abubakar nurmagomedov x reader
smut- size dynamic, possessive but not toxic, a little jealousy, abubakar is a soft dom
authors note: thank you anon for requesting! sorry it took me so long to finish and everything i’ve been doing like 5 stories over the past week so i needed to lock in but i really hope you enjoy this because we need some more abubakar content :)
The door clicked shut behind Abubakar, the sound echoing through the quiet space like a gunshot in the stillness. It was late—later than he'd promised—and the gym had kept him longer than expected. Extra rounds on the bags, extra drilling, his coach pushing him harder than usual. His knuckles were raw beneath the tape he hadn't bothered to remove yet, his muscles aching in that good way that came after a brutal session.
He dropped his duffel by the door with a heavy thud, rolling his shoulders as he moved through the dimly lit living room. The television was off. The kitchen was dark, only the faint hum of the refrigerator breaking the silence. But there was a soft glow coming from the bedroom doorway, warm and inviting, spilling golden light across the hardwood floor.
You were curled up on the couch with a book, your legs tucked beneath you, completely absorbed in whatever you were reading. But it wasn't the book that made him stop dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. It was what you were wearing—or rather, what you *weren't* wearing.
Silk shorts, barely there, the fabric so thin and delicate it might as well have been nothing. They clung to your hips and rode high on your thighs, exposing the smooth expanse of your legs. A thin white tank top, no bra underneath, the fabric so sheer he could see the outline of everything beneath it—the curve of your breasts, the shadow of your nipples pressing against the material.
His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
You looked up when you heard him, your face brightening with a soft smile that made his chest ache. "Hey. You're home late."
Abubakar didn't move. He couldn't. He stood there in the doorway, his big frame filling the space, shoulders broad enough to block out the light from the hallway behind him. His dark eyes tracked over you slowly—possessively—taking in every inch of exposed skin, every curve, every detail. The way the lamplight caught in your hair. The way your lips curved. The way that goddamn tank top left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
"What is this?" His voice was low, rough, his accent thick as always. He gestured toward you with one large hand, his expression unreadable but intense, his eyes burning with something that made the air between you crackle.
You blinked, glancing down at yourself as if you'd forgotten what you were wearing. "What do you mean?"
"*This.*" He stepped closer, his movements deliberate, predatory, each footfall heavy on the floor. "You wear this... for what? For who?"
Your breath caught in your throat. There was no anger in his voice, but there was something else—something dark and possessive that made heat pool low in your belly. Claim. Ownership. Need.
"For me," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I wore it for me. It's comfortable."
He stopped in front of the couch, towering over you. Even sitting, you had to tilt your head all the way back to meet his eyes. He was so *big*—six feet of solid muscle, two hundred pounds of raw power, hands that could break bones but touched you like you were made of glass. His presence was overwhelming, filling the space, making you feel small and protected and utterly claimed.
"For you," he repeated, his lips curving into something that wasn't quite a smile. There was amusement there, but also disbelief, and beneath it all, that possessive hunger that never quite went away. "You think I believe this?"
He reached down, his fingers brushing along the strap of your tank top, tracing the line of it over your shoulder. His touch was feather-light, barely there, but you felt it everywhere—a trail of fire across your skin that made you shiver.
"You wear for me, yes?" His thumb grazed your collarbone, and you couldn't suppress the tremor that ran through you. "Because you know what it does. You know what I think when I see you like this."
"*Mine,*" he said simply, his voice dropping even lower, rougher. His hand moved to cup your jaw, tilting your face up toward his. His palm was warm, rough with calluses from years of training, and it dwarfed your face entirely, his fingers spanning from your chin to your temple. "You are mine. This body—" His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, pressing gently. "—is mine. You understand?"
Your heart was racing now, your pulse thundering in your ears so loud you were sure he could hear it. You nodded, unable to form words, your mouth suddenly dry.
"Good girl," he murmured, and the praise sent a shiver down your spine, heat flooding through you. "Now, you come with me."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't a request.
He straightened, his hand sliding down to wrap around your wrist. His fingers overlapped easily, his grip firm but not painful, and he pulled you to your feet effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing at all. You stumbled slightly, your legs unsteady, and he steadied you with his other hand on your hip.
"Shh." He guided you toward the bedroom, his body close behind yours, his presence overwhelming, his heat radiating against your back. "No talking now. You listen to me, yes?"
You nodded, your breath coming faster, anticipation coiling tight in your belly.
"Good," he said, his voice a low rumble that you felt in your bones. "Very good, beautiful."
The bedroom was bathed in soft golden light from the lamp on the nightstand, casting long shadows across the walls. Abubakar closed the door behind you, and the click of the latch felt final, definitive, shutting out the rest of the world.
He turned to face you, and the look in his eyes made your knees weak. Dark. Intense. Hungry.
"Come here," he said, his voice a command wrapped in velvet.
