#ufcblr

[bliffordboolin]

Now Khabib knows that little thrust was not necessary 😭😭😭

[uflirtc]

Off the Clock┃ᝰ.ᐟ

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: ilia x female reader ˎˊ˗

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : ♡ Taking a job as Ilia’s nanny was supposed to be simple: look after the child, keep the household running smoothly, and maintain professional boundaries. But as time passes, the line between employee and something more begins to blur.

ִ𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: nanny!reader, employer/employee relationship, slow-burn romance, jealousy, domestic moments, relationship development, mutual pining, passionate sexual content 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝑺𝑴𝑼𝑻 18+ 𝑴𝑫𝑵𝑰 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.2k

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐞: huge thank you to everyone leaving requests in my inbox! I love reading all your ideas and filthy little thoughts. most of them seem to involve Khamzat, but we are branching out! this is my first time writing for Ilia, so hopefully I did him justice ♡ as always, feedback, thoughts and requests are welcome! keep enabling me, enjoy! <𝟑 .ᐟ

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: masterlist┃requests open! ♡⸝⸝

You’d been a professional nanny for nearly seven years.

Long enough to know that wealthy clients came in all varieties. Busy executives, actors, athletes, people whose schedules were too chaotic to manage childcare alone.

Two days ago you received a name, an address, and a brief overview of the position before being sent on your way. A temporary placement. One child. A father whose work commitments were about to become significantly more demanding over the coming months.

That was it.

Normally, you liked knowing a little more before accepting a job. Not because you were nosy, but because every family was different. Some wanted structure down to the minute. Others preferred a more relaxed approach. Some parents were deeply involved in every aspect of their child’s day, while others barely seemed to know what was happening in their own homes.

You’d worked with enough high-profile families to know discretion was often part of the job. Most of the time you didn’t learn much about your clients until you were standing on their doorstep.

As you pulled up outside the address, you found yourself hoping this father belonged to the first category.

Gathering your things, you found yourself doing what you always did before meeting a new family - mentally reviewing first impressions. Be friendly. Be professional. Listen more than you talk.

The house itself was beautiful, though not in the cold, untouchable way you’d expected. It looked lived in. Large enough to be impressive, but not the kind of place that looked designed solely for showing off wealth.

There was a football abandoned near the front steps, and through one of the downstairs windows you could see what appeared to be drawings scattered across a dining table.

You barely had time to knock before the front door opened, and for a moment, you forgot why you were there.

The man standing in front of you wasn’t what you’d been expecting.

Most of your clients were businesspeople, doctors, lawyers, executives. Men who spent their days in offices and conference rooms. This man looked like he belonged somewhere entirely different.

He was tanned, broad-shouldered, and built in a way that immediately suggested years of intense physical training.

Dark eyes met yours, assessing but not unfriendly, and when he smiled, the seriousness in his expression softened considerably.

“You must be from the agency?”

His voice carried a slight accent you couldn’t immediately place.

“That’s me.”

You returned the smile automatically before extending your hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

His grin widened.

“Come in.”

The warmth in his tone made it easier to relax as you followed him inside. The house itself was far more comfortable than you’d expected. Photographs lined shelves and side tables. Sporting achievements had been proudly displayed on shelves, and there were enough signs of daily life to make it obvious that this wasn’t one of those houses that existed purely for appearances.

As if summoned by the sound of unfamiliar voices, a boy appeared at the end of the hallway. He couldn’t have been more than seven, all dark hair, curious eyes, and barely concealed suspicion. He looked at you, looked at his father, then looked back at you again.

“You’re the new nanny?”

You smiled.

“I am.”

His gaze narrowed thoughtfully.

“Can you play football?”

The question caught you off guard enough that you laughed.

“A little.”

“Good.”

He nodded once, apparently satisfied with your answer and then disappeared back down the hallway.

You blinked.

“Was that my interview?”

“It went well,” Ilia informed you. “Trust me, if he didn’t like you, you’d know.”

The rest of the afternoon was spent learning the household routine. You expected the conversation to be brief, but nearly an hour passed as Ilia walked you through school schedules, sportingl activities, meal preferences, allergies, emergency contacts, and every detail he thought you might need.

What struck you wasn’t simply how organised he was. It was how involved he clearly remained despite his demanding schedule. He knew the names of teachers, friends, favourite subjects, which meals his son would happily eat and which vegetables required negotiation.

There was never a moment where he needed to check notes or think about an answer.

You found yourself liking him more than you’d intended.

Not because he was attractive, that would have been inconvenient enough. But because he was obviously a good father.

And that was somehow worse.

