailable, rich, stubborn, and annoying.”

He nodded like he was seriously considering it. “Sounds realistic.”

You laughed before you could catch it, and his expression softened as if the sound pleased him more than he expected. That was the moment something shifted. Not dramatically, not like fireworks or music swelling in the background, but quietly. Like a door opening just enough for light to get through.

He asked if he could sit with you. You told him he could, but only if he didn’t talk during the good parts of your book. He promised, then immediately broke the promise five minutes later by asking whether the male lead deserved forgiveness.

“He hasn’t done enough groveling yet,” you said, turning a page.

“How much groveling is enough?”

“That depends on the offense.”

“What did he do?”

“He pushed her away because he was scared of his feelings.”

Anthony leaned back, thinking. “Common mistake.”

You peered at him over the top of your book. “That sounded personal.”

He smiled into his cup. “Maybe I’ve seen things.”

“Or maybe you are things.”

“Am I on trial now?”

“You interrupted my reading. This is the consequence.”

Somehow, that was how you spent the next hour: him asking about fictional drama, you pretending to be annoyed, both of you laughing into your drinks like you had known each other for months instead of minutes. He asked you what you did for work, and you told him you worked in marketing and community outreach for an arts nonprofit, helping young Black and brown creatives get access to resources, funding, and mentorship. When you tried to brush it off as “just work,” he shook his head.

“That’s not just work,” he said. “That’s impact.”

You looked down at your cup, suddenly shy in a way you didn’t like. “It’s exhausting impact.”

“I can imagine.”

“No, you can’t. You punch people for a living.”

He smiled. “And somehow you sound scarier than half the men I’ve fought.”

You pointed at him. “Good. Respect that.”

“I do.”

The way he said it was simple, but it landed somewhere soft. He listened like he actually cared. He didn’t check his phone every thirty seconds or turn every answer into a story about himself. He was thoughtful, funny in a dry way, and strangely gentle for someone whose profession revolved around controlled violence.

By the time you finally left, the sky had turned dark gray, and rain was sliding down the windows in silver streaks. Anthony walked you to your car with his umbrella held mostly over you, even though the rain was soaking one side of his hoodie.

“You know you’re getting rained on, right?” you said.

“I’ll survive.”

“You box professionally, but rain is where you draw the line?”

“No,” he said, glancing down at you. “But you looked like you cared.”

That quieted you. He noticed, but he didn’t tease. He just opened your car door and waited while you got in.

Before you could close it, he said, “Would it be too forward if I asked to see you again?”

You looked up at him through the rain-softened light. “Depends. Are you going to interrupt my reading again?”

“Probably.”

“Then I should say no.”

“But?”

You tried not to smile. “But I might not.”

His grin came slow, pleased and warm, and you exchanged numbers right there in the rain. When you got home that night, his name popped up on your phone before you even took off your coat.

Anthony: Did you make it home safe?

You stared at the message longer than necessary, smiling like somebody’s fool.

You: Yes. Did you survive the rain?

Anthony: Barely. Very traumatic.

You: Thoughts and prayers.

Anthony: Appreciated. So when can I interrupt your reading again?

You should have waited to respond. You should have let the message breathe. Instead, you sat on the edge of your bed in your coat, grinning down at your phone.

You: You’re persistent.

Anthony: Disciplined.

You: That’s one way to put it.

Anthony: Saturday?

You stared at the word and felt that nervous, fluttery feeling return. Saturday felt intentional. Saturday felt like a date. Saturday felt like the beginning of something you had no business entertaining, because men like Anthony Joshua did not casually enter your life without disrupting everything.

But then again, maybe a little disruption wouldn’t hurt.

You: Saturday works.

From there, it became dangerously easy. Your second date was dinner at a quiet restaurant with warm lighting, low music, and a corner table that made the world feel far away. Anthony arrived before you did, stood when you reached the table, and pulled your chair out like it was the most natural thing in the world. He complimented your dress with such quiet sincerity that you almost forgot how to speak.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

You glanced down, smoothing your hands over the fabric. “You say that to all the women you interrupt in cafés?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” he repeated, eyes steady on yours. “Just you.”

You had to take a sip of water immediately.

