seedy

🫧𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊🎐

[pandoras-prison]

[meetmeinborabora]

I am gonna go insane 😆😆

[umarchiik]

──────── clemency. ☆

( ➜ khamzat chimaev x fem!reader. . !

chika's mouthpiece: wrote this during ramadan i am not kidding i blame my period that got me during the second week of fasting (this was kind of? inspired by something a homegirl said in the ufc girl gc a long time ago and it made me lol)

summary: khamzat being a munch me thinks

warnings: unedited, fuck dialogue atp

wc: 5k

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Khamzat has been working on his cardio recently.

Swallowing the nerves lodged in your throat, you had hardly finished swinging your leg over him before his hands moved on instinct and wrapped around the curve of your thighs, before pulling you flush to his face. Khamzat doesn’t waste time, there’s no point in it, not when his heart and his cock are competing on which could throb the hardest. His nose bumped into the apex of your mound, and a breath slips out of your mouth as you feel him, Khamzat’s breath smothered against the sensitive core of your body and an anticipatory shudder races down your spine. His tongue is against your wet slit and the sound is innocuous—and it makes Khamzat feel like he’s drowning. 

“Go slow.” You remind softly, yet despite this, you slowly undulate your hips so that you drag across his mouth—encouragement. You knew that Khamzat would do anything for you, so something as small as this was just a move of encouragement, inviting him. A tiny push to the right direction. 

There’s a small sound he makes when his lips trace along your silken folds. Khamzat was never known to be patient—using his name and that word in the same sentence was practically futile. It wouldn’t exist. He proves this in the way he leisurely spreads you open with his mouth, drawing his tongue along the crease of your cunt until he found what he was looking for. You’re saying something, perhaps a reminder of taking everything slow, but everything is so loud between your legs. Khamzat’s breaths echo, and everything is so—so wet. One of his hands leaves your hips to briefly skirt his rough fingertips against your abdomen in a feather-light touch, making the muscles contract and flutter. You suck in a quick breath, holding it in as he slowly inched his way lower. Khamzat followed the shape of you, over the dip of your navel before tracing a path back to your hip once more. 

It’s soft, a gentle comfort he provides before he takes a lap at your cunt, in a single, quick swipe, licking all the way from your entrance up to the little nub of your clit. Your hips jerked, instantly overwhelmed by the brilliant stars erupting across your vision. Your hands curl tightly, nails forming crescents into the center of your palms—you feel like you might topple right over when your thighs start to tremble embarrassingly fast. “Khamzat!” 

There’s a low groan that Khamzat returns to your low gasp, tilting his neck so he could continue from a different angle, the tip of his tongue insistently poking at the acutely sensitive bundle of nerves for a prolonged moment, teasing with quick flicks that encouraged more blood to rush and pool within your guts until you’re shifting at every minute drag of his tongue. Your legs jerked and you seethed through your teeth, hands desperate for something to hold onto, Khamzat had never expressed a desire for something like this, but he had convinced you to try it at least one time, so you agreed, and you had no idea how to brace yourself against him. Your eyes catch the edge of a stray blanket on the bed and you partially wonder if you could reach over and pull it over your face to muffle any sounds that might escape your lips—but the idea leaves like a tide on shore when Khamzat presses a hard kiss over your throbbing clit. 

It was only then that he pressed his tongue flat and drew tight, grinding circles that you jerked so hard you nearly lurched right off him. This was far more intense and more than just a little overwhelming, Khamzat knew this too, greedily lapping up your arousal like he was half-starved, focusing all his efforts on that tight bundle of nerves that was leaving you shaking uncontrollably. He catches on quickly, his breath smoothing against your mound as he tightens his grip on your thighs until you cry out against him, in protest or in pleasure you can’t really tell—but this is only made worse when Khamzat deliberately chooses to suck your clit right up into his mouth and lightly worry it. Your spine bows with a barely contained groan, thighs twitching around his head as you arch.

Khamzat pulls away to suck in a rough inhale. A soft, almost pained groan drifts over your inner thighs. “I love you.” Khamzat tries to say, but it sounds mangled against you. He’s burying his face deeper into the wet heat of your body until you’re not even sure he could breathe properly anymore. 