Over the next few weeks, you settled into a comfortable routine. Mornings were spent getting his son ready for school, afternoons were filled with homework, football practice, trips to the park, and endless conversations about whatever seven-year-old boys happened to find fascinating that particular day.

The adjustment was surprisingly smooth, and before long you found yourself genuinely looking forward to work.

You didn’t see Ilia constantly. His training schedule was demanding enough that there were days he left before you arrived and returned after you’d gone home. Still, your paths crossed often enough that a comfortable familiarity began to develop.

Sometimes he would ask how school had gone while making coffee before training. Other times you’d find yourself discussing weekend plans while his son finished breakfast at the kitchen island. They were small conversations, ordinary conversations, but they accumulated over time until he no longer felt like a client.

Several weeks into the placement, you arrived to find another man already sitting at the kitchen table.

The family resemblance was impossible to miss, the same features, the same confident posture, the same accent and the same smile.

Though where Ilia often seemed calm and measured, his brother looked like trouble.

The harmless sort.

Hopefully.

“So, your the new nanny”

You looked up from setting your bag down.

“I am.”

His grin widened immediately.

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

That earned him a look from Ilia.

You noticed.

So did he.

His smile only grew.

From that point onward, his appearances became increasingly frequent. At first you assumed it was coincidence. Then you noticed he somehow always seemed to visit during your shifts. He lingered in the kitchen when you were preparing lunch, volunteered to help carry things that didn’t require carrying, and possessed an almost supernatural ability to appear whenever you happened to be alone for more than five minutes.

The flirting wasn’t aggressive. If anything, it was annoyingly charming. He complimented your sense of humour. Teased you during family dinners. Remembered things you’d mentioned weeks earlier. It was obvious enough that you recognised it immediately, but harmless enough that ignoring it remained easy.

What proved more difficult to ignore was Ilia.

The first few times, you dismissed it as coincidence. A conversation interrupted at an odd moment. A sudden appearance whenever his brother had managed to monopolise your attention for too long. The occasional look that seemed far too intense for the situation. But as the weeks passed, the pattern became impossible to miss.

His brother would make you laugh.

Ilia would suddenly need your attention.

His brother would compliment you.

Ilia’s mood would shift.

His brother would stand a little too close.

And Ilia would need you elsewhere.

Once you noticed the jealousy, it became impossible to ignore.

Not because Ilia was obvious about it. If anything, he seemed determined to pretend nothing was happening.

But the problem was that you were around him almost every day, and over time you had become surprisingly good at reading him.

You noticed the small things.

The way he suddenly started being home more often.

The way training sessions that had previously occupied entire days somehow became shorter whenever you were scheduled to be there.

The way he always seemed to appear in the kitchen when you were making lunch, despite having no apparent reason to be there.

At first you convinced yourself you were imagining it.

Then one Tuesday morning he casually asked if you and his son wanted to visit the gym.

“Why?” you asked suspiciously.

His son looked up from his cereal.

“Can we?”

A smile tugged at the corner of Ilia’s mouth.

“I thought he might enjoy seeing me train.”

The seven-year-old was already nodding enthusiastically.

You glanced between them.

Something felt suspicious.

Still, it wasn’t exactly an unreasonable suggestion.

So two days later you found yourself standing inside the training facility while his son excitedly pointed at various fighters and asked approximately six hundred questions that he already knew the answer to, just because he wanted to tell you about it.

The problem was that you were having difficulty concentrating.

Mostly because Ilia had apparently decided shirts were optional.

You watched him moving around the gym floor as he trained, sweat glistening across his shoulders while coaches called instructions from the side. Every time you managed to drag your attention elsewhere, it inevitably wandered back.

Once was an accident.

Twice was unfortunate.

By the fifth time, you were beginning to suspect he knew exactly what he was doing.

The smug look you caught when your eyes met briefly did absolutely nothing to disprove that theory.

His son, thankfully oblivious, spent the entire journey home talking excitedly about how cool everything had been.

You however, spent the entire journey pretending not to think about the way Ilia’s shirt had remained absent for most of the afternoon.

The night everything changed began like every other evening.

Dinner.

Conversation.

His son’s endless stories.

Nothing unusual.

By nine o’clock, his son was asleep upstairs and you were gathering your things to leave when Ilia stopped you.

“Stay.”

The word caught you off guard.

You looked up.

“What?”

“I made too much dessert.”

The excuse was terrible, you both knew it.

His smile widened slightly.

“Movie?”

You should have said no.

Instead, twenty minutes later you found yourself sitting beside him on the sofa with a blanket draped across your lap and a film playing that neither of you seemed particularly interested in watching.

The room was quiet.

Comfortable.

