Enough Waiting | ᝰ.ᐟ
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: baisangur x female reader ˎˊ˗
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : ♡ Seven months into your marriage, you’ve spent more nights talking to your husband through a phone screen than sleeping beside him. Between grueling UFC training camps and the distance that comes with chasing his dream, Baisangur can only promise that it’ll all be worth it one day - though his nightly teasing about how much he misses you certainly doesn’t make the waiting any easier. So, instead of counting down the days until he comes home, you decide to take matters into your own hands.
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: friends to lovers, arranged marriage? (family-approved match), childhood best friends, explicit sexual content, married couple, heavy flirting, dirty talk, mutual longing, breeding kink?
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝑺𝑴𝑼𝑻 18+ 𝑴𝑫𝑵𝑰
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5k
𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐞: i had so much fun writing this one, probably a little too much fun if i’m being honest… my delulu brain may or may not have gotten slightly carried away fantasising all of this. anyways - thank you for all the love and support on my writing recently, it genuinely means so much to me. every like, reblog, comment and request makes me want to keep writing for you all. <𝟑 .ᐟ
𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: masterlist┃requests open! ♡⸝⸝
You had always known him.
Long before the cameras followed his every move, before the championship fights and sold-out arenas, before people recognized his name the moment they heard it, there had only ever been Baisangur.
The boy who had grown up beside you.
The one your family loved to tease you about long before either of you was old enough to understand what they meant.
“Your future husband,” they would laugh.
Every single time, you would roll your eyes, groaning dramatically as if the idea were completely impossible. How could anyone decide something like that for you? It wasn’t as though you had any interest in boys back then - especially not the one who constantly stole the last piece of bread at family dinners or insisted he wasn’t laughing whenever you caught him smiling.
And yet, somehow…
They had been right.
It had never been some whirlwind romance or love at first sight. There wasn’t a single defining moment where everything suddenly changed. Instead, your love had been built quietly, over years of friendship and familiarity.
You knew every habit he had without thinking. The tiny crease that appeared between his brows whenever he was annoyed. The way he bit the inside of his cheek when he was concentrating. How he always tried - and failed - to hide his laughter whenever something amused him.
You had simply… grown up together.
Then somewhere between your late teenage years and adulthood, without either of you noticing exactly when it happened, friendship had become something more.
The feelings had probably been there all along. You had just needed time to recognise them.
The jokes your families had spent years making slowly stopped sounding like jokes. No one laughed quite as hard anymore because, at some point, everyone realised they had become reality.
Five years together passed faster than either of you could have imagined.
Life changed around you. Baisangur chased the dream he had talked about since he was a teenager, pouring every ounce of himself into becoming the fighter he knew he could be. You stood beside him through every step of it, celebrating the victories and carrying him through the disappointments.
So when he asked you to marry him, you had been surprised.
Not because you didn’t love him.
You did.
More than words could ever explain.
The surprise came from something else entirely. After knowing him for so many years, after watching him dedicate his life to his dream, after seeing firsthand everything he had sacrificed to reach it, you still couldn’t quite believe that he was choosing you.
Choosing forever.
Seven months ago, you had become his wife. Even now, the thought was enough to make you smile.
A wife.
His wife.
The words still felt almost unreal. Married life, however, had begun nothing like you had imagined.
There hadn’t been an endless honeymoon filled with lazy mornings tangled together in bed or spontaneous weekends away. There were no quiet afternoons spent decorating your home or long evenings with nowhere else to be.
Instead, there were airports.
Training camps.
Early mornings before the sun had risen and late nights spent staring at your phone, waiting for it to light up with his name.
You understood why.
You always had.
Fighting wasn’t just his career - it was his passion. The dream he had spent his entire life chasing. Every brutal training session, every injury, every sacrifice was for the future the two of you were building together.
You had never once asked him to choose between you and the sport.
You never would.
But understanding the reason behind the distance didn’t make you miss him any less.
Especially when the only place you could see your husband was through the glowing screen of your phone. Still, no matter how exhausting training became, he never missed a call.
Every evening, almost like clockwork, your phone would vibrate with his name across the screen. And every evening, without fail, you found yourself smiling before you even answered.
Because you already knew exactly how the conversation would begin
Innocent until it wasn’t.
“Hi, wife.”
