myhobari

[myhobari]

i appreciate all of your writings but uh has no one requested miles lately? bc i need to read about my man lol

hope u saw who dis? recently!!

[myhobari]

(a bit of a longer request sorryyy)

pov: skepta is in the studio working on some music and you’re at home just missing him, so you send him a few like teasing pictures and he facetimes you while you’re in bed just touching yourself imagining it’s him and hes immediately packing his things up to go home to you

- wait for me

skepta x black reader

summary - read the request 😙

smut (under 18 dni)

a/n: releasing freaky ass fics during demon time is so real of me 😭! i hope you enjoy anon, and i love when y’all’s requests are long, gives me something to work with. so don’t feel bad at all, lovie. i call skeppy by his real name a lot in here, for authenticity feels.

masterlist

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The apartment felt too quiet without your joseph in it. You’d grown used to his presence filling every room—his laughter rolling in from the kitchen, the low bass of his beats vibrating through the walls, even the way he left his sneakers half-tucked by the door like a mark of territory. Tonight though, he was buried in the studio, promising he’d be “a few more hours.”

You sprawled across the bed with your phone glowing against the dim. Your thumb hovered over the camera, an ache pulsing between boredom and longing. A wicked little thought crossed your mind. If he wanted to be in the studio, you’d remind him exactly what he was missing at home.

The first picture was tame—just your face, lips parted, the soft light catching the curve of your cheek. Then you tugged the blanket down, let the strap of your top fall loose against your shoulder, snapped another. The heat in your stomach sharpened when you saw the delivery read. No reply. Not yet. You smirked and sent another—this one teasing, a glimpse of skin that told him your patience was thin.

Not even a minute later, your screen lit up. FaceTime from JoJo.

When you answered, his face filled the screen—dark eyes narrowed, lips pressed together like he was holding back every word. “Yeah?” his voice came low, dangerous. “You think this is funny?”

You stretched out on the bed, feigning innocence even as your fingers toyed at the hem of your shorts. “Just thought you might need… inspiration.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. The camera jolted as he moved around the studio. You could hear the clutter of zipping a bag, voices in the background asking if he was heading out. He didn’t even answer them—his eyes stayed pinned on you, darker now. “You really picked the wrong night to play with me, baby.”

Your laugh trembled into a sigh as your hand slipped lower, letting him see just enough to know what you were doing. You let out a little moan. His jaw flexed. “Don’t,” he warned, breath shuddering like he was holding on by threads. “Don’t you finish without me.”

The sight of him pacing, grabbing his keys, muttering curses under his breath, only wound you tighter. “But I miss you,” you whispered, arching your back into the sheets. “Been laying here just thinking about your hands on me. Your mouth…”

He cursed again, the sound rough in his throat. “Stop. Nah, I’m coming home right now.” The screen jostled with movement as he cut through the studio, barely sparing anyone a look. “Keep that same energy when I get there. Don’t you dare close them eyes till I’m inside.”

The call ended, leaving you staring at your reflection in the black mirror of your phone, heart hammering, body restless. You knew him. Knew the way his music was his oxygen—but you also knew the way he looked at you like you were his gravity, his anchor.

By the time you heard the front door slam and heavy footsteps heading straight for the bedroom, you were already trembling with anticipation. You pulled the covers up just a little, lips curved in a nervous smile.

He filled the doorway, breath uneven from how fast he’d driven, eyes flicking over your body with raw hunger. He dropped his bag to the floor without a word. “You think I’m gonna let you play with me like that?” he asked, low and thick with promise.

Before you could answer, he was on you—hands claiming, mouth hot, the kind of kiss that leaves no question about who you belong to. You gasped, the sound swallowed by him, your teasing game collapsing into pure, desperate surrender.

When he broke the kiss, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath came ragged. “Don’t you ever make me feel like I could lose you to a screen. I need all of you right here.”

The words melted in your chest, even as his hands slid lower, tugging at your shorts. He didn’t bother being slow about it—he wanted you bare, wanted you shivering beneath his stare. The heat in his eyes when he took you in made you whimper, your legs instinctively pressing together.

“Open.” The command was simple, but the way his voice dropped made your body obey before your brain could catch up. His mouth found your neck, dragging along the sensitive skin, teeth grazing just enough to leave your pulse jumping. He muttered against you, “All that teasing, and now look at you—can’t even keep still.”

Your hands wrapped around his head as his mouth traveled lower, setting fire down your body. When he finally settled between your thighs, you nearly lost all sense. The way his tongue moved against you was unrelenting, like he was starving, like every second away from you had built up into this frenzy. You cried out, hips arching up, but his grip on you was firm, anchoring you as he took his time unraveling you.

“Jo, baby— feels s’ good…” you whimpered.

“Mmmmhhh,” he groaned into you, “I know love.”

Your breath hitched, legs trembling, the knot in your stomach coiling tighter and tighter. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core. “That’s it, baby. Give it to me. Been waiting all night for this.”

When release finally tore through you, it was sharp and overwhelming, leaving you clutching at the sheets and his hair, shaking with the intensity of it. He didn’t let up until you were gasping, begging for a moment to catch your breath. Only then did he rise, lips glistening, eyes locked on you with pure satisfaction.

He leaned down, pressing a searing kiss to your lips, letting you taste yourself on him. His hands framed your face gently now, contrast to the hunger from moments before. “You’re mine,” he murmured against your mouth, softer now but no less serious. “Always.” He then abruptly flipped you over, making you lose your breath.

“I’m not done just yet.”

———

He had you braced against the edge of the mattress, your palms sinking into the sheets for balance as he pressed in behind you. His grip was firm at your waist, pulling you back into him with every deep roll of his hips. The sound of his breath—low, rough, ragged—filled your ears, mixing with the creak of the bed and the soft gasps leaving your throat.

“You feel that?” he muttered against your shoulder, voice thick with pride, almost a growl.

“Yessss… feel everything jojo—!”

His pace picked up, each thrust harder than the last, as if he needed to remind you exactly how much control he had in this moment.

Your body moved in rhythm with his, the tension building like a fire spreading too quickly to contain. His hand slid up your spine, flattening between your shoulder blades, pressing you deeper into the mattress until all you could do was give in to the relentless drive of his movements.

Every snap of his hips sent sparks racing through you, his voice in your ear—half curses, half praise—only winding you tighter. He loved the way you trembled under him, the way your body answered back to every push, and he made sure you knew it.

When the heat finally broke, it was like being swallowed whole, a rush so powerful you cried out his name, muffled against the sheets. He didn’t let up until he followed you into release, grip on your waist almost bruising, the both of you collapsing forward in a tangle of sweat, breath, and shaking limbs.

He dropped a kiss to the curve of your shoulder, his voice softer now, a contrast to the intensity moments before: “Still mine, yeah?”

All you could do was throw a sleepy smile at him.

——

muah 💋

[myhobari]

More Leon pretty please

- ily?

leon thomas x black reader

summary - all the times your boyfriend, leon, has tried to tell you that he loves you. and the time he actually does.

fluff (no warnings!)

a/n: let me know what u think love, it’s a long one. i got this idea from a fic i read a while ago, if the person who wrote it sees this, you inspired me! reader sings.

masterlist

————————————————————————

Leon first noticed the words sitting on his tongue in the most ordinary place—the hallway outside a studio bathroom at one in the morning, where the air smelled like coffee and cables and whatever cologne he’d put on at dusk and forgotten. You were curled on the busted leather couch with his hoodie swallowing you, your feet tucked under you, hair wrapped in a satin scarf you’d tied without looking. He’d been looping harmonies for hours; you’d stayed anyway, head bobbing to a mix only he could hear.