You took a step toward him, and then another, until you were standing directly in front of him. He reached out, his hands settling on your hips, his thumbs brushing over the bare skin just above the waistband of your shorts. The touch sent electricity racing through you.
"So small," he murmured, almost to himself. His hands slid up your sides, mapping the curve of your waist, the dip of your ribs, the swell of your breasts. "I forget sometimes... how small you are. How easy it is to..." He trailed off, his hands tightening slightly. "How I could break you."
You looked up at him, your breath coming faster now. He was so close, his body radiating heat, his scent—clean sweat and soap and something distinctly *him*—filling your senses and making your head spin.
"But you won't," you whispered.
His eyes softened, just for a moment. "No. Never. I protect you. Always." His accent was thicker now, his words coming slower, more deliberate. "But you... you make me crazy, you know this? I am at gym, I am training, and all I think is you. What you do. What you wear. If someone looks at you."
His hands tightened on your waist, and he walked you backward until your back hit the wall. The impact was gentle, controlled, but it left you breathless, trapped between the solid surface and his even more solid body.
"No one looks at you," he said, his voice rough, possessive. "No one but me. You are mine. Only mine."
He leaned down, his forehead nearly touching yours, his breath warm against your lips. "You understand this?"
"Good." His hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, gripping just tight enough to make you gasp. "Now, I show you what happens when you wear things like this. When you make me think about you all day. When you make me want to leave training early just to come home and touch you."
His mouth fell against yours, and the kiss was everything—demanding, possessive, consuming. His lips moved over yours with a hunger that made your head spin, his tongue sliding against yours, claiming you, tasting you. You gasped into his mouth, your hands coming up to grip his shirt, and he groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.
"You taste so good," he muttered against your lips, his accent thick. "So sweet. Like you are mine."
"I am yours," you breathed.
"Yes. You are." His hands were everywhere—sliding under your tank top, palming your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they were hard peaks and you were arching into his touch, desperate for more. "All mine. Every part of you."
He pulled back just enough to yank your tank top over your head, tossing it aside carelessly. It landed somewhere on the floor, forgotten.
"Beautiful," he said, his eyes dark as they roamed over you, taking in every detail. "So beautiful. And mine."
He dipped his head, his mouth closing over one nipple, and you whined, your fingers tangling in his hair. He sucked hard, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak, his teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. Then he moved to the other, giving it the same attention, his hands holding your hips against the wall so you couldn't squirm away.
"Please what?" He straightened, his hands moving to the waistband of your shorts, his fingers hooking into the elastic. "You want something, beautiful? You tell me."
"I want you," you breathed, your voice shaking.
"You have me." He hooked his fingers into your shorts and panties, dragging them down your legs. "You always have me. From the first day I see you, you have me."
He straightened, his eyes raking over your naked body, and the look on his face was pure reverence mixed with raw desire. Like you were something precious and profane all at once.
"On the bed," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Now."
You obeyed, your legs shaky as you moved to the bed and climbed onto it, lying back against the pillows. He watched you the entire time, his eyes tracking every movement, and then his hands moved to pull his shirt over his head.
He was a work of art—all hard muscle and bronzed skin, his chest broad and defined, his abs carved like stone. Scars littered his torso, evidence of years of training and fighting, white lines against tan skin. You wanted to trace every single one with your tongue, to map the history of his body.
He unbuckled his belt, the sound of metal loud in the quiet room, his eyes never leaving yours. He pushed his pants and boxers down, and his cock sprang free, thick and hard and already leaking.
He climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and settled between your thighs. His hands gripped your knees, spreading you wide, and he stared down at you with an intensity that made you squirm.
"Don't hide from me," he said, his voice rough. "I want to see all of you."
"Shh." He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee, then higher, his lips trailing up your inner thigh. "I take care of you. Always. You trust me, yes?"
"Good." His breath ghosted over your center, and you trembled. "So wet already," he murmured, one finger sliding through your folds, gathering the wetness there. "This is for me, yes?"
"Say it. I want to hear you say it."
"It's for you, Abubakar. Only you."
"Good girl." He pushed one thick finger inside you, and you winced, your hips lifting off the bed. "Only me. No one else touches you. No one else sees you like this. No one else makes you feel like this."
He added a second finger, stretching you, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with maddening precision. You were already so sensitive, so wound up, and his touch was driving you crazy.
"You are so tight," he said, his accent thick. "So perfect. I think about this all day. About how you feel. How you taste."
He lowered his head, and his tongue replaced his thumb, licking a long stripe up your center. You whined out, your hands flying to his hair, and he groaned against you, the vibration sending shocks of pleasure through you.
"I know what you need." He worked you with his fingers and his mouth, his tongue circling your clit, his fingers curling inside you to hit that spot that made you see stars. "I always know. Your body, it talks to me. It tells me what you need."
He was relentless, his fingers pumping, his tongue licking and sucking, and you were climbing higher and higher, pleasure coiling tight in your belly.