Dangerously comfortable.

You became increasingly aware of how close he was sitting.

How easily your arm could brush his.

How warm the space beside you felt.

Eventually you became aware that he was looking at you.

Not the television.

You.

When you turned your head, his gaze didn’t move away.

For a long moment neither of you spoke.

Then he sighed softly and leaned back against the sofa.

“I’ve been trying very hard not to do this.”

Your heart skipped.

“Do what?”

“Tell you.”

His laugh held a trace of frustration.

“Because I know how complicated it is.”

You couldn’t seem to find any words.

Ilia looked down at his hands before shaking his head.

“The truth is, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

The confession settled between you.

Heavy.

Honest.

Terrifying.

His eyes lifted to yours.

“I’ve tried focusing on training. I’ve tried convincing myself it’ll pass. I’ve tried giving myself every reason not to feel this way.”

A small smile touched his mouth.

“None of it worked.”

Your pulse hammered in your ears.

“Ilia…”

“No. Let me finish.”

His voice was gentle..

“I think about you all the time. I think about seeing you here every morning. I think about how excited my son gets when he knows you’re coming over. I think about how happy you’ve made this house.”

Emotion flickered briefly across his expression.

“And I think about you.”

The intensity in his gaze made your breath catch.

“I think about your smile. The way you laugh when you’re trying not to. The way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

His voice dropped lower.

“I think about you more often than I should.”

The room suddenly felt very small.

“I think you’re beautiful.”

The words were simple but somehow they hit harder than anything else.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt inevitable. As though the two of you had been moving towards this exact moment for far longer than either of you wanted to admit.

When Ilia reached for your hand, the gesture was surprisingly gentle. His fingers slid between yours naturally, as though they’d belonged there all along. The simple touch sent warmth rushing through your entire body.

He looked down briefly before lifting his gaze back to yours.

And then his eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.

The world had narrowed to the sofa, the quiet hum of the television, and the man sitting beside you. Nothing else existed.

Slowly, carefully, Ilia lifted a hand to your face.

His fingertips brushed against your cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Your eyes dropped briefly to his mouth before returning to his gaze. The look that passed between you was enough.

No more words were needed. Ilia closed the distance first.

The kiss was slow.

Tentative.

As though he was giving you every opportunity to pull away.

You didn’t.

The second kiss came easier.

More certain.

His hand slid from your cheek to the side of your neck while yours found his shoulder, instinctively drawing him closer. Months of tension seemed to unravel all at once, every stolen glance and unfinished conversation culminating in the way his forehead rested briefly against yours between kisses.

His hands grip your waist and pull you onto his lap, mouths meeting in a deep, hungry kiss that steals your breath.

Tongues slide together as he sucks on your lower lip, then trails hot kisses down your neck, sucking marks into your skin that make you gasp softly.

You grind against him, feeling his cock harden beneath you through his pants. The friction builds heat between your thighs as you rock your hips, his hands roaming under your shirt to cup your breasts and pinch your nipples.

Ilia kisses you harder, biting gently at your collarbone before sucking another mark there, his tongue soothing the spot. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer while the grinding grows more urgent, your pussy growing slick against the bulge of his cock.

With a low groan, he flips you onto your back on the sofa, settling between your legs as he takes control. His mouth claims yours again, kissing passionately, then moves to suck and nip at your throat, leaving a trail of marks.

He tugs your shirt up to suck on your nipples, tongue circling and teeth grazing until you arch beneath him.

More kisses follow, wet and desperate, as his hands explore every curve, marking your skin with his mouth.

Ilia pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, voice rough with need. "Do you want to go further?"

You nod.

For months, you’d worked so hard to maintain boundaries.

You’d reminded yourself constantly that he was your employer. That you were there to do a job. That becoming emotionally involved would only complicate things.

But all those thoughts had disappeared as he stripped off your clothes, quickly but carefully.

The sound of his zipper was obscenely loud in the quiet room. He freed his cock, thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip and stroked himself once, twice, his gaze never leaving your face. Then he shifted his weight, notched himself at your entrance, and pushed inside in one long, slow thrust that stole every thought from your head.

The sofa barely creaks as he starts moving, hips rolling deep and steady to keep the sounds soft. Your walls clench around him with every thrust, coating his shaft as he fucks you in controlled, passionate strokes.

"Ilia-" His name came out breathier than you intended.

"Shh." His lips brushed the shell of your ear, and a shiver cascaded down your spine.

You bit your lower lip as his mouth found the curve of your neck. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin just below your ear, and a soft moan escaped before you could swallow it down. His palm covered your lips instantly, pressing just hard enough to feel the deliberate restraint.