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
“Hi husband.”
“What are you doing?”
“Lying in bed.”
A pause.
“…Alone?”
You laughed quietly.
“You know I’m alone.”
“I know.” His voice dropped into that familiar, teasing tone. “I just don’t like thinking about it.”
You shook your head, already knowing exactly where this conversation was heading.
“You’ve been training all day and this is what you’re thinking about?”
“I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
“You say that every night.”
“Because it’s true every night.”
You tried to ignore the warmth creeping into your cheeks.
He noticed anyway.
“You’ve gone quiet.”
“I’m choosing not to encourage you.”
He chuckled.
“It wouldn’t matter if you did.”
He starts off the same way every time, his accent thick with longing. "I miss you so much, malyshka. Training's brutal, but all I think about is getting back to you."
His words stay light at first, recounting drills and sparring sessions. Then his tone drops, eyes darkening on the screen.
"But, I cannot stop picturing your body. That tight little pussy of mine waiting for me. I miss how wet you get when I slide my fingers in, how you whimper when I stretch you open."
You feel heat building as he continues, voice turning filthy.
"I miss the taste of you"
Basiangur leans closer to the phone, a cocky smirk playing on his lips.
"And when I get home, I'm not wasting time. I want to put a baby in you, fill you up so good you'll be carrying my kid. You'll take every drop, won't you?"
You blinked.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“You always find a way to bring that up.”
He laughed.
“Can you blame me?”
“Every conversation.”
“Because every time I picture the future…” His expression softened. “You’re there. Our kids are there.”
“You’ve named them already, haven’t you?”
He grinned.
“Maybe.”
“Baisangur.”
You looked away from the camera, suddenly feeling shy.
His dirty talk escalates with each call, leaving you breathless and aching as he describes what he wants to do to you,
The conversation ends with him growling about coming home to claim you completely, his possessiveness clear in every filthy promise.
The truth was, hearing him talk about those things made the distance harder sometimes.
Because you wanted the same things.
You wanted the life he described.
You wanted the mornings where you didn’t have to say goodbye through a phone screen.
You wanted to wake up next to him instead of waking up to messages asking if you slept well.
You wanted a family.
So after months of listening to him tell you how much he missed you, how much he missed holding you, how much he couldn’t wait to have you again -
You decided you were done waiting.
Long after the call had ended, you remained curled up on the bed with your phone still in your hand, staring at the screen as if it might somehow bring him back.
Call Duration: 1:46:32.
One hour and forty-six minutes.
One hour and forty-six minutes of listening to your husband tell you how much he missed you.
One hour and forty-six minutes of trying - and failing - not to blush every time he smiled at you through the screen with that infuriatingly handsome grin.
And, of course, one hour and forty-six minutes of him shamelessly reminding you just how much he wanted to start a family with you one day.
With a dramatic groan, you tossed your phone onto the mattress before burying your face in your pillow.
“This man…”
You swore marriage had changed him.
The sweet, slightly shy boy you’d fallen in love with had somehow disappeared, replaced by a man who seemed to take genuine pleasure in making you flustered over FaceTime. Every conversation ended the same way - you speechless, your cheeks burning, while he sat there looking far too pleased with himself.
You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling.
Maybe it was time he got a taste of his own medicine.
The thought lingered for only a moment before you reached for your phone again.
Without giving yourself too much time to think, you opened your browser and searched for flights.
Your fingers hovered uncertainly above the screen.
He still had a little over three weeks left of training camp.
You knew exactly where he was staying. By now, he’d given you enough virtual tours of the Airbnb during your nightly calls that you could probably sketch the floor plan from memory.
Surely there had to be somewhere nearby for you to stay.
A few more taps brought up a list of hotels.
Your eyes widened.
There was a small boutique hotel less than ten minutes away from his Airbnb.
You stared at the screen.
This was ridiculous.
Completely impulsive.
You had never done anything like this before.
A slow smile tugged at your lips.
“Serves you right,” you muttered to yourself.
You could already picture the look on his face.
First the confusion.
Then the disbelief.
Then that adorable moment when his brain completely stopped working because he couldn’t process what he was seeing.
The image alone was enough to convince you.
Your excitement grew with every click as you selected your flights, entered your details, and confirmed the hotel reservation. What had started as a fleeting idea suddenly felt very real.