"That's it, beautiful," he murmured against you. "You come for me. I want to taste you."
It was too much. The combination of his words, his touch, the way he was completely focused on you—it pushed you over the edge. You came with a cry, your body arching off the bed, your thighs trembling around his head.
He worked you through it, his fingers gentling, his tongue soothing, until you were boneless and gasping.
"Good girl," he said, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. "So good for me."
He withdrew his fingers, and you whimpered at the loss. He brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean, his eyes locked on yours.
"You taste like heaven," he said simply.
He moved up your body, settling between your thighs, and you could feel the hard length of him pressing against you. He was so big, so heavy, his body covering yours completely.
"You ready for me?" he asked, his voice strained.
"Yes," you breathed. "Please, Abubakar."
He gripped his cock, stroking it once, twice, and then positioned himself at your entrance. "You tell me if it is too much, yes? You tell me, and I stop."
He pushed in slowly, and the stretch was overwhelming. He was so *thick*, filling you inch by inch, and you gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin.
"*Breathe,*" he commanded, his voice strained. "Relax for me, beautiful. Let me in. I have you."
You tried, forcing yourself to relax, and he sank deeper, his hips pressing flush against yours. He was so deep, so full, you could barely breathe.
"*Fuck,*" he groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder. "You are so tight. So perfect. Like you are made for me. Only for me."
He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, his body trembling with the effort of holding back. You could feel his heart pounding against your chest, could feel the tension in every muscle.
"Move," you whispered. "Please move."
He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, and then pushed back in, deeper this time. Slow, deep thrusts that made you see stars, that made you feel every inch of him.
"You take me so good," he murmured against your ear, his accent thick with arousal. "Like you are made for me. My perfect girl."
"I am," you gasped. "I'm yours."
"Yes. You are mine." He pulled back, his hands gripping your hips, and slammed back in, harder this time. "Say it again. I want to hear you say it."
He groaned, his pace increasing, his hips slamming against yours with a rhythm that had you crying out with every thrust. The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard hitting the wall, but neither of you cared. The only thing that mattered was this—the slide of his body against yours, the way he filled you completely, the way he made you feel owned and cherished all at once.
"No one else," he growled, his hand sliding up to wrap around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, claiming. "No one else gets this. No one else gets you. You are mine. Only mine."
"No one else," you echoed, your voice breaking. "Only you."
He shifted, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder, and the new angle had him hitting that spot inside you that made you scream. Deeper. Harder. More.
"There" he said, satisfaction in his voice. "I feel you. You are close, yes? I feel you getting tight around me."
"You come for me," he commanded, his thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles. "You come on my cock, and you remember who you belong to. You remember who makes you feel like this."
The combination of his words, his touch, the relentless drive of his hips—it was too much. You shattered, your orgasm crashing over you in waves, and you screamed his name, your body convulsing around him.
"That's it," he groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Good girl. My good girl. So perfect for me."
He followed you over the edge moments later, his cock pulsing inside you as he spilled himself deep, his body shuddering with the force of it. He buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin, and you felt him trembling.
Afterward, he collapsed beside you, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. But even in his exhaustion, he reached for you, pulling you against his side, his arm wrapping around you possessively.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was your breathing, gradually slowing, gradually syncing.
"You okay?" he asked finally, his voice softer now but still rough around the edges. His hand came up to brush your hair back from your face, his touch gentle. "I was not too rough?"
"I'm okay," you whispered, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart. "You're never too rough."
"Good." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your shoulder. "You are mine," he said again, but this time it was tender, reverent. "Always mine. I never let you go."
"Always yours," you agreed, your eyes drifting closed.
He held you tighter, his body curling around yours protectively, one leg hooking over yours, his arm a solid weight across your waist. You felt safe. Cherished. Loved.
"You know," he said after a moment, his voice quiet, "when I am at gym today, I think about you. I think about coming home. About seeing you. And I think... I am lucky man. Very lucky."
You smiled against his chest. "I'm the lucky one."
"No." His hand cupped your face, tilting it up so you had to look at him. His eyes were serious, intense. "You are everything. You understand? Everything. Before you, I have fighting. I have training. But now\... now I have reason. I have home."
Your throat tightened with emotion. "Abubakar..."
"I love you," he said simply, his accent making the words sound even more sincere. "I am not good with words, I know this. My English is not perfect. But I love you. More than anything."
"I love you too," you whispered, tears pricking at your eyes.
He kissed you then, soft and sweet, so different from the hungry kisses earlier. This was tender. This was promise.
When he pulled back, he tucked you against his chest again, his hand stroking your hair.
"Sleep now, beautiful," he murmured. "I am here. I protect you. Always."
And in his arms, surrounded by his warmth and his strength and his love, you believed it. You believed every word.
Because you were his. And he was yours. And nothing else mattered.
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