When he came out, you were asleep—phone facedown, one hand still holding the pen he’d given you to “grade” his lyrics with. He stood there for a full minute, laughing under his breath at the way your lips parted just a little when you dreamed, at how you could make even fluorescent light look warm. The words rose then, uninvited, perfect: I love you. He stepped closer. He could have whispered it into your hair; no one would have known but the wall and the dim blue screen saver blinking in the corner. He leaned in and tucked the pen from your fingers instead, kissed the curve of your temple, and said, soft and chickening out, “C’mon, beautiful. Let’s get you home.”

The second time lived in applause. You’d just finished a small showcase, your voice still buzzing in the room like electricity after a storm. He’d watched from the wings, hands in his pockets because clapping felt too small, too ordinary for what you’d just done. Backstage, you found each other in the tangle of bodies and cases and cables. You were breathless; he was undone. He grabbed you like a lifeline, pulled you into his chest, and whispered, “You just changed the air in there.” You laughed into his shoulder, and for a heartbeat he nearly said it into your hair, maybe into the soft place behind your ear. Instead, his mouth found your cheek and he breathed, “I’m so proud of you,” and watched your eyes go glossy like he’d handed you a trophy anyway.

There were grocery-store moments where the words crowded his throat for no good reason at all. You reached for mangoes with an intense concentration like you were auditioning fruit, rolling them in your palm, explaining the science of ripeness to him like he was a judge. He pretended to argue and then put every mango you approved into the cart, and when you moved on to cilantro he caught himself smiling at the back of your neck and had to look away. In the checkout line, you pulled a shower cap from your tote with zero shame and slipped it over your hair because rain had started outside and you weren’t about to let the humidity play you. He wanted to kiss you right there by the gum and tabloids and say the thing that kept knuckling his ribs. He kissed your hand instead.

Sometimes the almosts arrived when you were at your most unglamorous—sweatpants, shea butter on your wrists, favorite series paused on a frame because you’d fallen asleep mid-episode. He’d look down and realize his arm had become your pillow, that his T-shirt had become your favorite dress. Lightning would strobe the windows, thunder rumbling, and you would snore the gentlest snore known to mankind. He would practice in the dark. I love you. Hey. I love you. Then morning came, and you blinked awake and teased him about talking in his sleep, and he swallowed it again and made you pancakes you ate off the same plate.

There was a studio day you claimed you were “just hanging,” but ended up laying down the softest, breathiest backgrounds on a hook he couldn’t get right. He watched you through the glass, nodding to your own rhythm, one earcup off and the other pressed tight, the curve of your mouth careful on vowels. You stepped out and looked at him, all nervous—“Was that okay?”—and he wanted to tell you it wasn’t just okay, it was the missing piece he hadn’t learned how to ask for. On the ride back to the crib, he said, “You turned that hook into a home,” and you smiled like that was enough. He took the long way, windows cracked so the night air could carry your perfume back out to wherever songs go when they’re still shy.

When you got sick and refused to admit it, the words tried to spill again. You insisted you were “fine,” then shivered under three blankets with a fever that made your voice small. He pulled your hair back careful and you pretended not to notice how sloppy he’d made it since it made your heart thump a little. He sat on the floor with his back against the bed and read you tweets about yourselves in multiple voices until you laughed and choked and glared and he apologized with tea and honey and a sticky kiss to your forehead. He rubbed your calves and texted your mom for the soup recipe and knew, absolutely knew, that he loved you. He said, “Don’t go anywhere,” instead. You said, “Why would I leave?” and he took that answer and slept on it like a child with a secret marble in his pocket.

On your birthday, his family showed up, loud and generous and nosy in the best ways. His auntie took one look at you arranging the cake and announced, “Oh, Leon. This one is peace.” Everyone nodded like a choir. You pretended not to hear as you tried to save the frosting roses from the heat, and Leon pretended not to glow but failed. Later, when the house was quiet and you were barefoot in his kitchen stealing forkfuls of your own cake with no witnesses, he leaned on the doorway and watched you dance to a song only you could hear. “What?” you laughed, caught. He shook his head. “Nothing. Everything.” The words were in the frosting, on the fork, in the way you swayed without asking the room for permission. He walked to you and kissed frosting off your lip and said, “I don’t ever get tired of you,” and meant I love you, I love you, I love you.

He wrote a song he swore wasn’t about you and then rewrote it because duh, of course it was. He kept trying to put the phrase in the bridge, but every time he wrote it down it felt too small to carry you. He left a space and filled it with a melisma that sounded like a confession sung from the other room.

The night he finally said it didn’t look like a music video. No fireworks. No fancy dinner. Just the city doing its late-night hum outside his windows and the soft kind of rain that made everything reflective. You were stretched on the carpet beside him because the couch had lost the plot and you’d abandoned it mid-movie for the floor like kids. There were half-eaten mango slices sweating in a bowl on the coffee table, and his guitar leaned against the chair like it had taken a break too.

You were tracing shapes on his palm—little crescents and spirals—while you told him a story about your grandmother teaching you to wrap a headscarf so it wouldn’t budge in wind or rain or dancing. He asked questions he already knew the answers to because he liked the way your voice softened on the memories. His chest felt too full. He let it. He rolled to face you, propped on an elbow, and you did the same until your noses nearly brushed.

“Can I try something?” he asked.

You blinked. “Try what?”

“Just… being honest without overthinking it.”

“Bold,” you smirked, though your breath hitched.

He took your face between his hands like a prayer he didn’t want to drop. No flourish. No performance. His thumbs sat warm at your jaw. He looked at you the way you always wanted someone to look at you—like a decision, not a gamble. And then he said it, simple as a door opening.

“I love you.”

The room changed temperature. That was the only way he could explain it later. The radiator hissed, the rain threaded itself tighter, a bus sighed out on the avenue. In the tiny pause after the words, your eyes went bright and then brighter. You didn’t tease him. You didn’t put on a clever thing to wear over the moment. You let it hit you. You touched his bottom lip like you’d heard it there first and whispered back, steady and sure, “I love you too.”

He laughed—low, relieved, a little wrecked—like air returning to lungs. He kissed you the way a song resolves after standing on the wrong chord too long. He said it again in the kiss, and again when you broke for breath, and again when you laughed because he wouldn’t stop. He carried it to your shoulder, your wrist, your palm. You counted them on your fingers like you were keeping score of something that didn’t need keeping. He tucked you into him, both of you still on the floor, and you stayed like that long enough for the credits to loop twice.

Later, when the rain faded to a hush and you’d migrated to the couch you’d abandoned, he said, “I been trying to say it for months.”

“I know,” you said, smiling into his shirt.

“Do you?”

“You talk in songs, Leon. I learned the language.” You lifted your head and found him, then added, quiet and playful, “Also, the mango aisle. You’re not subtle.”

He groaned, face in his hands. “I’m so embarrassing.”

“You’re so in love.”

He peeked at you through his fingers. “Can I be both?”

“You already are.”

——

muah 💋

[myhobari]

leon fic coming.

[myhobari]

pov: you and Miles are having a date night and your old fwb sees you and says hi and you’ve never mentioned him to Miles and he’s super smug about it so Miles is feeling some type of way and kinda jealous. anyways he takes you to go handle dattttt

- who dis?

miles caton x black reader

summary - read the request 😙

smut (under 18 dni)

a/n: ik yall have been waiting on a miles fic, its been a min.

masterlist

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The night had been smooth, laughter spilling out between you and Miles as you walked down the sidewalk, his arm around your waist like it belonged there. He’d been teasing you about how you’d finished dessert before he did—“you didn’t even breathe between bites”—when you heard it:

“Yo… I know that ain’t who I think it is?”