Dinner stretched for hours. You talked about childhood, family, ambition, fear, and the strange pressure of being the person other people expected to have everything handled. He told you about boxing, not the glamorous part, but the lonely part. The early mornings, the discipline, the pressure, the way people expected him to be strong even when he was tired.

“You ever get scared?” you asked him.

He didn’t answer quickly. You liked that. He didn’t perform bravery for you.

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “But fear doesn’t mean stop. Sometimes it just means pay attention.”

You nodded slowly. “That’s actually beautiful.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m adjusting.”

“To what?”

“You being more than big arms and a nice smile.”

He laughed, but there was a softness in his eyes. “Nice smile, yeah?”

“Don’t get distracted.”

“Too late.”

After dinner, he walked you to your car again, and this time, he didn’t ask to kiss you. You could tell he wanted to. You could feel it in the pause, in the way his eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second before returning to yours. But he only hugged you goodnight, warm and careful, his hand resting respectfully at your back.

It made you like him more.

The third date was the one that ruined you.

He invited you to a community boxing event at his gym, warning you that it wasn’t fancy. You told him you didn’t need fancy. When you arrived, the gym was buzzing with life. Kids ran around in sneakers, parents chatted near folding tables stacked with food, teenagers shadowboxed in corners, and music played low through the speakers. The air smelled like sweat, fried plantain, and something sweet from the dessert table.

You found Anthony near the ring, crouched in front of a little boy whose gloves were almost too big for his hands. The boy was throwing tiny punches with all the seriousness in the world, and Anthony watched him like he was studying a future champion.

“Balance first,” he said gently. “Power means nothing if you don’t have control.”

The boy nodded hard, like he had just received wisdom from a superhero.

A little girl tugged on Anthony’s sleeve a minute later and demanded he watch her jump rope. Without hesitation, he turned, gave her his full attention, and clapped every time she made it past ten. When she got to twenty-three, he looked more excited than she did.

You stood near the doorway, holding the tray of patties you had brought from your favorite Caribbean bakery, and felt something inside you get dangerously soft.

He saw you then.

His whole face changed.

Not dramatically, but enough. Enough for you to notice that his smile was different when it was for you. He said something to one of the coaches, then came toward you with that smooth, unhurried walk that made your stomach act up.

“You came,” he said.

“I said I would.”

“I know.” His eyes moved over your face gently. “Still happy you did.”

You looked away before your expression embarrassed you. “I brought food.”

“For me?”

“For the event.”

“So partly for me.”

“Barely.”

He reached for the tray, and his fingers brushed yours. It was quick, accidental maybe, but heat still rushed through your hand.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome.”

For the next couple of hours, you watched him move through the room. Everyone knew him, but he didn’t act above anyone. He shook hands with fathers, hugged aunties, listened to teenagers, carried chairs, wiped tables, posed for pictures, and still somehow kept checking on you from across the room. Every time your eyes met, he smiled a little, like he was making sure you were okay.

An older woman beside you leaned in and said, “He likes you.”

You almost choked on your ginger beer. “Oh, we’re just—”

“Mm-hmm.”

You laughed nervously. “No, really, we’re just getting to know each other.”

“That man has been looking for you every three minutes.”

You glanced across the gym just as Anthony looked up from a conversation and found you again. His face softened immediately.

The woman patted your arm. “See?”

You had no defense.

Later, after the event ended and the gym quieted down, you found him stacking chairs. You tried to help, but he looked offended.

“You’re a guest.”

“I have hands.”

“And I have longer arms. Sit down.”

“Bossy.”

“Efficient.”

You sat near the ring with a paper plate balanced on your lap while he finished cleaning up. When he finally joined you, he lowered himself beside you with a tired sigh.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said.

“I’ve been observing.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Maybe.”

He leaned back, amused. “What did you observe?”

You looked at him for a moment, deciding whether to be honest. Then you said, “You’re softer than people probably think.”

His expression shifted. Not offended. Not embarrassed. Just touched in a way he didn’t seem prepared for.

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

The gym lights hummed above you. Rain tapped against the windows. Somewhere in the back, someone laughed while carrying out trash bags. But the space between you felt still.

“I don’t get to be that with everybody,” he said quietly.