“Hold on—hold on!” Your voice is strained and hushed, barely above a whisper as your legs flex while you attempt to lift yourself up out of his reach. Something about the position Khamzat had you in added a far more intense feeling than normal, and you were quickly finding out how overwhelmed you became with it, the onslaught of stimuli overloading your senses to the point where it was just shy of being uncomfortable. It was almost unbearable, and you’re starting to reconsider the entire ordeal. 

But Khamzat was immediately on you again; licking, sucking, kissing and mouthing you right to the edge. Your fingers flex and curl into his own thighs as you tip forward, body twitching with every sloppy pass of his tongue. Khamzat shifted, trying to press himself closer as he slipped his arms to cradle your hips, yanking you back on top of him. The yelp that escapes you was one of surprise and you sway unsteadily—attempting to slouch forward again was useless because Khamzat was unrelenting—holding you right where you were as his tongue spears up into your entrance and continuously lapped up the arousal drenching your folds with quick, eager passes. 

“Khamzat, I told you to slow down.” You whisper as he goes lower, swirling your sopping cunt with his tongue. Your words were reciprocated with a muffled noise, and his nose bumps into the apex of your mound, gently nuzzling into you. From the top of your slit and straight down your entrance, pointedly nudging your clit with every stroke, you’re shaking so hard that your vision is starting to blur around the edges, heaving and groaning despite your best attempt to bite down on your lower lip and quiet yourself. Khamzat doubled down on his efforts with a haggard moan, the tip of his tongue prodding every part of your cunt more pointedly than before, sending sharp waves of static electricity shooting through your tingling nerves. Once again, he drew tight little circles around your clit, and you nearly came right up off of him for the second time, the pleasure was pulse pounding, hypersensitive and overwrought with mind numbing endorphins, you find yourself quickly unraveling under Khamzat’s mouth. 

You weakly try to angle your hips away from his mouth. Away from his tongue. Away from his hands. Away from the onslaught. 

Helplessly, you might add. Your fingers press against his hips beneath you, it was hard to keep the volume of your voice in check when Khamzat was swirling his tongue around your clit and drawing random, nonsensical patterns across it, which kept you from being able to brace yourself against his ministrations. You were trying—you were trying so hard. Trying in vain to swallow the sounds of your pleasure, all the while the familiar sting of tears could be felt in your eyes, filled with ecstasy. You knew you weren’t going to last long like this, it was too much, the tension in your stomach was already doubling down and folding over itself an infinite number of times until you could hardly stand how it felt. 

Khamzat’s response was practically nonsensible, muffled by the softness of your cunt and wholly incomprehensible as he determinedly followed you, not allowing you so much as a second of a moment’s reprieve. Everything in your head was so cloudy, shrouded with overwhelming pleasure that you had a feeling you wouldn’t have heard him even if he hadn’t been up to his nose in arousal though. 

He moans against you, his tongue completed another lap, pausing just long enough to dip into the heat of your body, before racing back up your aching cunt, trailing a sticky path up to your clit where Khamzat sealed his lips around the throbbing bundle of nerves and sucked—hard. You shriek in response, blindly reaching back to push against his head, attempting to once again pull free of his hold. It didn’t even come as a surprise when you found that escape from his mouth was completely impossible—Khamzat’s hands were digging into your hips to keep you still. His hold on you was as good as iron clad, leaving you completely at his mercy. Of which there was very little, if not any at all, and you weren’t sure if you could consider it a blessing or a curse in this particular moment. For a moment, it felt like you really did come up off of his face, your stomach muscles flexing, straining against the pressure as you braced your hands back onto his hips, using him as leverage to keep your desperate fervor at bay. The shaking your body was demonstrating was almost completely uncontrollable, Khamzat was much more intense than you were used to experiencing. 

The nerves in your body were on fire, and you were unable to do anything except endure when he kept his big hands latched onto the curve of your hips. For whatever reason, Khamzat had allowed you to move just a few moments ago, but now you were trapped.  

“No more, Khamzat, no more–” You cried out with abandon. “Khamzat, please!” 

You were completely bowled over by this, practically reeling under the insistent ministrations of Khamzat’s mouth. Whether it was a result of the position he had you in or because you were so hyperfocused on what was happening, you felt overly responsive. Every minute shift of his tongue, the way his lip curled against your clit, the shallow breaths he drew every other minute or so—it left you writing so energetically that Khamzat groaned in protest beneath you. Consciousness rapidly receded to a tiny, vibrating pinprick that consisted entirely of your flushed opening and his mouth, you were entirely helpless to do anything except let the crashing waves of pleasure swallow you up. You were trapped with nowhere to go except down on Khamzat’s face, and you found yourself involuntarily swiveling your hips as release drew nearer. 