Your stomach sank. Turning, you came face-to-face with a ghost from your past—an old situation. He looked you over slowly, that smug grin plastered on his face.

“Damn, been years. You still fine as hell,” he said, too casually.

Miles stiffened instantly, his grip on you tightening. You forced a smile, replying quickly, “Yeah, uh, good to see you.”

But he didn’t take the hint. “We should catch up sometime,” he added, eyes flicking to Miles like he wanted to see a reaction.

You could feel Miles’ glare burning, though he didn’t say a word until the guy finally walked away.

⸻

The ride home was suffocating. Miles’ hand stayed heavy on your thigh, his thumb dragging circles that weren’t gentle—they were firm, like a claim. He didn’t speak until halfway down the street, jaw tight.

“You ain’t tell me about him.”

You sighed, turning toward him. “Because he doesn’t matter, Miles. That was years ago— wayyy before you.”

He glanced at you, his voice low. “Didn’t look like he thought it was ‘years ago.’ He looked at you like… like he remembered every detail.” His grip tightened. “Like he thought he still had some right to.”

You reached for his hand, softening your voice. “Hey. Don’t do that.” He looked at you, eyes dark and burning. “You’re the only one I want. The only one I ever wanted like this.”

His gaze softened for a split second before hardening again. “Nah, I gotta remind you—remind both of us—that you mine. Period.”

⸻

The second you got inside, he pressed you against the door, kissing you with urgency. It wasn’t gentle; it was raw, teeth grazing your lip as his hands roamed your body like he needed to erase any trace of the other man.

“You let him talk to you like that?” he murmured against your mouth.

“I didn’t say a word back,” you whispered, kissing him again. “Miles, you’re it for me. He’s nothing.”

But you couldn’t resist teasing him a little, your fingers dragging down his chest. “You sound jealous, though. Kinda cute.”

His eyes narrowed, his forehead resting against yours as his voice dropped, husky. “Cute? You think I’m playin’?” He lifted you suddenly, your legs wrapping around his waist. “Bet you won’t think it’s cute when I’m done with you.”

He carried you straight to the bedroom, laying you down but not letting go, kissing you again—slower this time, deeper, almost desperate.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, whispering, “I love when you get like this.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, voice thick. “You love when I’m jealous?”

“Maybe,” you teased softly, your smile daring him.

That did it. His mouth claimed yours again, harder, his hands roaming your body as though he needed to prove a point. Every kiss, every touch, screamed: You’re mine.

When he finally sank into you, the world blurred, your moan caught in his mouth as he held your face between his hands.

“You so damn pretty,” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours as his hips moved with urgency. “All mine. Don’t forget that.”

You clung to him, whispering through the haze of heat, “I want youuu, Miles. Only you. Always you. Nobody else could ever—ever—make me feel like this.”

Your words seemed to push him even further, his movements deepening as his grip on you tightened. “Say it again,” he demanded softly, almost begging.

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “I’ve always been yours!”

The tension built until Miles buried his face against your neck, groaning your name like a prayer. His release came with a shudder, his body collapsing slightly against yours while you held him close, your own body trembling beneath him.

You kissed his temple, whispering against his hair, “You don’t ever have to worry about anyone else. It’s always you, Miles. Just you.”

His chest rose and fell heavily, but his arms wrapped around you tighter, his voice muffled against your skin. “I love you. And I swear, ain’t nobody ever takin’ you away from me.”

For a long moment, he just held you, breathing you in. Then he kissed your shoulder, tender, a complete contrast from the fire a few minutes earlier.

“You good?” he murmured, voice hoarse, almost vulnerable.

You smiled softly, playing with his hair. “More than good. You?”

He let out a breath, eyes closing. “Yeah. I just… I hate when I feel like somebody think they still got some claim on you. Makes me act crazy.” His thumb traced lazy circles on your skin, apologetic. “Didn’t mean to go too hard.”

You turned to face him, cupping his jaw. “I like when you show me how much you want me. You ain’t scare me. You just reminded me how deep this is for you. And I promise—I’m yours. No one else.”

That got him. His eyes softened, shimmering with something more than just post-heat intensity. “I don’t deserve you sometimes,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss your forehead.

You laughed gently. “Stop it. You do. More than anyone ever could.”

“I know.”

——

muah 💋

[myhobari]

Complete 10’s thank you so much I love your writing! I hope you get to feeling better and rest up!🫶🏽

https://www.tumblr.com/myhobari/792085909104410624/hey-can-you-do-a-bisexual-fem-reader-first-time

Thank you so much, i’m glad you liked it!!

[myhobari]

Hey! Can you do a bisexual fem reader first time with a dude(sexually) being Anthony Edwards?

- first to have you

anthony edwards x black reader

summary - read the request 😙

smut (under 18 dni)

a/n: as a bi woman, yes. i hope u enjoy anon.

masterlist

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His place is quiet in that expensive kind of way—thick walls, soft lamps, the city held at arm’s length. There’s still a hint of post-game energy clinging to him—fresh shower, damp hair, a clean tee stretched across his chest, that lazy grin that could talk a crowd into storming a court. He drops his keys in the bowl by the door and doesn’t look away from you.

“You nervous?” he asks, voice low and soft around the edges, like he already knows.

You shrug because your voice is somewhere in your throat with your pulse. “A little.”

He nods once like that’s the right answer. “Good. Means you care.” Then he steps in—close, but not crowding—hands sliding into his pockets so you’re the one who has to make the next move. Anthony’s like that sometimes: patient and infuriating, all at once.

You tug at his tee. “Come here.”

The smile breaks slow. “Yes, ma’am.”

He kisses you like he’s been waiting all week to exhale. Warm. Intent. Not polite about it. His mouth finds yours and asks—doesn’t take—until your shoulders loosen and your fingers hook in the cotton at his waist. He hums like he felt the shift, then pulls back just long enough to study your face.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs. “What you want tonight?”

You know what you want. You’ve known all day, the thought of it pitching and rolling in your chest like a wave. You’re a little scared of saying it out loud, the way naming a thing makes it bigger, realer. He waits anyway. That’s the worst best thing about him—he can wait.

“Show me,” you say finally, breath whispering over the word. “I want you to show me.”

His eyes darken, that heat you’ve seen on the court cutting through the calm. “You sure?” His fingers trace the line of your jaw, the back of your neck, anchoring you. “First time with a dude… you say stop, we stop. Say slow, we slow. Say more—” a slow, cocky smile— “we’ll see about more.”

You swallow, nodding. “I’m sure.”

“Then say it,” he teases, because he likes to hear you ask for things, likes to make you admit how much you want him.

You roll your eyes and he chuckles, head tipping, hair brushing your forehead. “Please,” you breathe. “Ant.”

He leans in, lips grazing your ear. “There she go.”

He doesn’t drag you to the bedroom. He walks you there—slow, hand at the small of your back like a secret. In the soft lamplight, the room looks almost staged: neat sheets, a glass of water on the nightstand, a candle that smells like amber and something warm. It feels safe. It feels like he planned for you.

He stands you by the bed and steps back an inch. “I wanna look at you for a second.”

You fight the urge to fold your arms, to joke your way out of being seen. You let him look. He takes his time—eyes low to high, back down, not hungry so much as reverent. You hadn’t expected that—this careful, head-tilted attention that reads less like appraisal and more like praise.

“Beautiful,” he says simply, like it’s a fact nobody sane would argue. “I been saying it, but you gon’ make me prove it.”

“Prove it, then,” you shoot back, and he laughs, delighted that you met him there.

The teasing starts as a hover. His mouth almost meets your neck and then moves. His hands almost grip your waist and then skim. His knee nudges yours; you shift; he waits. He’s so good at this—at building the ache, at making the anticipation hurt more than the thing itself. You feel each withheld touch like a match struck and blown out. Your breath starts to stutter without asking permission.