Your chest tightened. “You can be that with me.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and something unspoken passed between you. He had been patient from the beginning. Respectful. Careful. He never rushed you, never pushed, never acted like access to you was guaranteed. But right then, in that dim gym, both of you seemed to understand that this had become more than flirting.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

Your heart tripped over itself.

“Yes.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, but you didn’t. His hand came to your cheek, warm and gentle, and then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was soft at first. Careful. Almost questioning. Then you sighed against him, and his hand at your cheek slid slightly closer to your jaw. The kiss deepened, still tender but fuller now, carrying every text message, every laugh, every almost-moment since the café. You forgot the paper plate in your lap. You forgot the rain. You forgot that he was Anthony Joshua and remembered only that he was Anthony, the man who held umbrellas over you and listened when you spoke and made you feel seen in ways you hadn’t expected.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the café,” he admitted.

You smiled. “Since I was arguing over loyalty points?”

“Especially then.”

“You’re strange.”

“Maybe.”

“But sweet.”

His thumb brushed your cheek. “Only for you.”

That was the beginning for real.

Dating Anthony felt like being loved in details. He learned how you liked your tea, how you liked your eggs, how you got quiet when you were overwhelmed, and how your “I’m fine” usually meant you were two inconveniences away from crying in the shower. He remembered that you hated answering the phone while eating, that you needed at least twenty minutes of silence after work sometimes, and that flowers made you happy even though you always said they were “unnecessary.”

He sent them anyway.

Sometimes to your office, where your coworkers crowded around your desk and screamed over the card.

Proud of you. Always. — A

Sometimes to your flat, when you had a hard week.

Sometimes just because.

You tried not to let it go to your head. You failed.

He wasn’t perfect. Neither were you. Sometimes his schedule frustrated you. Training camp could swallow him whole, and there were days when his exhaustion made him quiet in a way that scared you. Not because he was cruel, but because silence had always made you nervous. You were used to people pulling away before they left.

One night, after he canceled dinner for the second time that week because camp had run late, you told him you understood, but your voice came out too flat.

He noticed immediately.

“Talk to me,” he said over the phone.

“I said it’s fine.”

“Yeah, but you said it like you were putting a period at the end of a sentence you don’t want to finish.”

You hated how well he read you.

“I just…” You sighed, sitting on your bed with your knees pulled to your chest. “I know your life is busy. I knew that before this started. I’m not trying to be unfair.”

“But?”

“But sometimes I feel like I’m waiting around for space in it.”

He was quiet for a second. Not defensive. Listening.

“That’s fair,” he said.

You blinked. “That’s it?”

“What, you wanted me to argue?”

“No. I just expected…”

“For me to explain why you shouldn’t feel that way?”

You didn’t answer.

His voice softened. “I don’t want you feeling like you’re begging for my time. You’re not. And I’m sorry I made you feel like that.”

Your throat tightened.

“I know I can’t always control camp,” he continued, “but I can communicate better. I can plan better. You deserve that.”

It was such a simple response, but it nearly undid you. No ego. No guilt-tripping. No making you feel needy for wanting consistency.

The next morning, breakfast arrived at your door with a note.

Not a replacement for my time. Just a reminder I’m thinking of you. Dinner Friday, no canceling. — A

And he didn’t cancel.

That Friday, he showed up at your door in a dark sweater, holding your favorite flowers and wearing the most apologetic expression you had ever seen on a man that large.

“You look like you’re about to ask my father for my hand,” you said.

“Would he say yes?”

You froze.

Anthony’s eyes widened slightly, like he realized how serious that sounded.

“I mean—eventually. Not now. Unless—no, not unless. I’m just saying—”

You burst out laughing.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “That came out wrong.”

“You got nervous?”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

He tried to look stern. It did not work.

You stepped closer and took the flowers from him. “For the record, he would probably say yes. My mother would interrogate you first.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

You smiled. “Come in, Joshua.”

He kissed your forehead as he passed you. “Yes, ma’am.”

The first time he met your family properly, he was more nervous than he had been before major fights. He changed shirts three times, asked if he should bring anything besides flowers, and kept checking whether your mother preferred “ma’am” or “Miss.”

“You’re being dramatic,” you told him in the car.

“I’m being respectful.”