Your finger hovered over the final payment button for only a second.
Then you pressed it.
A confirmation page appeared almost instantly.
Booking confirmed.
Within seconds, your inbox chimed with a flood of emails.
Flight confirmation.
Hotel reservation.
Travel itinerary.
A squeal escaped before you could stop it, and you immediately clapped a hand over your mouth, laughing at yourself.
“Oh my God…”
You were actually doing this.
You were flying across the Atlantic to surprise your husband.
The thought sent a wave of excitement fluttering through your chest.
For a brief moment, you considered telling him.
You easily could have.
He would probably insist on collecting you from the airport himself, despite having a full training schedule. He’d spend every day counting down until you arrived, asking what time your flight landed and reminding you to text him the second you boarded.
But where was the fun in that?
No.
After months of teasing you from thousands of miles away, he deserved to be the one caught completely off guard.
The journey itself was far less glamorous than the surprise you had imagined.
Between the long flight, the layover, the time difference, and the nervous excitement that had followed you from the moment you left home, exhaustion settled heavily into your bones.
By the time you finally arrived at your hotel, all you wanted was a hot shower, a proper night’s sleep, and the chance to see your husband.
The hotel receptionist smiled as she handed over your key card.
“You’re all checked in.”
“Thank you.”
The room wasn’t extravagant, but it was perfect.
A large bed.
A small balcony overlooking the street.
A little seating area by the window.
More importantly…
It was less than ten minutes from the Airbnb where your husband was staying.
You dropped your suitcase onto the floor with a sigh before immediately pulling out your phone.
The urge to call him was overwhelming.
You wanted to hear his voice.
You wanted to tell him you were here.
No…
You wanted to see his face when he realised.
You walked over to the mirror, quickly fixing your hair after the long flight before taking a photo.
Nothing dramatic.
Just you, standing in the hotel room with an exhausted smile, your suitcase still unopened beside the bed.
You stared at the picture for a second.
Then you opened your messages.
Husband ❤️
You attached the photo.
For another moment, your thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Then you typed.
Guess where I am.
You hit send before you could lose your nerve.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
Then disappeared.
Then came back.
…Where are you?
You smiled to yourself.
Instead of answering, you took another picture.
This time of the hotel key card resting on the bedside table.
The room number and hotel name was visible.
No explanation.
Nothing.
Your phone began vibrating before you’d even locked it.
Incoming FaceTime
You laughed.
“That was fast.”
Accepting the call, his face filled the screen almost immediately.
He looked confused.
“What is this?”
“What?”
“The picture.”
You tried your hardest to keep a straight face.
“What picture?”
“The one you just sent me.”
“Oh.”
You shrugged innocently.
“I sent you a picture.”
“I can see that.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Where are you?”
“In a hotel.”
“I can see that.”
Another pause.
His expression shifted.
“…Why are you in a hotel?”
You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling too much.
“I fancied a holiday.”
“A holiday.”
“Mhm.”
“Without telling me.”
“Mhm.”
He looked at the screen for another few seconds.
Then his eyes widened.
“…Wait.”
You watched the exact moment it clicked.
“No.”
You couldn’t hold back your grin anymore.
“No?”
“You’re here?!”
You tilted your head.
“Maybe.”
His chair scraped loudly across the floor as he stood so quickly the camera shook.
“You are.”
“I might be.”
He let out an incredulous laugh.
“You flew all the way here and you’re teasing me?”
“I’ve learnt from the best.”
He ran a hand over his face, shaking his head with the biggest smile you’d seen in months.
“I’ll be there.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“I’m coming.”
“Baisangur -”
“I’m already putting my shoes on.”
“You have training tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“You should rest.”
“I’ve rested enough.”
He grabbed his car keys from the counter behind him.
The call ended before you could argue.
10 minutes later, the hotel room door swung open on silent hinges.
You barely have time to register before a shadow moves from the corner of the room.
Baisangur.
Months of FaceTime pixilation cannot prepare you for the sheer physical reality of him. The breadth of his shoulders fills the doorway, thick and corded with muscle that strains against a simple black t-shirt.
“You came,” he says, his voice rougher than you remember, the Chechen accent rounding the edges of the English words.
“You said you wanted to give me a child.” The words come out steadier than you feel. “I decided you should say that to my face.”