“Tell me what this feels like,” he says, lips at your jaw, voice a fraction rougher. “Use your words.”

“Like you’re being mean, teasing me,” you manage.

He grins against your skin. “I can be nice. But you said heated.”

“I did,” you say too fast, and he hears it, and it does something to him.

Clothes give way to skin in a slow blur. He’s careful with everything he removes and careless with everything he kisses—your shoulder, the curve beneath your collarbone, the little places you didn’t know would feel electric. His hands are big and gentle but not tentative. He moves you where he wants you—onto the bed, pillows under your head, one knee hitching your thigh higher—checking in with a look each time, waiting for the little nods you don’t realize you’re giving.

“You’re thinking too much,” he murmurs, reading your mind. “I can tell.”

“Just nervous, Ant.”

“No need baby. You know I got you.”

He goes slow at first, because he’s proud and because he likes to watch you tip. His tongue learns you in long, patient lines and then shorter, precise ones; his hands keep you right where he wants you when your hips try to run from the tension he’s feeding. Heat draws tight, then tighter, then tight enough that you have to grab for something—the sheet, his shoulder, his name.

“Ant… feels good,” you whimper out.

“I know ma, i’m eating you good huh?”

You come apart with your breath breaking in little bursts, with his name caught on the edge of a sound you didn’t know you could make. He doesn’t stop when you break—he carries you through the aftershocks, softening the rhythm without letting go of it, the kind of patience that feels like worship.

When he finally climbs up to kiss you, you taste yourself, him and something bright. His chest brushes yours, warm and solid. He’s smiling. “You good?” he asks, and it’s not small talk; it’s inventory.

“Mhmm.” Your voice is wrecked and you don’t care. “More.”

He bites back a laugh like that might be the best thing he’s ever heard. “Say less.”

He reaches to the drawer—responsible, unhurried—and you could cry from how that small, thoughtful motion makes you feel safer than any words. When he settles between your knees again, he’s not cocky. He’s deliberate, eyes locked on yours like the only thing he wants is to do this right.

“Breathe with me,” he says, and you do, chest to chest, matching. “If you need me to stop, say it. If you need me to slow down, say it. You lead, I follow.”

You nod, hands on his shoulders, thumbs sweeping over the warm curve of muscle there, grounding yourself in him. The first push is careful. Your body tenses on reflex, then listens, then opens like a door learning a hinge. He stays deep but still; you breathe; he waits.

“You’re okay,” he says, voice gone rough with restraint. “I got you.”

Your fingers flex. “I know.”

The second push is easier. The third makes you gasp because you didn’t know something could feel both new and undeniable at the same time. He hears the sound and swallows a curse he turns into your name, a low, pulled-thin groan pressed into your mouth.

“Look at me,” he asks, forehead against yours. “Let me see that face.”

You do, and something clicks—an invisible line pulling taut between his gaze and the way he moves. The rhythm builds gradually: slow, then deeper, then a little faster, testing, checking. His hand finds yours and pins it by your head; his other hand slides beneath your lower back and lifts—an angle that changes everything. Your breath punches out; his jaw locks; the next thrust steals your focus like the lights went out and came back brighter.

“You feel—” he has to stop to breathe— “insane. You know that?”

Your laugh is a broken thing. “Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

He doesn’t. The pace turns intent, a little ragged at the edges like his control is fraying in the most satisfying way. You can feel his restraint in the way his hips check and roll instead of slam; you can feel his need in the way it threatens to slip. He keeps both truths on the table—care and hunger—lets you taste them both.

“Get on top, baby.”

Sweat beads at his temple and runs down to his jaw. You reach to catch it with your mouth and he shivers, teeth grazing your bottom lip like thanks. The bed complains softly under the rhythm you’ve found. Somewhere outside, a siren wails and fades; time blinks; the room narrows to breath and heat and the rightness of being exactly where you are.

“Tell me,” he says, breathless but bossy. “Where you at?”

“Close,” you whisper, surprised at the honesty in your voice. “So so close.”

“Yeah?” He adjusts, tiny, precise, and your body answers like it’s been waiting for that exact math. His head tips back. “There it is. Ride it.”

You do because you can’t not. Everything tightens from the inside out, gathering, glittering, then breaking—a rush that takes your voice with it. He holds on—literally—his hand tight in yours, his other palm braced beside your head like he’d pin the world down if it tried you. He talks you through the end of it, soft praise threaded through gravel.

“So good… that’s it… let it happen… I got you.”

You’re still shaking when you realize he’s gone very, very still. The restraint finally snaps in a sound that’s almost a prayer—your name torn up, his body shuddering against yours as the moment hits him. He buries his face in your neck, breath breaking, shoulders trembling. You hold him like he held you, fingers playing in his hair, whispering nothing words—“yes,” “it’s okay,” “with me”—until his breathing evens out.

For a long minute, nobody moves. The lamp hums. The candle burns low. Your heartbeat learns his rhythm again, the two of you syncing without trying.

He moves his head last, eyes heavy, smile slow and grateful and more than a little stunned. “You good?” he asks again, because he will always ask.

You nod, touch his cheek. “You?”

He laughs quietly. “Ask me tomorrow.”

He kisses your forehead, your mouth, your jaw. When he slides away to take care of the practical things, he does it with a tenderness that undoes you—quick trip to toss what needs tossing, a hand at your shoulder guiding you to the bathroom. “Rule,” he says, gentle but fake-stern. “Go pee. Not negotiable.”

You make a face at him in the mirror and he grins like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen. When you come back, there’s water waiting on your side of the bed, plus a cool washcloth he presses to your neck with the kind of care people write songs about.

“You okay-okay?” he asks one more time when you’re tucked against him, your leg thrown over his like you’ve been sleeping like this for years.

“Yeah.” You mean it in a way that feels new and old at once. “Thank you.”

He snorts softly. “For what?”

“For making it feel like this.”

He exhales, something unguarded in it. “I told you I’d show you,” he says, lips against your hair. “And I’m not done showin’ you.”

You settle in the cradle of his arm, the city a quiet suggestion beyond the window, the room warm with the afterglow of a thing done right. He traces slow shapes on your back until your eyes go heavy. Just before sleep pulls you under, you hear him again, low and sure at your ear:

“Next time,” he murmurs, smile in his voice, “you ain’t gotta be nervous. Just tell me what you need… and I got the rest.”

You don’t answer because you don’t need to. Your body already has. And in the hush that follows, with his heartbeat steady under your palm and your name still sweet on his tongue, you realize the best part isn’t the heat—it’s the way he turned it into something you can fall asleep inside.

——

muahhhh 💋

[myhobari]

andrew nembhard comforting reader through a panic attack

- my all

andrew nembhard x black reader

summary - read the request 😙

fluff (no warnings!)

a/n: i hope you enjoy anon !!

masterlist

————————————————————————

You weren’t sure when the spiral started.

One minute you were fine, just scrolling on your phone while waiting for Andrew to get back from practice, and the next, your chest felt too tight. It was like the walls of your apartment had inched closer without you noticing, the air thinning in ways your mind couldn’t make sense of.

Your thoughts were fast — too fast — but somehow sluggish at the same time, like they were piling up in a traffic jam. And underneath it all, a low, relentless hum of dread, the kind that didn’t seem to have a reason but made your stomach drop anyway.

You put your phone down, tried to stand, and immediately felt that lightheaded, floaty sensation. Your heart thudded harder. Your hands shook. You tried to take a breath, but it was short, shallow — a sip instead of a gulp.