“My aunties are going to flirt with you either way.”

He looked mildly alarmed. “Should I prepare?”

“No. That makes it worse.”

Your family loved him, of course. Your mother tried to act unimpressed for the first twenty minutes, but Anthony ruined her plan by greeting her so politely and complimenting her cooking with such sincerity that she visibly softened. Your aunties asked him questions they had no business asking. Your cousins begged for pictures. Your uncle challenged him to dominoes and talked trash the entire time.

Anthony lost on purpose once.

Your uncle noticed.

“Don’t insult me, young man,” he said.

Anthony laughed, held up his hands, and then proceeded to win the next round so cleanly that your uncle accused him of being too competitive.

You watched from the kitchen doorway, heart full.

Later that night, while everyone was still talking and laughing in the living room, you found Anthony outside on the porch, leaning against the railing. The night air was cool, and the warm light from inside spilled across his face.

“You okay?” you asked.

He looked over and smiled. “Yeah. Just taking it in.”

“My family?”

“Your world.”

You stepped beside him. “Scared yet?”

“No.” He reached for your hand. “I like seeing where your love comes from.”

That sentence went straight through you.

You looked down at your joined hands. “You always know what to say.”

“Nah. Sometimes I get lucky.”

“No, you mean things. That’s different.”

He brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles. “I mean you.”

There were moments like that constantly, moments that made you want to scream into a pillow because how were you supposed to stay normal around a man who said things like that and looked at you like you hung the moon?

The first time he told you he loved you, it wasn’t during a grand dinner or under some dramatic skyline. It happened in his kitchen while you were wearing one of his hoodies and dancing barefoot to a song playing from your phone. You were supposed to be helping him cook dinner, but you had turned a wooden spoon into a microphone and were performing like your life depended on it.

Anthony was supposed to be chopping vegetables. Instead, he just watched you.

You caught him staring. “What?”

He shook his head, smiling softly. “Nothing.”

“No, tell me.”

He put the knife down carefully, walked over, and rested his hands at your waist. His eyes were warm, almost disbelieving, like he was looking at something precious he still couldn’t believe he got to hold.

“I love you,” he said.

The room went quiet.

Your smile faded, not because you didn’t feel the same, but because the words hit you so deeply that you needed a second to breathe. Anthony looked calm, but you felt the tension in his hands, the quiet vulnerability of a man who had faced punches for a living but was terrified of your silence.

You reached up and touched his face.

“I love you too.”

His whole expression changed. The relief, the joy, the tenderness of it almost made you cry. He pulled you into him, lifting you slightly off the floor as you laughed into his neck.

“Say it again,” he murmured.

“I love you.”

He closed his eyes. “Again.”

You laughed softly. “Anthony.”

“Please.”

So you said it again, quieter this time, right against his mouth. “I love you.”

He kissed you after that, sweet and passionate, smiling between kisses like he couldn’t help it. Dinner nearly burned, but neither of you cared. You ate late, standing barefoot in the kitchen, feeding each other bites from the pan and laughing like two people who had found something rare.

Months passed, and the love deepened. It wasn’t always perfect. Love never is. There were misunderstandings, tired conversations, moments when outside pressure crept into your private world. Sometimes people online were cruel. Sometimes they made comments about you that Anthony wanted to respond to immediately, but you would take his phone and shake your head.

“Don’t feed it.”

“They don’t get to speak about you like that.”

“They don’t know me.”

“I do.”

You’d look at him then, and all his anger would soften into concern.

“I know,” you’d say. “That’s what matters.”

But later, when the comments hurt more than you wanted to admit, he would know. He would find you sitting quietly on the edge of the bed, pretending to scroll, and he would kneel in front of you.

“Talk to me.”

“I’m fine.”

His face would say he didn’t believe you, but his voice stayed gentle. “I know you’re strong. I’m not asking because I think you’re weak. I’m asking because you shouldn’t have to hold it by yourself.”

That always got you.

One night, after a particularly harsh wave of attention, you finally broke down. You hated crying in front of people. Hated feeling exposed. But Anthony didn’t make it awkward. He sat beside you, pulled you into his lap, and held you while you cried against his chest.

“I don’t want to make your life harder,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. “You don’t.”