His mouth curves. It’s not quite a smile - something hungrier. He doesn’t step toward you. Instead, his eyes track down your body with the same focused intensity you’ve watched him bring to opponents in the octagon.
“Take off your jacket.”
The command lands low in your belly and spreads outward, a flush of heat creeping up your throat. Your fingers find the zipper of your travel hoodie. The metal teeth part with a sound that seems impossibly loud in the quiet room. You let it slip from your shoulders. It pools on the carpet behind you.
“The shirt.”
You hesitate - not from reluctance, but from the way your hands have started to tremble. His gaze hasn’t moved from your face. He’s watching you react, you realise. Studying every micro-expression the way he studies fight footage.
“You were braver on the phone,” he murmurs. “Telling me all the things you wanted me to do when I got home.”
“You started it.”
That pulls a sound from him - low, appreciative. “I did.” He takes a step forward. Then another. His hand rises and his knuckles graze your collarbone, a touch so light it raises goosebumps in a cascading wave down your arms. “Every night, lying in bed, telling you how much I missed my wife. How I would touch her. Where I would kiss her.”
His thumb traces the strap of your tank top.
“And now you’re here. My wife. In a hotel room.” He says my wife with a weight that makes your knees threaten to buckle. “So. The shirt.”
You pull the tank top over your head before you can think about it. The cool air-conditioned air hits your skin and your nipples tighten instantly against the lace of your bra.
Baisangur exhales slowly, a controlled release of breath through his nose. His hand drops from your shoulder and he circles you - actually circles you, like you’re the center of a cage and he’s deciding his angle of attack. His footsteps are silent on the plush carpet.
“Seven months,” he says from behind you. “Do you know how many times I replayed our wedding night in my head?”
“Tell me.”
Your voice comes out breathy. Needy. You don’t care.
His chest presses against your back. The heat of him seeps through the thin fabric of his shirt, radiating into your bare skin, and his mouth descends to the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. Not kissing. Just hovering. His breath ghosts across your pulse point.
“Every time after training,” he says, his lips brushing your ear, “I would go back to my room and think about how you sounded when I first pushed inside you.”
Your head falls back against his shoulder. A sound escapes you - something between a gasp and a whimper.
“That sound,” he says. “Exactly that sound. I would close my eyes and hear it”
His hands find your hips. They’re enormous, calloused from hours of grappling, the knuckles thickened from impact. He grips you like you might evaporate.
“Turn around.”
You do. You’re close enough now to see the faint scar bisecting his left eyebrow, the flecks of amber in his dark irises. The tiredness beneath his eyes from months of brutal training. And beneath that, blazing through it all, a want so naked it steals your breath.
“I meant every word,” he says. “When I told you I wanted to put a baby in you. My son. My daughter. Someone who waits for me at home with you when I fight.”
Your hand lifts without permission, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Then stop talking about it.”
His eyes flash.
In one motion, his arm bands around your waist and he lifts you. You’re not small - but against him, you feel weightless. Your legs wrap around his hips on instinct, ankles locking at the base of his spine, and he carries you across the room like you weigh nothing at all.
He doesn’t throw you on the bed. You expected him to - expected something rough, something urgent. Instead, he lays you down with a care that makes your throat tight, your back sinking into the white duvet, and he follows you down, his weight settling between your thighs.
“I’ve been patient,” he says, propped on his elbows above you. His hips roll once - a slow, grinding pressure that lets you feel exactly how patient he hasn’t been. The thick ridge of him presses against the seam of your jeans and your eyes flutter shut. “But patience has limits, malyshka.”
His mouth finds yours and it’s not gentle anymore.
The kiss is bruising. Devouring. He tastes like black tea and something faintly sweet, and his tongue sweeps past your lips with an authority that makes your spine arch off the mattress. One of his hands skates up your ribs, calloused palm dragging against sensitive skin, until it cups your breast through the lace of your bra.
His thumb finds your nipple and circles. Once. Twice.
A moan breaks free from somewhere deep in your chest and he swallows it whole.
“These,” he mutters against your mouth, “these joggers. I’ve hated these joggers since i walked through the door.”