"I said quiet." The command vibrated against your throat. His hips rolled again, harder this time.

You nodded against his palm, your eyes wide, your body stretching to accommodate him. He felt impossibly big like this - no buildup, no preparation, just the raw, aching fullness of his cock while the movie played on, forgotten.

His forehead pressed against yours. His eyes were closed, his expression tight with concentration, as if he were holding himself back from something far more violent.

Each thrust was controlled - measured pressure, deliberate withdrawal - fucking you with the same careful intensity he brought to everything. As if you might break.

As if he might.

Your hands find his back, your nails biting his skin. You wanted more - harder, faster, something to match the desperation coiling in your belly, but his pace remained agonizingly soft. Each stroke dragged against your front wall, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every deep push. The pleasure built in waves, each one cresting higher than the last.

"Good," he murmured against your temple. "Good girl. Take it."

The words sent a fresh gush of wetness around his cock.

Your walls clenched, and his breath hitched, a crack in his composure. His hips stuttered, just once, before he regained control. His hand pressed harder over your mouth, and you understood: you weren't the only one struggling to stay quiet.

He shifted his angle slightly, and the change hit something inside you that made your vision blur. Your thighs trembled against his. The orgasm built like a slow tide, inevitable, relentless - stealing the strength from your limbs.

"That's it," he breathed. "Cum for me. Quietly."

His thumb found your clit and he circled it once, twice - firm, precise pressure that sent you over the edge. You came with his name trapped behind his palm, your pussy clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that pulled him deeper. His jaw clenched, and he buried his face in your neck, his own release following yours in hot, shuddering waves that filled you completely.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. His weight pressed you into the cushions, his breath hot and uneven against your throat. The movie played on, the protagonist still running through rain-slicked streets, oblivious to everything that had just happened on this couch.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were soft again - warm, almost tender. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead that felt different from everything that came before.

"Stay tonight," he murmured against your skin. Not a question.

You weren’t thinking about work.

You weren’t thinking about boundaries.

You weren’t thinking at all, really.

Your fingers curled lightly against skin as you searched his face, the reality of everything slowly catching up with you again - the job, the house, his son sleeping upstairs, the life that existed outside this room waiting patiently for you both to acknowledge it again.

“Okay,” you said softly.

Something in his expression shifted at that, subtle but immediate, like a tension he hadn’t realised he was holding had finally loosened.

The world outside the house continued on as if nothing had changed, but inside, everything had. Eventually, his hand found yours again, fingers lacing together with an ease that already felt familiar, like it had always been meant to happen this way.

And when he finally leaned back against the sofa, pulling you with him without any hesitation, there was no distance left to question. Only the quiet certainty that neither of you was going anywhere tonight.

𐙚⋆.˚

[meetmeinborabora]

I’ve never seen so many bald people in my life

[hoesinmysocks]

I love LOVE ur fics!! Can u pleaseeee write for Islam? I need him YEARNINGGG for his wife pls 🥹

Baby Fever ⋆˚꩜｡

dad!Islam Makhachev x wife!Reader 🫧⭐️🪷

Context: Islam has always dreamed of having a big family. But now, with three kids running around the house, he's having a hard time sharing you with the mini-Makhachevs.

Warnings: Implications of smut

a/n: Thanks for the request anon! This is a little fic with lots of domestic fluff (and the tiniest bit of smut...) and lotssss of yearning 😙 FYI I gave "your" kids fake names in this fic, hopefully it isn't too districting. Hope you enjoy reading!

Masterlist link

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Ever since he could remember, Islam has always wanted a big family. He'd even admitted in a now viral interview that he wanted seven kids with you. Fast forward half a decade into your marriage, and you'd popped out three beautiful children who would carry on the Makhachev family name: Two boys and a girl.

Sounds like paradise right? That's what Islam thought too. And even though everyone (including Khabib) had warned him about how exhausting having three kids all under the age of five would be, Islam could not be happier.

But there was just one little issue that was proving to be more troublesome than expected… And that was spending time with you.

“Milayshka I’m home!” Islam called out as he dumped his gym bag by the front door, adrenaline still pumping in his veins after that quick sparring session with the team. He shuffled into the open kitchen and found you there cutting up some vegetables for what he assumed would be lunch.

“Hi darling,” you greeted without looking up, eyes still focused on the chopping board as you diced up some carrots.

Suddenly, you felt a pair of strong arms snake their way around your waist, hugging you tightly. Islam pressed a big wet kiss to your cheek before snuggling his face into the crook of your neck, sighing deeply as if he hadn't held you in years.

“I miss you baby,” he cooed, swaying his hips slightly as he pressed you against the countertop. You chuckled in response.