“But all of this—”

“All of this is noise.” His thumb brushed under your eye. “You are not noise. You’re the clearest thing in my life.”

Your tears started again immediately.

He gave a soft, almost helpless laugh. “I was trying to help.”

“You did,” you said, wiping your face. “You’re just too sweet and it’s annoying.”

He smiled. “I’ll work on being less sweet.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He kissed your forehead. “Wasn’t planning to.”

By the time your anniversary came around, you thought you understood how loved you were. Then Anthony proved you wrong.

He told you to dress comfortably, which immediately made you suspicious.

“Comfortably as in cute comfortable or actually comfortable?” you asked over the phone.

“Both.”

“That is not helpful.”

“Trust me.”

“I do. That’s the problem.”

He picked you up that afternoon with a smile he kept trying to hide. When you asked where you were going, he only said, “Somewhere familiar.”

You realized where he was taking you when the car pulled onto the street of the bookstore café.

Your mouth fell open.

“Anthony.”

He looked over, suddenly shy. “Too much?”

You shook your head, already emotional. “No.”

He had reserved the back corner of the café. The same corner where you had first sat together. The table was decorated with small flowers, two cups of chai, and a copy of the romance novel you had been reading the day you met. Inside the book was a card.

You picked it up with shaking hands.

One year since you advocated for justice and ruined my peace in the best way. I’d choose that café, that rain, and that moment again every time. — A

You covered your mouth.

Anthony stood beside you quietly, giving you space to take it in.

“You did all this?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

His brows pulled together slightly, like the answer was obvious. “Because you deserve to be loved out loud sometimes.”

You turned to him, tears already slipping down your cheeks. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“I mean it.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

He smiled softly and reached for your hands. “This year with you has been the calmest and most terrifying year of my life.”

You laughed through your tears. “That sounds awful.”

“It’s not. It’s just…” He rubbed his thumb across your knuckles. “I’m used to pressure. I’m used to risk. But loving you made me want to be better in ways I couldn’t hide from. It made me want to come home softer. Listen better. Show up fully. Not as the boxer. Not as the name. Just me.”

“You do,” you whispered.

“I’m trying.”

“You do,” you said again, firmer this time.

He lifted your hands and kissed them. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He pulled you into his arms, and you stood there in the little café where it all began, surrounded by the quiet proof of a love that had grown from one ridiculous argument into something steady and beautiful.

Later, you sat together at the same corner table from your first meeting. Anthony flipped through the romance novel and shook his head.

“You know,” he said, “the male lead did not grovel enough.”

You nearly dropped your chai.

“Excuse me?”

“He didn’t. You were right.”

You stared at him. “Anthony Joshua, romance critic.”

“I’ve learned from the best.”

“And who is that?”

“You.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you.

He reached across the table and took your hand. His thumb moved slowly over your skin, steady and familiar.

“When I saw you that first day,” he said, “I thought you were beautiful.”

“You thought I was about to fight a cashier.”

“Both can be true.”

You laughed.

“But then you sat with me,” he continued, “and you talked to me like I was just a man in a café. Not a headline. Not a fighter. Just me. I don’t think you know how much that meant.”

Your teasing faded.

“I liked just you,” you said softly.

His eyes warmed. “Still do?”

You squeezed his hand. “Very much.”

He smiled, and there it was again. That private smile. The one that had become yours.

A year ago, he had interrupted your afternoon. He had walked into your life with an umbrella, a calm voice, and the kind of patience that made softness feel safe. You hadn’t known then that love could feel like this. Not perfect. Not effortless. But intentional. Gentle. Passionate in quiet ways and loud ways. Sweet enough to make your chest ache.

You hadn’t known a man could make you feel protected without making you feel small. Desired without making you feel consumed. Loved without making you feel like you had to earn it every day.

But Anthony did.

He held your hand across the table like he knew exactly what he had found.

And you held his right back.

Because when the gloves came off, when the lights dimmed, when the cameras stopped flashing and the world stopped watching, he was not the champion, not the headlines, not the man everyone thought they knew.

He was Anthony.

Your Anthony.

The man who interrupted your reading, ruined your peace, learned your tea order, held you through your worst days, kissed you like he meant every promise, and loved you with the kind of sweetness that made people believe in romance again.