The knowledge that there was no conceivable way Khamzat could properly breathe swarmed your mind, but any attempt to voice your concerns came out as nothing more than choking moans and gasps. He didn’t even make an attempt to pull up for some no doubt much-needed air though, and it was that persistent pressure of Khamzat’s tongue that inevitably sent you spiraling into a full-bodied orgasm with a stuttering, half-stifled shriek. 

Effectively squeezing your thighs shut around his head when it all became too much, Khamzat merely grunted, speeding up his ministries and blindly reaching up to palm your ribcage. You’re heaving under his palms, it felt like you were alight with flames, it was hard to breathe around it as your mind was a mess of white noise—you clamped your teeth into the plush of your bottom lip as you jerked wildly, your cunt contracting around nothing so hard it nearly felt agonising. The tears that had been building in your eyes spilled just slightly as you screwed them shut, riding out the soaring heights of ecstasy. Khamzat’s name spills out of your mouth with a hiss, and you unconsciously grind down on his face throughout the throes of your orgasm, indescribably satiated despite the woeful emptiness. 

You’re frantic on top of him, and he’s quick to force you to sit up straighter, eager to press your cunt even harder against his face, eager to pull you closer than ever. That sharp, immodest tongue of Khamzat’s seemed completely unperturbed by your keening sob and it relentlessly stabbed into you as far as it could go in search of more. It felt like your soul slipped right out of your body for a split second, and it tore through you with all the destructiveness of a hurricane. The bed shuddered beneath the both of you, springs creaking softly, and yet through it all Khamzat kept at it. Like you were the sweetest thing he’d ever taste. 

Your head was hanging slack as your jerked and trembled atop Khamzat’s face, he had thankfully slowed to a more subdued pace, lips pursing around your clit and gently mouthing you through your orgasm, it had stretched well past the point of discomfort until you finally collapse across him, your hips still twitching in a weak attempt to drain his mouth of something it simply didn’t have to give. It was an instinctual drive that made you try.

When you collapsed forward, you lifted off of his face enough for him to see all of you, quivering and sopping wet. A glossamer thread of sticky arousal that had been connecting you to Khamzat’s lips breaks softly and clings to his beard, the ends curled softly—a result of you. 

Mindlessly, Khamzat picks up his head and leans forward to lick at you some more, broad strokes from your clit up to your twitching entrance. A soft, frazzled sound of defeat slipped out of you as you tried to blink out the stars from your eyes, trying to recollect yourself, it was dizzying, the heights at which Khamzat had forced you to climb in search of gratification. Despite your sensitive complaints, he continued to mouth at you. 

Slumped against him while you took stuttering mouthfuls of wet, gasping breaths, you dazedly tried to reorient yourself to no avail. The room almost felt like it was spinning, everything was impermanent and intangible—save the unyielding man beneath you. 

“Let go of me, Khamzat.” You try again weakly, almost distressed. You were well past the point of overstimulation now, and you try to angle your hips away from him. Khamzat’s hands press down onto your hips to keep you from moving, and you whine under your breath—assuming he was going to indulge in the taste of you for the rest of the night—but he simply keeps you from moving. Pulling away from you, Khamzat’s head slumps backwards against the pillows, his chest heaving as he inhales greedy mouthfuls of air, like he had just ran a marathon, or finished a particularly hard training session. 

Serves him right, you think to yourself, as if you weren’t in a similar breathless state. 

Sore, and still thrumming with the flood of endorphins flowing through your system, you stared dazedly off into nothing. You never realized what a big difference such a simple change in position could make. 

“I’m never letting you do that again.” You say, unable to help yourself. Khamzat smiles in response, the pull of the scar on his upper lip leaving a noticeable crease in the skin, a feature that always made you want to kiss him.

“You say this now, but look how much you liked it.” Khamzat laughs, it’s high strung and wheezy, it doesn’t help the way his hands smooth down your hips to settle between your legs, caressing over you, the beds of his thumbs spreading your slit to reveal its flushed, twitching hole. 