You hated when this happened. You hated that it came without warning. And most of all, you hated the feeling that no matter how much you told yourself it wasn’t real, your body didn’t care.

By the time you heard Andrew’s key turn in the lock, your knees were drawn up to your chest on the couch, your fingers pressing against your temples like you could force your brain to slow down.

“Babe?” His voice was casual at first, calling from the hallway. Then his head appeared around the corner, and you knew the second his eyes landed on you, he understood something was wrong.

He dropped his gym bag to the floor without even unzipping his jacket, crossing the room in a few quick strides. “Hey, hey—” His voice softened immediately as he crouched down in front of you. “Talk to me.”

You shook your head. You couldn’t. Your throat felt tight, words stuck behind the racing of your pulse.

Andrew didn’t push. Instead, he shifted onto the couch beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body but not so close that it crowded you. His hands rested palm-up on his knees, an unspoken invitation.

“Can I touch you?” he asked, his voice low and steady.

You managed a small nod, and his hand came to rest gently against your shin. Not gripping, not pulling — just there. Present.

“Alright,” he murmured. “We’re gonna slow it down together, yeah? Just you and me. Forget everything else for a second.”

His eyes stayed locked on yours, soft but focused. “Breathe in with me,” he said, exaggerating the inhale so you could match him. “One… two… three… hold it… and let it out slow.”

It took a few rounds — you stumbling, him patient — but eventually your breaths weren’t as shallow. He didn’t let go of your shin the whole time, his thumb moving in slow, grounding strokes.

“You’re here,” he said softly. “Right here. You’re safe. Nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

You swallowed, your eyes burning. “I—I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted gently. “And even if you can’t, I’ll do it with you. Every step.”

He glanced toward your hands, still trembling slightly. “Give ‘em to me?”

You placed them hesitantly in his, and he held them without squeezing, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “Feel that?” he asked. “I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

Your vision wavered, tears slipping free. “I hate this,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured. “But it’s just a wave, baby. It’s gonna pass. And I’m not letting it take you under.”

You sat there for a while, just breathing together. Every time you faltered, he reset the rhythm. Every time your mind tried to sprint ahead, he anchored you with a quiet “stay with me” or “look at me.”

When your breaths finally evened out, he shifted, tugging you gently into his lap. You resisted for half a second — out of habit more than anything — but the second his arms wrapped around you, the tension in your shoulders loosened.

His hoodie smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the outside air, and his heartbeat under your ear was steady, grounding. He didn’t speak for a long while, just rubbed slow circles into your back, his chin resting against your hair.

Eventually, when your breathing was steady and your hands weren’t shaking as much, he murmured, “Do you want to tell me what set it off? Or we saving that for later?”

“Later,” you said quietly. “I’m just… tired.”

“Alright,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Then all you gotta do now is rest.”

He adjusted you so you were curled sideways in his lap, your legs stretched across the couch. One arm stayed wrapped around your waist, the other tugged the throw blanket over you both.

You felt his fingers stroke slowly up and down your arm. “You know,” he said after a beat, “there’s nothing weak about this.”

“I feel weak,” you admitted.

He shook his head. “You’re not. You’re here. You’re breathing. That’s strong as hell, even if it doesn’t feel like it.”

You closed your eyes, letting the weight of his words sink in. He had this way of making you feel like you weren’t broken — like this was something you could ride out instead of something that would drown you.

When your body finally stopped buzzing with leftover adrenaline, you mumbled, “Thank you.”

He tightened his arms just a little. “Always.”

And he meant it — not just in the easy, everyday way people say it, but in the way you felt deep in your bones. He was here. He’d always be here, even when your own mind tried to convince you otherwise.

——

muah 💋

[myhobari]

YOU AINT WROTE FOR MILES SINCE AUGUST 11TH BITCH ARE YOU OK????????

there’s a lottt going on with me rn pook, mentally. ik yall do not care but 😭

and i do requests by order, so there will be one soon. don’t worry love.

[myhobari]

pls please please please dirty andrew nembhard smut 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏 i love the way you write!! and your anthony edward’s smuts were greatttt

- what you need

andrew nembhard x black reader

Summary - your boyfriend andrew goes incredibly too soft on you when it’s time for sex… it’s time to change that. who knew your canadian man could be so mean? 😪

smut (under 18 dni)

a/n: i had a BLAST writing this. i hope you love.

masterlist

————————————————————————

You knew exactly what you were doing.

The way you brushed past him in the kitchen, fingertips grazing just a little too slow over his back. The way your shorts were just long enough to be decent but short enough for him to notice when you bent over.

Andrew had always been gentle with you — almost maddeningly so. Every night in bed, every kiss, every touch, he handled you like you were the most delicate thing in the world. And you loved it, you really did… but tonight, you wanted to see what happened if you pushed him.

You wanted him to break.

It started subtle. You leaned against the counter while he scrolled through his phone, sipping your drink and watching him from over the rim of your glass.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.

“Maybe I am,” you replied, voice light. “You gonna do something about it?”

His eyes flicked up at that, a flicker of amusement and warning in them. “Don’t start.”

That only made you smile. “Why not?”

The smallest smirk tugged at his lips before he went back to scrolling, choosing not to engage. So you upped it. You brushed past him again, slow enough that your hips grazed his thigh, murmuring a soft “sorry” that didn’t sound sorry at all.

By the time you settled on the couch, legs stretched out across his lap, you could feel his patience thinning — his hands resting on your calves, his thumb drawing lazy circles against your skin, his eyes fixed on the TV with a little too much focus.

“You’re quiet,” you teased.

“Not much to say,” he answered evenly.

You shifted your leg so your bare foot brushed against his bulge. “You sure? Not even about how I look tonight?”

His jaw ticked, and you caught it. “You know how you look.”

You grinned, leaning forward a little. “Maybe I want to hear it.”

He turned his head then, giving you a look that sent a shiver down your spine — a silent, heavy kind of look that told you he was one breath away from ending this game you were playing. But you weren’t ready to stop yet.

When he finally stood to grab something from the kitchen, you followed. You pressed up behind him at the counter, your fingers tracing over the plane of his back, sliding down to his sides, then resting just above his waistband.

“Baby,” you murmured near his ear, “why are you still holding back?”

That was it. The break.

One moment you were smirking behind him, and the next you were backed up against the counter, his hands gripping your neck hard enough to make you gasp. His eyes locked on yours, darker now, his voice low and edged.

“You really want me to stop holding back?”

Your pulse skipped, but you nodded. “Yes, baby.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed you hard, none of the usual slowness — just heat and urgency. His hands roamed with a new kind of intent, guiding you backward toward the bedroom, his mouth only breaking from yours to murmur, “You asked for this.”

By the time your back hit the mattress, he was over you, caging you in, his weight pinning you just enough to make your breath hitch. He kissed you all over, your cheeks, your neck — that spot right under your ear that makes you shiver — everywhere.

“Take these fucking shorts off,” he urged, snapping the band of them to smack against your skin. You pulled them off with zero hesitation, revealing your sopping wet pussy. “Shit… you this wet all because you wanna be fucked?” He asked, rhetorically.

You were speechless at this point, panting, ready for him to just ruin you already. He sensed your impatience, and leaned down to lick a long line up your pussy.

“Fuckkk drew…” you moaned.

He went ballistic from there. Putting not one, but two fingers into your hole, curling to hit that spot, all while tonguing at your clit, occasionally sucking. You began to clench around him, a telltale sign that you were about to come undone.

“Baby— i’m bout’ to—“

“Cum for me, ma.”

The scream you let out was damning, vibrating the walls of your shared bedroom. As Andrew eased you down from your release, he could feel you shaking, pulsing on the bed. You reached for the comforter, prepared to just turn around and head to bed, as usually would happen on a regular sexcapade with him.