“We literally got up together this morning. I watched you pee like three hours ago.”

“So what? I cannot miss my wife when I go gym?” He whispered from behind you as he kissed you again on the side of your neck. You hummed happily as Islam started pressing his lips all over — your jaw, your earlobes, your shoulder… His calloused hands had conveniently found their way under the waistband of your shorts, caressing the skin at your hips.

“Careful now, the kids are awake,” you chastised quietly, silently not wanting him to stop. It'd been a hot minute since you and Islam had gotten any. Between raising two toddler boys and a newborn girl, you guys simply had no time alone for sex.

“It’s okay, they're upstairs no?” Islam said as he pushed your legs further apart with his feet. He pressed his hips against you and you could feel his hardness poking into your ass. You gasped as his hand worked his way down your pelvis, his fingers resting gingerly atop your entrance, separated only by the thin fabric of your shorts.

“I need you,” he growled primitively as he felt the warmth and desire of your cunt radiating through those cotton shorts. He let out a low moan as his other hand moved up your torso to fondle your breasts.

“PAPA!” The unmistakeable sound of bare feet pattering down the staircase jolted the two of you out of a trance. Islam recoiled back in the blink of an eye, clearing his throat like he had just been caught doing the unimaginable.

“Papa! Sayyid stole my firetruck!” 

“Liar!” Your youngest son retorted, crossing his arms defiantly. You and Islam exchanged tired but amused looks. If the past 5 years have taught you anything about parenting and family planning, it was that raising 2 toddler boys took the patience of a saint. They fought almost every day over who got to play with what, but it was just a shame it had to happen when you two were finally getting back into the rhythm of things… 

And as if the universe needed to send yet another interruption, your newborn daughter suddenly began to wail from her bassinet as she woke up from her midday nap. No words needed to be said between you and Islam. He placed a quick kiss on your cheek before springing into action as he pulled apart your sons from their tussle — seamlessly switching from husband-mode to dad-mode. You smiled to yourself before going to comfort your daughter. 

After a long time wrestling with the boys to put aside their petty beef, you and Islam finally got the whole family to sit down for lunch. Distracted with feeding your newborn her softfoods, as well as making sure your sons ate their vegetables, you had totally forgotten about your brief interaction with Islam earlier. But it was slowly becoming more and more apparent to you that it was still very much on his mind; a subtle grin from across the table, leaning over you as he served soup around, a quick tug at your ponytail as he got up to put the dishes in the sink… It was clear that Islam had some unfinished business with you.

Lunch was concluded in an impressively short time, and as you cleared the table, Islam had whisked the children away into the playroom to entertain themselves. You were about to go upstairs when Islam almost ran into you on the way down. 

“Where are you going?” He asked, almost aghast that you’d be doing anything other than waiting for him back in the dining room. 

You chuckled and placed a cheeky kiss on his lips. “I wanted to take a shower while the kids aren’t bothering us.” 

As you took a step up the stairs, Islam moved to cage you against the stairwell wall. He pressed your back against the wall, arms on either side of you, his face so close to yours that you could feel his breath against your cheek. His torso was firmly glued against yours, and you could feel his groin pushing against the fabric of his gym shorts. 

“But…” he whispered, tracing his fingers delicately up your arm. 

“But what Islam?” You teased, batting your eyelids innocently at him. You swung your arms over his shoulder and kissed his cheek gently. You felt him let out a shaky breath as you massaged his ears. “What does my lovely husband want hmm?”

His grip on your waist only tightened and before you could get another word out, Islam picked you up effortlessly and threw you over his shoulder. You burst out laughing as Islam raced up the stairs with you swinging away on him. He made a beeline straight to your bedroom, making sure to lock the door behind him before slamming you down on the bed. 

“But I want to take a shower!” You giggled as you scrambled away from the edge of the bed towards the headboard. Your half-hearted protests fell on deft ears and Islam climbed onto the bed. Like an animal on all four limbs, he stalked his way towards you, his eyes full of desire and need. He gripped your ankles and yanked you down until you were lying flat on your back and he was directly on top of you. 

“Shower later,” he growled, lowering himself to kiss you, “let me have you first”.

He lavished the taste of your soft lips and hummed delightedly. He gently brought your hands together above your head and grasped both your wrists firmly in place against the mattress. You squirmed in anticipation, aching for his touch, as Islam’s other hand snaked its way down to the waistband of your shorts. 

“Islam I need —” 

Suddenly, there was a loud pounding on the bedroom door that could only be recognised as a child’s insistent banging. “Mama! Are you in there?” 