Jax personal massages never end how it's supposed to "supposedly", one minute you're on your stomach, melting into the couch with Jax's rough hands rubbing you the best way, your back arching into his hands while you let out little huffs, and although your back is still arching while trying not to make much noise, it's definitely for a different reason.....somehow Jax messages always ends with Jax face in between your ass, he loves his wife and Jax love his wife's pretty kitty just the same, it's almost like he needs to at least taste you once every day, how else is he supposed to know if you're healthy...at least that's the lame excuse he trys to throw out even if he's not a doctor and doesn't even know shit about wellness...I mean just look at him, the only reason why he's not sickly sick is because of you, yet you fall for the trap every time, letting him think that he sorry of an excuse worked, how else are you supposed to see that little glints in his eyes like he actually convinced you

When Jax get really clingy, it's one of the most noticeable things about him. Unfortunately he always just puts you in one of the most closest and embarrassing positions you both can be in...a mating press, no matter what you will always be in a mating press with his arms around you and just clinging like he's not a 200 pound man, yet with each time, he knows just how heavy he is because he uses the weight to basically pin you to the couch, while ranting about absolutely nothing, it's like he knows he heavy and he absolutely loves the fact...plus he always reminds you that you love that fact about him as well when he's so deep inside- yet you always swat at him playful before he can start mimicing your moans from earlier nights.

It's always wholesome....at first, with his face in your neck, rambling like he's not supposed to be some nonchalant dude people perceive him to be, and honestly you don't mind one bit especially with how he explains, it's basically the highlights of his days nowadays, with boxing and the take out he tries to live off most days, he definitely finds the comfort of his wife so much appealing, well...I mean like the comfort of laying on his wife appealing the most, in fact the mere thought of getting off of you to perhaps eat dinner...the homemade dinner that you cooked, is just to much space between the two even when you offered to even sit in his lap while you ate together, obviously Jax wasn't convinced so for another two hours you two often stayed like that, till he says his back hurts....like you weren't folded like origami for a whole two hours, only with a little moving did Jax finally sit up. Not only could you hear every part of you cracking, reminding you just how old you both are getting(y'all are 25) but now Jax wanna suddenly give you a message with the most mischievous grin he can muster up forming on his face.

Then again...you really can't see anything right now by the way your eyes are rolled back so far in your skull, not only have both of you completely forgotten about your message that you were supposed to get but you're completely dripping on the couch, now the sheets of the couch is gonna have to get cleaned, you can't help but whine at the future labor, that or the way Jax is basically making out with your pretty kitty, each stripe the Jax lick is like 5 more messy drops onto the couch....he's such a messy eater, he always cleans up just right after so you can't be to mad- oh? And what's this? Apparently he remembered the message as his hands suddenly starts gripping your waist to drag you back further onto his tongue, all while rubbing your hips with his thumbs, he's such a sweetheart, what more could you want from your husband other than an orgasm, don't worry though... you'll get plenty of those tonight.

Honestly I literally just wrote this little paragraph but just accidentally deleted it.....😗 But it wasn't much honestly, I was just saying how this trope is really cute, like reader and is clingy loser husband, it's so cute honestly and I would love to write more in the future, I have ideas but I know other people have ideas and if you have any...you can let me know lol, but I can't promise anything because I'm new to this....also! I'm wondering how to include more like way on how to imply chubby reader like "he loved feeling the plumb in between his fingers, that's how he knew you were really his wife" or something lol, but I wonder how I can help it along more like that or if I should just keep it as any body type since I don't really specify a body type each time, anyways sorry for the yapping!

- love bubblylylu

Of course - dividers

"My brother brought his friend!" You shook your friend vigorously, nervous about approaching him. You had seen him a couple of times at your house and secretly harbored a crush on him.

"Did you see him? He's so cute." You twirled around in your lovely tutu, excited to see him there. "I think he was looking at me."

"I'm sure that guy will fall for you, you look super cute. I bet he won't be able to resist you." Your friend grabbed your shoulders tightly, more excited than you. "And I think he's coming!" She let out a small squeal and winked at you before running off.