“Unt unt..” was all you heard before being flipped onto your front, and before you could even breathe, you felt his tip. Bulbous, throbbing, ready to go inside of you. He circled it around your hole at first, then up and down the length of your pussy. You shook your ass a little, teasing, yet begging for attention all at once. A hand came down out onto your ass, one that made you settle back down onto the bed. “Be patient… you’ve been fucking with me all day. It’s my turn now.”

And before you could even come up with a witty response, he sunk in. Not slowly, liked he’d always do — no easing into it. Hard, rough, the way you’d wanted and how he’d had always wanted to fuck you.

“Oh— SHIT!” you screamed, taken back by his persistence.

“You like that? You like being treated like this, huh? Answer me…” he smacked your ass.

“Yessss… yess baby. I love it so muchhh..!”

His fingers tightened on your hips, grounding you even as the pace grew rougher, every thrust hitting deep and making the mattress jolt beneath you.

You could feel the heat radiating off him, hear the way his breathing had gone ragged, his focus locked completely on you. Every push and pull left your body buzzing, your mind foggy with the intensity of it.

The pace built until it felt like the air between you was charged, his grip landing onto your ass as he drove into you. His breath came harsher now, deep groans slipping past his lips without restraint.

“Don’t—” he bit out, his voice strained, “—don’t you move.”

You felt him falter for half a beat before he pushed in hard one last time, his whole body tensing against yours. A shudder tore through him, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as a low, rough sound escaped him — relief and release tangled in both you and him as one. His chest rose and fell rapidly against your back, every breath brushing warm over your skin.

For a moment, neither of you moved, both catching your breath, the heat between you slowly ebbing into something softer.

“Is that what you wanted?”

“Oh yeah,” you smirked.

——

muah 💋

[myhobari]

damson idris uhh maybe smut nothing specific in mind thank uuu😛

- my peace

damson idris x black reader

Summary - your boyfriend Damson just thinks you’re the most beautiful thing to walk this earth, and he has no problem showing you.

smut (under 18 dni)

a/n: ikkk you guys have been waiting for this for a while, so here you gooo!

masterlist

————————————————————————

The rain had been falling for hours, a steady patter against the wide living room windows, the kind of sound that made everything inside feel warmer. The lamps were dim, the air carrying that faint scent of the candle you’d lit earlier — vanilla and something darker, like smoked cedar.

You were sitting cross-legged on the couch, scrolling idly through your phone, wearing one of his hoodies and a pair of shorts that barely showed under the hem.

Damson leaned in the doorway for a moment, just watching. His evening had been full of phone calls, e-mails, and decisions he didn’t want to think about anymore. But standing there now, with you curled up like you belonged to the space — to him — the noise in his head just… stopped.

“Baby,” he murmured, his voice deep and low from across the room.

You glanced up, smiling softly. “Hmm?”

He crossed the room slowly, his socked feet barely making a sound on the hardwood. By the time he reached you, he was close enough for his shadow to fall over you. His hand came up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing over your cheek.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” His tone was quiet but heavy with meaning.

Your brows drew together. “Ridiculous how?”

Damson didn’t answer right away — he just sank down onto the couch beside you, pulling you into his lap without asking. Your phone slipped from your fingers onto the cushions as his arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you pressed to him.

“Look at you,” he said finally, his eyes taking you in like he was memorizing every detail — the curve of your mouth, the glow of your skin under the soft light, the way your hair framed your face. “You’re just… so damn beautiful. Every time I think I’ve seen the best of you, you do something — smile, laugh, breathe — and I swear I’m done for.”

Your breath caught, partly from his words and partly from the way he was looking at you — like you were something rare and precious.

He leaned in, the tip of his nose brushing yours before his lips found your cheek, your jaw, that sensitive spot just below your ear. Each kiss was slow, unhurried, his warm breath feathering over your skin.

“You think I’m gonna sit in the same room as you lookin’ like this,” he murmured against your neck, “and not show you how much I love you?”

His hands traced over you — not rushing, but mapping you out, fingertips skimming the hem of your shorts before moving back up to your waist. You could feel the heat from his palms even through the hoodie, each touch lingering like he didn’t want to let go.

Your fingers slid into his hair, warm under your touch. He tilted his head into your hand, a quiet sound leaving him — not quite a sigh, but close.

“Stay right here,” he said softly, tightening his hold. “Let me look at you a little longer.”

The rain kept falling outside, the rhythm almost matching the slow, steady pace of his hands and kisses. Everything else — the world, the noise, the hours before this — faded away, until it was just you and him, the quiet heat between you filling the space.

When he finally kissed you, it was deliberate — deep, slow, and full of the same unspoken thing he’d been carrying all night: you’re it for me.

He pulled your hoodie up to reveal your pretty, soft skin. “God, you’re a sight,” he whispered. Your cheeks lifted up, warm from his verbal affections. His hands then went to your breasts, rubbing — massaging. His thumbs land on your nipples, playing with them. He stops for a second to help you pull your shorts down, your underwear sliding down with them.

“Lay down for me, baby.”

You comply, hopping off his lap to lay down on the couch. He lays chest down on the couch, scooting closer to your mound. You looked at him, breath catching, and the expression on his face nearly undid you — focused, intent, like he was about to devote himself entirely to you.

“Been thinkin’ about this all day,” he murmured, his fingers brushing slowly up your inner thighs.

Before you could answer, he leaned in. The first touch of his mouth was warm, soft, and unhurried — a slow press, a teasing glide, his hands keeping you open for him. But then the pace shifted.

It wasn’t frantic, but it was relentless — each movement deliberate, calculated, meant to pull you further and further toward that edge. His tongue moved with precision, the low sounds he made vibrating against you. Every time you gasped or your hips shifted, he adjusted, locking you there with his hands, not letting you run from the sensation.

Your fingers curled into his hair, and he let you guide him closer, deeper, until the world narrowed to just that point of heat and pressure. The couch cushion under your palm was gripped tight, knuckles aching, your breath breaking into uneven bursts.

He groaned against you when he felt you start to tremble, the sound deep and satisfied. “That’s it… don’t hold back for me.”

And you didn’t. The wave hit hard, your body tightening before melting into his hold, the release pulling a sound from you you’d never meant to make. He stayed there, working you through every pulse, not letting go until you finally slumped back against the couch, boneless and breathless.

When he lifted his head, his mouth was curved in a slow, knowing smile. He kissed the inside of your thigh, then climbed up to press his lips to yours — letting you taste the heat he’d just pulled from you. You both let out a yearning moan into each other’s mouths, your hand sinking down his chest to rub his dick, already poking out the front of his pants.

You pull them down and begin to stroke him, eliciting a deep groan from him. Before you could get him too riled up, he pulls you closer to him and removes your hand from him, replacing it with his own and guiding it to your leaking hole.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you too, D,” you reply, those words never hesitant from your mouth.

He then sinks in. Slow, but deep. His hands came down to frame your face, his body pressing you gently into the couch cushions as his weight settled over you. The warmth of him was everywhere — his chest flush against yours, the steady beat of his heart matching your quickened breaths.

Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, drawing him closer, and he exhaled a low, almost reverent sound. “Look at me,” he said softly, his forehead resting against yours.

When your eyes met his, it was like the rest of the room disappeared. His gaze was locked on you, drinking in every reaction — the way your mouth parted, the way your fingers gripped his shoulders, the way your breath hitched when he rolled his hips into yours.

Each movement was deep, controlled, his pace unhurried but purposeful. His hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips to keep you in place as he pressed forward again, his jaw tightening. You could feel every bit of his focus — every shift of his weight, every flex of his muscles — all of it meant to draw you in and keep you there.