You and Islam froze in place. You stifled a laugh as Islam closed his eyes and let out a frustrated sigh. You could see the gears in his head turning furiously to figure out a way to keep you here in his arms. 

“Mama’s busy!” Islam yelled back at the door. “Go play!” 

There was a beat of silence and Islam took that as a sign to resume his kisses. But as his lips had barely grazed your jaw, there was more banging on the door. The doorknob jiggled incessantly from the other side. 

“Mama! Sayyid and I wanna go to the park! Please!" 

Defeated, Islam let go of your wrists and collapsed on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You couldn’t help but chuckle as your husband let out a most helpless groan. Islam wasn't used to losing, but this was a battle he truly seemed to have no power over.

“I’m gonna send them away,” he mumbled lowly, pouting as he pressed his face to the mattress. You cooed sympathetically and ran your fingers through his short buzzed hair. You pressed a quick kiss to his temple, hoping that it would be some form of consolation, before squeezing your way out from under him. Islam barely moved an inch, just lying there on the bed face down into the mattress like a lifeless mannequin. 

“Maybe 2-3 years in Dagestan for our kids wouldn’t be a bad idea huh?” You quipped before unlocking your bedroom door to appease your children. You meant it as a joke really, but as he lay motionless on the bed waiting for his erection to die down, Islam was genuinely considering shipping your kids off just to have some alone time with you. 

[ivoryruin]

hi lovely, are you down to write welterweight!islam with a size kink who teases you for not being able to take him??

this has been on my mind seeing all these vids of him looking massiveee in his camp 😫😫

OMG YES

thanks for the request anon and sorry if you have requested from me i literally have like 8 requests rn im getting to them okay 🙏

islam makhachev x reader

smut- size difference, power dynamic (kinda), and slightly possessive, islam soft dom, reader sub

authors note: when i saw this in the request box i got really excited lowkey 😭🙏 but i hope you enjoy :)

The door opens and you hear his familiar footsteps, but when Islam walks into the bedroom, you do a double-take.

He's massive.

You knew he'd been bulking up at welterweight for this camp, but seeing him in person is something else entirely. His shoulders seem broader, straining against his tight black t-shirt. His arms look thicker, veins prominent along his forearms and shoulders. Even his neck looks more muscular, and when he turns to set down his gym bag, you can see how his back has filled out.

"You are staring, myshakla" he says, catching your gaze. There's amusement in his dark eyes as he walks toward where you're sitting on the bed. "What you looking at?"

"You're... you look different," you manage, feeling heat creep up your neck.

He stops in front of you, and from your seated position, he seems even bigger. He reaches down, tilting your chin up with one calloused hand. "Different how?"

"Bigger," you admit quietly.

A slow smile spreads across his face. "yes is true. I am up to 81 kilos now. You like?" He flexes his arm deliberately, the bicep swelling under the sleeve. "Feel."

Your hand seems small against his arm as you reach up to touch. The muscle is rock-solid under your fingers, warm and unyielding.

"Is good, no?" His accent thickens slightly, the way it always does when he's pleased with himself. "Coach say I look like different person. More strong. More big." He moves closer, standing between your knees. "Your so small now, compared to me."

"I'm the same size I've always been," you protest, but your voice comes out breathless.

"No, no." He shakes his head, reaching down to wrap both hands around your waist. His fingers nearly meet at your spine. "Feel how strong I am now, no? When I lift you, is so easy. Before, you had small weight. Now? You is like feather to me. The camp, the training—I am different man now."

"Islam—"

"Shh." He sets you back down but doesn't step away. Instead, he pulls his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, and your breath catches. His torso is a landscape of defined muscle, his abs more pronounced than you remember, his chest broader. "This is what you wanting to see, yes? Why you staring when I come in?"

You can't deny it, so you don't try. Your hands move to his chest almost involuntarily, exploring the warm skin, the hard planes of muscle. He's always been fit—he's a professional fighter—but this is different. This is more.

"You like touching me?" he murmurs, covering your hands with his own. The size difference is stark—his hands dwarf yours completely. "Is okay. You can touch. I am yours." He pauses, then adds with a possessive edge, "And you are mine."

He guides your hands down his torso, over his abs, to the waistband of his track pants. "All of this, is for you. I get big and strong, come home to my wife." His voice drops lower. "You know what else get big?"

Your face flushes hot. "Islam..."

"What? Is true." He's grinning now, clearly enjoying your embarrassment. He takes your hand and presses it against the growing bulge in his pants. "See? Everything is bigger now. You think you can handle?"

"I—" You're not sure what to say. The size of him is evident even through the fabric, and a thrill of nervousness mixed with arousal runs through you.