The laugh that bubbles up is strangled by a gasp as his hand abandons your breast and finds the waistband of your joggers. He makes quick work of it - surprisingly nimble fingers for a man who punches people for a living - and then he’s dragging them down your legs, taking your underwear with them in one impatient pull.
The cool air hits the damp heat between your thighs and you shiver.
Baisangur sits back on his heels, still fully clothed, and looks at you.
Not a glance. Not a quick appraisal. A long, devouring stare that makes you feel more naked than naked. His chest rises and falls with breath that’s no longer steady. His jaw is tight. The bulge straining against his sweatpants is unmistakable.
“Do you know what a man thinks about,” he says, his voice dropped to something gravelly and dangerous, “when he’s alone for months with only his hand and his wife’s voice on a phone?”
Your thighs press together. He notices. Of course he notices.
“Show me,” you whisper.
A muscle in his jaw jumps. His hand moves to the waistband of his sweatpants -
And stops.
A wicked, slow smile spreads across his face. The same smile he wore walking into the octagon in that YouTube compilation you’ve watched an embarrassing number of times.
“No,” he says. “Not yet. I’ve waited too long to rush this.” He lowers himself down, broad shoulders pushing your thighs apart, his mouth hovering inches from where you want him most. “You flew all the way here. The least I can do is take my time making you scream”
His tongue traces a long, deliberate line up your inner thigh.
Your fingers fist in the duvet.
“I dreamed about this,” he murmurs. “Every night. Touching you. Tasting you.”
Your hand finds the back of his head. The close-cropped hair there is surprisingly soft, velvet-rough against your palm. You try to guide him - upward, downward, anywhere - but he resists. Immovable. A mountain in human form.
“Who’s in charge here?” The question rumbles against your stomach.
“You are.”
“Good. Remember that.”
His fingers hook into the waistband of your bra - the last scrap of fabric you’re wearing and he drags it down with agonizing slowness. The lace catches on your nipples, already pebbled tight, and the friction draws a gasp from your throat. He takes his time freeing you. One strap. Then the other. The garment joins your joggers somewhere on the floor and suddenly there’s nothing between you and the lamplight, nothing between you and his gaze.
Baisangur lifts his head and looks at you.
Not a quick glance. Not a hungry leer. Something closer to reverence. His eyes move across your body like he’s memorizing topography, mapping every curve and hollow for the long months ahead when he’ll be alone again.
Your throat tightens. “Baisangur - ”
“Shh.” His palm flattens against your sternum, warm and grounding. “Let me. Please.”
The please undoes something inside you. This man who breaks people for a living, who walks into cages and leaves opponents unconscious on the canvas, saying please like you’re the one with all the power.
His hand slides lower. Calloused palm skimming the underside of your breast, thumb tracing a circle that makes your back arch. He watches your face the entire time, studying every flutter of your eyelids, every parting of your lips. An audience of one, utterly captivated.
“You’re so wet,” he says, his hand now resting between your thighs. Not touching. Just resting. The heat of his palm radiates downward.
“You’re not the only one who was lonely.” you manage.
Something flickers in his eyes. Gratitude, maybe. Or recognition. The understanding that his wife has been aching for him just as fiercely as he’s been aching for her.
“Then I should take care of you.”
His mouth descends once more.
Where his tongue touches you, lightning follows. He doesn’t tease anymore - no more tracing, no more hovering. He licks into you with the same focused intensity he brought to the octagon, single-minded and devastating. His tongue finds your clit and circles, slow at first, then faster, reading your body’s responses like a language only he speaks.
Your hips buck. He pins them with one arm, forearm braced across your pelvis.
“Stay still.”
“I can’t - ”
“You can.”
His mouth returns to its work. Two fingers slide inside you - thick, calloused fingers that curl and press and find a spot that makes colours burst behind your eyelids. He matches the rhythm of his tongue to the movement of his hand, building something inside you that feels tectonic, geological, pressure accumulating along fault lines you didn’t know you had.
Your hands fist in the sheets. Your heels dig into the mattress. Sounds are falling from your mouth that you don’t recognise - half-formed syllables, fragments of his name, pleas that aren’t quite words.
“Baisangur, I’m - ”
He hums against you. The vibration tips you over the edge.
Release crashes through you in pulses, each one wringing a cry from somewhere deep in your chest. Your thighs clamp around his head and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, works you through every aftershock until you’re trembling and oversensitive and pushing weakly at his shoulders.