Your nails curled into his back, and he dipped his head to kiss along your neck, his breath warm against your skin. The rhythm built slowly, the connection between you intensifying with every press of his hips.

“Don’t look away,” he murmured, lifting his head so your eyes met again. “I want you to see how much I love you like this.”

Your body tightened beneath him, that heat pooling low until you couldn’t hold back the sound that left your lips. He held you there, driving you through it, his own breath stuttering as he followed you over the edge, his forehead dropping to yours again.

He stayed close afterward, one hand cradling your cheek, the other rubbing slow circles over your hip. “You’re everything,” he whispered, the words almost lost in the quiet between you.

For a while, neither of you moved. His weight stayed over you, not crushing but protective, like he didn’t want to let the moment go just yet. Your breathing slowly evened out beneath him, and his thumb kept sweeping gently across your cheek.

Finally, Damson pressed one last kiss to your lips — soft, lingering — before leaning back just enough to look at you. “C’mon,” he murmured, his voice low and a little rough. “Let me get you to bed.”

He shifted carefully, sliding his arms beneath you. The way he lifted you was effortless, his strength steady and sure as you wrapped your arms loosely around his neck. Your head rested against his shoulder, catching the faint scent of his skin — warm, a little like cedar and rain.

When he stepped into the bedroom, you thought he was going to lay you straight in bed, but instead he kept walking toward the bathroom.

“Damson,” you mumbled, a little confused.

He glanced down at you, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You know the rule. Bathroom first.” His tone was light, but there was no room for debate.

You groaned, and he set you down gently, staying close as you disappeared inside. “I’m not playin’,” he called softly through the door. “You’re not gettin’ sick on my watch.”

When you came back out, he was waiting by the bed, covers already pulled back. “There she goes,” he teased, his voice dropping just enough to make you roll your eyes even as you smiled.

Once you were under the blankets, he joined you, tugging you close until your face was pressed to his chest. His hand traced lazy circles against your back, grounding you with the rhythm of his touch.

“Just breathe,” he whispered into your hair, the words melting into the quiet. “I’ve got you.”

The rain was still falling outside, tapping gently against the window. With his heartbeat under your ear and his warmth wrapped around you, the world felt impossibly far away — and you had no interest in reaching for it.

——

muah 💋

[myhobari]

so sorry for my lack of posts yesterday, life is a lot right now. trying to see what i’m gonna do college wise, and just a lot of thinking is going on.

i hope y’all have a lovely day, you’ll most likely get a fic today.

💋

[myhobari]

GURLLLL I LOVE YOU SO FUCKING MUCH!!!!!🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

what i do to deserve this 😭❤️

[myhobari]

do you write for xaiver legette?

yes ma’am :)

[myhobari]

bestieee, do we have any upcoming skepta or jude fics in the works? ur literally one of my favorite writers on hereee

both are in the works lovie, trust.

and damson idris too!

thank u doll 💋

[myhobari]

Maybe another Anthony Edwards 😩 if your feeling like it 😛

Prove It !

wrote w u in mind as well!

[myhobari]

Or a short fic of Anthony Edwards and the reader breaking up and him trying to win her back—I'll give you my right kidney too.

- prove it

anthony edwards x black reader

Summary - read the request 😙

angst to fluff (no warnings!)

a/n: ik u said short buttttt…. i got carried away. 😁

masterlist

————————————————————————

You don’t remember when the arguments stopped being about what happened and started being about what it meant.

At first it was little things. Missed calls, a text answered hours later with a “my bad, long day,” a dinner that turned into takeout that turned into falling asleep fully clothed on opposite sides of the couch. Then there were the bigger things—the night he showed up forty-five minutes late to your best friend’s birthday after promising he’d be there “on time, on god,” the charity event you organized that he skipped because shootaround “ran over” and the team needed him, the red-carpet rumor mill that churned every time a photo of him laughing near another woman made its rounds.

You told yourself you were built for it. You’d sat through away games in cities where the arena swallowed sound and spit it back as worship. You knew what it meant to love someone the whole world wanted a piece of.

But then came the last straw: the showcase.

You’d worked on the choreography for months, a halftime routine the team had approved to honor the girls you coached at the community center. He’d promised to be there—promised in that soft Georgia drawl that made even your bones believe him. “Front row,” he’d said, tapping your chin. “Screaming like a fool. Embarrassin’ you on purpose.”

Tipoff came and went. The routine started, ended. You bowed, heart thundering, eyes searching the baseline. No Ant. No sheepish grin. No bouquet he joked he’d bring even though “flowers at the court feel like I’m askin’ for fouls.”

He texted you two hours later: coach held me after, my bad. proud of you tho. No period. No apology. Just that.

You stared at the screen until the letters blurred, until something inside you that had been stretching to make room for him finally tore.

You told him it was over the next afternoon, in the calmest voice you’ve ever used. He tried to talk, to reach for you, but you stepped back and watched his hand fall. He watched you pack the hoodie you always stole, the toothbrush you kept there “just in case,” the Polaroid of you both on the lake last summer with sunburned noses and ugly grins. He didn’t argue. He just looked wrecked and quiet, like someone had cut the lights mid-game and he couldn’t see the basket anymore.

For two weeks, your phone was an ocean—waves of notifications, then nothing but the pull of your own silence.

He called, left messages that started with jokes (“you really gon’ break up with a man in the middle of the season, that’s interference”) and ended with breath (“okay… call me, please”). He sent flowers and you gave them to your elderly neighbor because their color felt too loud for your apartment. He slid a handwritten note under your door that said, I keep tryin’ to make it make sense. It only makes sense if I change.

You cried hard that night. Not the dramatic, movie kind of crying. The quiet leak that happens when grief just… finds a crack.

Then he stopped calling.

You thought it would feel like relief. Instead, it felt like the world tilted a few degrees and stayed that way.

—

A week later, a knock rattled your door just after ten. You stared through the peephole even though you knew that outline by heart—the broad shoulders hunched like he’d been standing there rehearsing, his hat pulled low like a kid coming home late.

You opened it and didn’t say his name. You didn’t have to.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “Can I—? I won’t take long.”

You stepped aside because your mother raised you polite. He walked in slow, hands empty. He looked tired in a way game tape couldn’t fix. The kind of tired that lives in a man’s eyes.

“I been writin’ what I wanted to say,” he started, then huffed a laugh that went nowhere. “But I figured you deserved to hear it off paper.”

You leaned against the counter, arms folded, waiting.

He nodded once like he’d given himself a command. “I messed up. Not once. Not twice. Like… a lot. I kept standin’ you up in little ways that add up to a big hurt. I told myself it was the season. Team needs me, coach needs me, the city needs me. And I started actin’ like you could wait forever because you love me.” He swallowed hard. “That ain’t love. That’s me takin’ advantage.”

Your throat clicked. He kept going.

“I forgot the thing I love most about you is that you don’t need me to be Ant for the world. You need me to be Anthony, for you.” He dragged a hand over his face. “I’m sorry I didn’t show up to your showcase. I’m sorry I let rumors do the talkin’ for me instead of shutttin’ ‘em down with how I move. I’m sorry I made you feel small in rooms where I shoulda been makin’ you feel ten feet tall.”

Silence gathered between you, soft and heavy. You stared at the curve in his cap brim so you wouldn’t look at his eyes.

“I’m tryin’ to fix it,” he said. “Not with flowers. Not with courtside seats. With… different.” He blew out a breath. “I told my agent to chill on all the off-court noise. Said no to some stuff that woulda looked good but felt wrong. Gave Coach my non-negotiables: I can’t promise perfect timing, but when I promise my woman I’ll be somewhere, I’m there unless we’re fightin’ for a series.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “He’s a married man. He said, ‘About time, son.’”