"Your not sure," he observes, reading your expression. "Is okay. We find out together." He cups your face with both hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks. "But I think maybe is too much for you. Maybe my little wife is too small for big husband now."

"I'm not too small," you argue, but it sounds weak even to your own ears.

"No?" He raises an eyebrow. "We see about that."

He kisses you then, deep and possessive, one hand sliding to the back of your neck to hold you in place. Not that you're going anywhere—you're melting into him, your hands clutching at his shoulders for balance. When he pulls back, you're breathing hard.

"Lay down," he commands softly, and you obey without thinking.

He follows you onto the bed, covering your body with his, and the weight of him is incredible. He's careful not to crush you, holding himself up on his forearms, but you can feel the solid mass of him, the heat radiating from his skin.

"See?" he murmurs, looking down at you. "You disappear under me. So small, so..." He searches for the word. "Delicate. Like I could break you."

"You won't," you whisper.

"No, I won't. I take care of what is mine." His hand slides down your side, over your hip. "But I like this. I like how small you are. How I can do whatever I want with you."

To demonstrate, he grasps your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head. You test his grip experimentally and find you can't budge at all. His fingers wrap completely around both your wrists with room to spare.

"You see? Is easy for me. You are like doll in my hands." His free hand roams over your body, possessive and exploring. "My doll. My wife. Mine."

"Yours," you agree breathlessly.

"Mine." He releases your wrists to pull at your clothes, and you help him, suddenly desperate to feel his skin against yours. When you're finally bare beneath him, he sits back on his heels to look at you, his gaze hungry and appreciative.

"Every time, is like first time. You are so beautiful." His hands span your waist again. "And so small. Look—" He positions his hand over your stomach, fingers spread wide. "My hand cover all of you here."

You squirm under his touch, arousal building steadily. "Islam, please..."

"Please what?" He's teasing now, you can hear it in his voice. "Please touch you? Please fuck you?" His broken English somehow makes the crude words even more affecting. "You want me to fuck you?"

"Yes," you mutter.

"But I am so big now," he says, mock-concerned. "And you is so small. Maybe is not good idea. Maybe I hurt you."

"You won't hurt me."

"You are sure?" He's removing his pants now, and when he's finally naked, your breath catches. He wasn't exaggerating—everything about him seems bigger, more imposing. "Because I think maybe is too much. Look at you, look at me. How this is going to work?"

"It'll work," you insist, reaching for him.

He catches your hands, pinning them again. "Maybe we need to check first. Make sure you are ready for me." His hand slides between your thighs, and you gasp at the contact. "Ah, you are wet already. You like when I talk about how big I am? When I say you are too small?"

You can't form words, just nod desperately.

"I think you like very much." He slides one thick finger inside you, and you arch against him. "Even my finger is big for you. So tight, myshakla. How you going to take all of me?"

"I can," you manage. "I will."

"We see." He adds another finger, stretching you, and the sensation is overwhelming. His fingers are thick and calloused, and he knows exactly how to use them. "You are squeezing me so tight. Like you don't want to let go."

"Don't stop," you plead.

"I don't plan to stop. I plan to fuck my wife until she cannot walk tomorrow." His voice is rough with desire now, the teasing giving way to genuine need. "Until everyone at gym know that Islam take care of his woman. Until you are marked all over as mine."

He withdraws his fingers and positions himself between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against you. The size of him is intimidating, and he sees the flicker of nervousness in your eyes.

"Is okay," he soothes, his voice gentler now. "I go slow. I take care of you. Always I take care of you." He pushes forward incrementally, watching your face. "Breathe, myshakla. Relax for me."

You try to relax, but the stretch is intense. He's patient though, working himself in slowly, giving you time to adjust. His jaw is clenched with the effort of holding back, sweat beading on his forehead.

"So tight," he whispers. "So perfect. Made for me, only for me."

"Only you," you agree, gasping as he sinks deeper.

"No one else get to have this. No one else get to see you like this." He's fully seated now, and you feel impossibly full. "You are mine. Say it."

"I'm yours," you breathe.

"Again."

"I'm yours, Islam. Only yours."

He begins to move, slow and deep, and you moan at the sensation. "Good girl. Take all of me. I know is big, I know is almost too much, but you take it anyway. Because you are my wife and you are made for me."

His pace increases gradually, and you wrap your legs around his waist, trying to pull him closer despite the overwhelming fullness. He responds by hitching your legs higher, changing the angle, and you cry out.

"There?" he asks, hitting that spot again. "Is good there?"

"Yes, yes—"

"I feel you getting close," he observes, one hand sliding between your bodies to where you're joined. "You going to come for me? Going to come on my cock?"