Only then does he lift his head, beard glistening, expression utterly satisfied.
“There she is,” he says. “There’s my wife.”
You’re still catching your breath when he finally strips off his shirt. The fabric clears his head and your brain short-circuits.
His torso is a landscape of muscle and scar tissue. Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist. Abdominal muscles stack like bricks beneath skin that gleams faintly in the lamplight. A trail of dark hair begins below his navel and disappears beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“You’re worth staring at.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. He shoves the sweatpants down and kicks them aside, and then there’s nothing left between you at all.
He’s thick. Uncomfortably thick, maybe, the kind of thickness that made you nervous on your wedding night and makes your mouth go dry now. But he’s also patient. He settles between your thighs again, weight braced on his elbows, and the head of him presses against your entrance - not pushing, just resting there, letting you feel the heat and heft of him.
“Look at me,” he says.
You do.
His dark eyes hold yours as he begins to push inside.
The stretch is exquisite, a slow, burning fullness that steals your breath and replaces it with something wordless. Inch by inch he sinks deeper, each increment of progress marked by the flutter of your eyelids, the gasp that escapes your lips. He’s watching you the entire time, reading your face for any sign of discomfort, any signal to stop.
There is none. Only want.
“Baisangur.” His name comes out shattered.
“I know.” His forehead drops to yours. His breath is ragged now, control fraying at the edges. “I know, Malyshka. I feel it too.”
He pauses there, buried to the hilt, giving you time to adjust. The fullness is overwhelming, you can feel him in your throat, practically, can feel your body stretching to accommodate him the way it did once before, seven months and a lifetime ago. Your inner muscles flutter around him and he groans, low and guttural.
“You feel - ” He swallows hard. “I can’t. I can’t be gentle if you keep doing that.”
“Then don’t be gentle.”
His eyes darken. “No. Not yet. I want to remember this. Every second.”
He withdraws slowly, letting you feel every ridge and vein, and then pushes back in with a deliberation that borders on torture. Again. Again. Each thrust is a statement, a declaration, his body telling yours everything he couldn’t say over FaceTime. I missed you. I need you. I’m not leaving you again without giving you something to remember.
His mouth finds your throat. Your collarbone. The hollow between your breasts. He kisses you everywhere he can reach while his hips maintain their maddening, perfect rhythm.
“You’re going to give me a child,” he says against your skin. “My son. My daughter. I’m going to fill you up and keep you full until it takes.”
The words should sound possessive. They do sound possessive. But beneath that is something else - a vulnerability he’d never show anyone else, a wanting that goes beyond sex and into the territory of legacy, family, home.
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, Baisangur. Please.”
His rhythm quickens. The bed frame creaks beneath you, a counterpoint to the slick sound of your bodies joining, the breathless noises falling from both your mouths. His hand slips between your bodies and finds your clit again, circling in time with his thrusts, and the dual sensation is too much - it’s not enough - it’s everything.
“Cum with me,” he says, voice breaking. “I want to feel you when I - ”
You don’t hear the rest. Your second release hits harder than the first, ripping through you in a cascade that whites out your vision and leaves you clutching at his shoulders, his back, any part of him you can reach.
Through the haze you feel his rhythm stutter, feel him bury himself deep and hold there, a guttural groan tearing from his chest as warmth floods you from the inside out.
He pulses inside you for what feels like minutes. Your name falls from his lips in fragments, half in English, half in a language you don’t speak but understand perfectly.
When the tremors finally subside, he doesn’t pull out. He lowers himself carefully, his full weight settling on top of you like the world’s heaviest blanket, and tucks his face into the curve of your neck.
“Stay,” he says against your skin. “Stay until the fight. Stay until I go home. Come to every fight. I can’t do months apart again.”
Your fingers trace his spine. “You don’t have to.”
He lifts his head. In the amber lamplight, with his hair mussed and his dark eyes soft, he looks younger. Less like a fighter and more like the man you married.
“I love you, i missed you so much,” he says. “I should have said it more. On the phone. Every time we talked. I should have -”
You kiss him. Slow and sweet, nothing like the bruising desperation of before. His mouth curves against yours.
“Tell me now,” you whisper. “Tell me every day. I’m not going anywhere”
𐙚⋆.˚