The laugh that broke out of you surprised you both.

He stepped closer, careful, like a man approaching a skittish animal. “I started talkin’ to somebody too,” he said, cheeks coloring. “Like… a real counselor. They got me doin’ this accountability calendar thing. Looks dumb. Works.” He shrugged. “I’m learnin’ how to be on time for more than basketball.”

You wanted to be hard. To stay mad. To remind him of every night you went to sleep with mascara in the corners of your eyes because you’d waited up for a knock that didn’t come. But his voice… it didn’t sound like a speech. It sounded like a man telling the truth about himself for once.

He pulled something from his back pocket and unfolded it. It was a wrinkled page from a small legal pad, edges soft from being handled.

“I wrote you somethin’ anyway,” he admitted, sheepish. “Old-school like my grandma woulda wanted. Can I read?”

You nodded, hating how gentle you felt.

He squared the paper and read, stumbling only on the part where his voice went rough. “You ain’t an after. You ain’t a reward for me doin’ good. You ain’t the thing I get to come home to if I play nice. You’re the home. I been livin’ like the road is who I am and you’re somethin’ I check in on. I’m tryin’ to be the man who chooses to build around you, not the other way around.”

He folded the page with shaky hands. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s the play. If you don’t want me—if it’s too late—I’ll… respect it. I will. But if there’s anything left to fight for…” He looked up finally, eyes red. “I’m ready to fight for it.”

The apartment seemed to breathe. Your heartbeat skittered in your throat like a small, wild thing. You had rehearsed a thousand versions of this moment—how you’d list your terms like a contract, how you’d make him beg, how you’d slam the door if he used the right wrong word.

Instead, you asked, “Why didn’t you come to the showcase, really?”

He flinched. “Coach didn’t hold me. I did one more rep and told myself it was only five minutes and then five turned to twenty and then I felt small and I thought… maybe if I bring you a clip of a dunk you’ll understand and—” He shut his eyes. “I was scared that if I came late, I’d see your face and it would tell me exactly what I am when I ain’t who I say: a disappointment.”

A tear slipped hot and traitorous down your cheek. You swiped it away, annoyed at your own softness.

“Anthony,” you said, first time you’d used his full name in weeks. He looked at you like you’d handed him water in a desert. “I don’t need you to be perfect. I need you to be where your mouth says you’ll be. I need your no to be no and your yes to be yes. I need… less promises and more plans.”

He nodded like you’d drawn a play on the whiteboard. “Less promises. More plans,” he repeated. “Okay.”

You stared at him for a long, quiet minute. “Prove it.”

He nodded again, then turned to leave. You blinked. “Where are you going?”

“To start provin’,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll text you tomorrow mornin’. 8:00. If you say no, I won’t call again. If you say yes, I’ll be there at 7:50.”

He tipped his cap, let himself out, and left your apartment filled with the echo of his new word: plan.

—

At 7:46 the next morning, a text arrived. downstairs. no rush.

You hesitated by your window for a full minute before looking. There he was, leaning against a blue pickup you’d never seen, holding two coffees and a white paper bag grease-stained in the corners. He didn’t look up at your window. He just waited like a man in no hurry to prove patience.

You found yourself in the elevator before your mind decided to go.

“I ain’t know if you’d come,” he admitted when you stepped outside, surprise blooming slow across his face. He held out the coffee. “Oat milk, two pumps vanilla. That right?”

You bit back a smile and nodded. “What’s the bag?”

“Biscuits,” he said, proud. “My auntie sent me the recipe. I been practicin’.” He scratched the back of his neck. “They trash sometimes. But today felt lucky.”

They were… good. Flaky, a little crooked, hot enough to steam your fingers through the bag. He drove you to the river and parked facing the water. The city woke up around you in soft layers—the whir of a cyclist, the whisper of early joggers, geese heckling each other like old men. He didn’t talk much. He didn’t touch you. He just handed you a napkin when butter hit your lip and pretended not to watch you lick it away.

“Game tonight,” he said finally, staring straight ahead. “I put your name on the pass list. Not press box. Not a suite. A regular seat. Next to my sister.” He glanced at you. “If you come, you come as my family. If you don’t, I’ll hoop like hell anyway. For you.”

You could’ve said no just to feel the power of it. You could’ve said maybe and watched him bend around your uncertainty. Instead, you said, “What time should I meet her?” and he exhaled like someone had cut a wire wrapped tight around his ribs.

“Six,” he said. “She’s loud. You’ll like her.”

“I already do,” you said, and that made him grin, real and bright—the one he saved for fourth-quarter steals and children in the tunnel.

—

The arena that night felt like a second skin you’d grown out of and slipped into again. His sister hugged you hard enough to bruise and told you embarrassing stories with a kindness that made you ache. During warmups, he didn’t look for you. During player introductions, he didn’t scan the stands. He ran his drills, locked in, and played like a man with something holy to protect.

Fourth quarter, tight game, three minutes left. He got fouled on a drive and hit the hardwood hard. The arena inhaled. He sat up slow, shook his head, and looked into the crowd. Not for you—for the spot he’d been told you’d be. His eyes found his sister first. Then they found you.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t wink. He just nodded once. Like: I see you. You see me. Keep watchin’.

He sank both free throws, then a pull-up that bled the clock. Wolves by four. Buzzer. Win.

He didn’t come to you after. He did his interviews and said the team name more than he said his own. He showered, dressed, and texted: outside. no rush.

When you came down, the night was fresh from victory, the city humming in a sweeter key. He stood by the truck again, hands in his pockets like a boy on a porch.

“Hey,” he said, and the word curled warm around you.

“Hey,” you answered, and for once, neither of you pretended it was simple.

He stepped closer, slow enough for you to move if you wanted. You didn’t. “Thank you for comin’,” he said. “For sittin’ with my sister. For… givin’ me a chance to be the man I been talkin’ about.”

You swallowed. “You kept your plan.”

“I’ll keep keepin’ it,” he said. “Not for a week. Not for a month. For… however long it takes to build back what I broke.” His throat worked. “If you let me.”

Something in you that had been braced softened. You reached up, thumb smoothing a wrinkle on his forehead. “I’m still mad,” you warned, honest as a prayer.

“You should be,” he said, relief flickering through his eyes like he’d been waiting to be told the truth. “I’ll hold it with you.”

You stood there, breathing the same air, the future a shape you could almost trace with your finger. You thought of biscuits and calendars with little boxes he was learning to fill, of sisters with noisy hugs, of promises turned into plans. You thought of the man in front of you, not the highlight reel or the rumor, but the one who’d finally learned how to show up.

“Anthony,” you said, and he looked at you like his name had become a mercy.

You rose on your toes and kissed him.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was a match struck in a dark room—small and bright and all you needed to see the next step. He kissed you back like he knew better than to rush it. Like his mouth had learned the pace of apology and meant it.

When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. “We takin’ it slow,” he murmured, asking even as he offered.

“Slow,” you agreed. “With plans.”

He laughed into your skin, the sound relieved and a little broken. “Yes, ma’am.”

He opened the passenger door for you like he was raised, like he’d promised, like he’d planned, and when you climbed in, you felt the click of something—maybe forgiveness, maybe hope—sliding back into place.

On the drive home, he didn’t reach for your hand. He just drove the speed limit, turned the radio down low, and let you look out the window while Minneapolis glittered by. At a red light, you glanced over. He was staring straight ahead, jaw unclenched, eyes quiet.

“Hey,” you said softly.

“Yeah?”

“Tomorrow,” you told him. “Seven forty-five.”

He smiled without looking away from the road. “I’ll be there at seven-thirty.”

——

muah 💋