You glanced to the side and saw your older brother and his best friend walking towards you. Your heart raced wildly as you saw the guy you'd secretly liked since childhood holding a bouquet of roses. You smiled as you approached your brother to greet him with a tight hug.

"I thought you might not make it..." You murmured as he hugged you tightly, lifting you in the air with a big smile on his face.

"I'm the boss, I can leave whenever I want, little sis." He gently put you down, looking at you fondly. It had been months since they last saw each other.

You smiled at your brother, missing him, but the laughter of your crush interrupted the reunion and made your stomach churn, like butterflies fluttering inside. You turned to him, trembling with nerves.

"Hello..." You greeted, your voice sounding like that of a little girl. You hated how your voice changed when you spoke to him.

"You look pretty," he mentioned, smiling at you, a genuine smile. You wished to kiss him right then. He looked you up and down with seriousness. "Pink suits you."

You swallowed hard, even more nervous at his compliments. You had never had such a long conversation with him. You glanced at the roses unintentionally, not wanting to show your exhaustion in front of everyone.

He smiled mockingly as he extended his hand to give you the roses. "A gift for you, you did great on stage." He leaned in to give you a quick kiss on the cheek. Your brother quickly frowned and pulled him back, murmuring, "don't pull your stunts in front of me." Your brother dragged him off the stage, leaving you alone again, but happy about your first interaction.

Quickly, you ran to change. You put on comfortable clothes, as your brother had told you they would go out after your dance. You were excited to spend time with his friend more than with him.

MI LINDO CISNE

SYPNOSIS: Después de tu baile de ballet te reencuentras con tu hermano mayor y su mejor amigo, de quien estás enamorado desde la infancia.

EMPAREJAMIENTO: Boxeador x Lectora

TW: ninguna!

"¡Mi hermano trajo a su amigo!" Sacudiste con fuerza a tu amiga, nerviosa por acercarte a él. Lo habías visto un par de veces en tu casa y estabas secretamente enamorada de él.

"¿Lo viste? Es suuuper lindo." Diste vueltas con tu lindo tutú, emocionada por verlo allí. "Creo que me estaba viendo."

"Estoy segura de que ese chico se enamorará de ti, te ves super linda. Apuesto a que no va a poder resistirse a ti." Dijo tu amiga agarrándote de los hombros con fuerza, más emocionada que tú. "¡Y creo que ya viene!" Ella soltó un pequeño grito y te guiñó el ojo antes de salir corriendo.

Miraste hacia un lado y viste a tu hermano mayor y su mejor amigo caminando hacia ti. Tu corazón latió desenfrenadamente al ver cómo el chico que te gustaba desde pequeña tenía un ramo de rosas en la mano. Sonreíste al verlo y te acercaste a tu hermano para recibirlo con un gran abrazo.

"Pensé que no podrías venir..." Murmuraste mientras él te abrazaba fuertemente, levantándote por el aire con una gran sonrisa en el rostro.

"Soy el jefe, puedo salir cuando yo desee, hermanita." Te bajó delicadamente, mirándote con cariño. Hacía meses que no se veían.

Sonreíste mirando a tu hermano, lo extrañabas, pero la risa de tu amor platónico interrumpió el momento de reencuentro y hizo que tu estómago se revolviera, como mariposas en el estómago. Volteaste a verlo, temblando por los nervios.

"Hola..." Saludaste, tu voz sonaba como la de una niña pequeña, odiabas cómo tu voz cambiaba cuando hablabas con él.

"Te ves linda", mencionó sonriéndote, una sonrisa genuina. Deseabas besarle en ese momento. Él te miró de arriba a abajo con seriedad. "Te queda bien el rosa."

Tragaste fuerte, aún más nerviosa por sus halagos. Jamás habías tenido una conversación tan larga con él. Miraste las rosas sin querer, no querías mostrar tu fatiga frente a todos.

Él sonrió burlesco mientras extendía su mano para darte las rosas. "Un regalo para ti, estuviste muy bien en el escenario." Se acercó para darte un rápido beso en la mejilla. Tu hermano rápidamente frunció el ceño y lo jaló hacia atrás, murmurándole "no hagas tus estupideces delante de mí." Tu hermano lo arrastró fuera del escenario, dejándote nuevamente sola, pero feliz por su primer acercamiento.