You're beyond words now, just nodding frantically as the pressure builds. His thumb finds your clit, circling with practiced precision, and that's all it takes. You shatter around him, crying out his name, your body squirming and clenching tight.

His rhythm starts to falter. "Just like that. Squeeze me, show me how you take all of me, how small you are." He thrusts harder, chasing his own release.

His movements become more urgent, more desperate, the careful control slipping as he gets closer. You feel him thickening inside you, his breathing ragged against your neck, hot and uneven. "You feel so good, so tight around me—" His voice breaks on the words, rough and strained.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and you feel his teeth graze your skin, not quite biting but marking you nonetheless. His hands grip your hips firmly, holding you exactly where he wants you as he drives deeper, and harder. The bed frame creaks with the force of his thrusts.

Then he's there, his whole body going rigid above you. He finished with a deep groan that seems torn from his chest, burying himself as deep as physically possible. You feel the pulse of him inside you, the warmth flooding you, and the sensation is overwhelming. His fingers dig into your flesh as he shudders through it, your name falling from his lips in broken syllables mixed with Russian you can't understand.

The weight of him settles over you gradually as the tension drains from his muscles. He's trembling slightly, his heart hammering against your chest so hard you can feel it echoing your own racing pulse. For a moment he stays buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping for air in the same rhythm.

"Myshakla" he breathes, the endearment soft and reverent. Slowly, carefully, he shifts his weight to his forearms, caging you beneath him but not crushing you. His thumb traces your cheekbone with surprising gentleness given how roughly he'd just taken you. "You okay? I was not too rough?"

"I'm perfect," you assure him, your voice hoarse.

He lifts his head to study your face, dark eyes searching for any sign of discomfort. What he finds instead makes his expression soften into something achingly tender. "Yes, you is perfect. My perfect little wife." He brushes damp hair from your forehead, his touch feather-light. "Even if you is too small for me."

You swat at his chest weakly, and he catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "I'm not too small. I took all of you just fine."

"This is true," he concedes with a tired grin, pressing kisses to your knuckles. "You take me very good. Better than good—but tomorrow, when you is sore and cannot walk straight, you remember—I tell you I am too big."

"Worth it," you murmur, tugging him down for a kiss. It's slow and deep, lacking the urgency from before but no less intense. You taste the salt of sweat on his lips, feel the scratch of his stubble against your skin.

He hums contentedly against your mouth. "Yes, is worth it. Always is worth it with you." With careful movements, he withdraws from you—both of you gasping at the sensitivity—and rolls to his side, immediately pulling you with him. You're tucked against his chest, your head fitting perfectly under his chin, his arms wrapped around you like he's afraid you might disappear.

His hand splays over your hip, thumb stroking idle patterns on your skin. "You is mine, and I am yours. This is how is supposed to be," he murmurs into your hair, and there's something almost vulnerable in his voice, a softness he only ever shows you in moments like this.

"This is how it's supposed to be," you agree, already feeling drowsy in the cocoon of his warmth, surrounded by the scent of him—sweat and skin and something uniquely Islam.

"Sleep now," he whispers, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. "Tomorrow I train again, get even more big and strong. Then I come home and we do this again. And again. And again." His chest rumbles with quiet laughter. "Until you beg me to stop."

"Never," you mumble against his skin.

"Good. Because I never want to stop." His arms tighten around you. "You is everything to me, you know this? My wife, my home, my heart. Everything."

The confession makes your chest ache in the best way. "You're going to make me cry," you whisper.

"No crying. Only sleeping. Only being happy with husband who love you very much." His lips brush your forehead again, then your closed eyelids, your nose, your cheeks—soft kisses scattered like promises across your face.

As you drift toward sleep, you feel him pull the blanket over both of you, cocooning you together. His hand never stops its gentle stroking, and you hear him murmur in rhythmic words you don't understand but recognize as endearments, as prayers, as love made audible.

You're his, and he's yours.

The size difference that he loves to tease you about, the strength he uses to hold you close, the possessiveness that makes you feel cherished rather than caged—you love it all. You love him.

And as sleep finally claims you, wrapped in arms that could break you but never would, you've never felt safer or more loved in your life.

[yvesbara]

one good thing about the ufc is that it puts men where they belong; in cages

[uunderyourspelll]

₍˄·͈༝·͈˄₎◞ ̑̑ೃ࿔

[ufciris]

I still haven’t gotten over Islam tying Umar up for putting diesel in a car instead of gasoline. Umar just accepted the punishment and Islam was watching over him, degrading him 😭😭😭 That was kinky ASF !!!