Khamzat sighs dazedly, still trying to catch his breath. “I have to train harder.” 

For a brief moment, you think you’ve finally caught your breath, but it bursts right out of you in a sucker punched groan when Khamzat presses one of his thumbs into the spot right over your sticky entrance, as if encouraging it to slacken and spread for him. His index finger slips into the space between petal soft folds and overly sensitive skin, aiming for your clit. You violently twitch as soon as Khamzat knocks it, dragging his finger up and over before gradually coming back down again. Up and down. Slow and steady. You turn your head, a faltering sound of wanting is smothered into the bedsheets. 

You weren’t sure how much more of it you could take. 

“That’s too much.” You say, jolting as if you were struck by lightning. Your words turn Khamzat’s grin into something truly salacious. 

“It’s too much.” He mocks, but he listens, he always listens when it comes to you. Khamzat continues to look at you, seething a quiet sound and closing his eyes as if he were in physical pain. 

It’s regretfully short lived though, and you stiffen when his fingers abruptly find your slit once more, wasting no time pushing two digits into the sticky mess you’ve made—as if to emphasize his infuriating personality—he gives you a taunting wiggle for good measure. A small push, a tiny amount of carefully applied pressure is all it took to have his fingers sinuously sliding up into you. The sudden pressure on your upper wall causes you to clench around him as the tension from before returns to your gut. When the first joint makes it through, the rest of his finger follows easily, and Khamzat presses into you, straight down to the knuckle. Your mouth drops open as if you were about to let out some kind of moan, but all that materializes is a little wounded sound. You bask in the friction as much as the stretch, rocking forward on your knees, but you’re thoroughly trapped between his legs and you can’t shake the impression of being one of his opponents in the octagon. It quickly becomes apparent that Khamzat definitely wanted to drag this scandalous position out for as long as possible.

The internal pressure was slowly swelling into new, dizzying heights, and you were groaning a gutted sound into the bedsheets, gasping for breath. 

Khamzat nudged at your hip. “Hey, none of that now. Come on, don’t get lazy.” He sighs, sounding disappointed and rueful in equal measure. 

That was certainly easy for him to say, but you couldn’t claim to be in agreement with the sentiment, in fact, you don’t think you could say anything at all at this moment. Still, you push yourself to try and listen to him. Shuddering, you gingerly shift to hold yourself up on shaky arms, palms pressing into the mattress. The motion forces your cunt to stretch around Khamzat’s fingers, taking him in even further until it felt like he was just short of touching your cervix. You sway unsteadily, a low, gutted moan drafting through your lips. 

Khamzat rewards your compliance with a bruising squeeze around your thigh.

It’s a struggle to get your body to relax around his fingers instead of tensing up sound them, you had already been teetered so close to the edge just moments ago—but you could somehow manage to reach a purgatorial state. You could somehow try and hand in the balance. 

Khamzat didn’t seem to be doing this for his own gain or satisfaction, though, and you doubted he was even really doing it for yours. That’s what you think, at least.

A shudder rushes through you in a violent manner, and you bite back a whine in your throat, deliriously trying your best to reign your control back in. The throb deep within you involuntarily starts up again, mirroring the frantic pounding of your heart while your hips weakly twitch with the onset of an orgasm you hopelessly try to stop. 

Khamzat knows it’s no use, though, he has wounded you up too tight, stretched you thin, and he almost laughs at the feeling of your clenching around his fingers so tight it actually almost hurts. He listens to you suck in a sharp, trembling gasp, and you desperately fist your shaking hands into the bedsheets—clutching at them as you’re wrecked by an abrupt onslaught of spasms that rocked you straight down to your very soul. 

You were just on the edge of the line of another orgasm after the lack of recovery from the first one that it actually started to become painful—and you once again do your best to pull yourself up off of his fingers.

“Please.” You beg, vainly squirming in his too tight grasp. Khamzat still doesn’t permit that, merely tightening his hands around you as needed. He was driving you insane in a way that made you almost want to hit him. One of your hands is steady enough to keep you balanced, and the fingerbeds of your opposite hand tap against his thigh three times. 

A soft groan bubbled up in your throat as you squirmed at the pleasure streaked pain. 

Khamzat retracts his fingers, slowly, giving in to your soft noises. 

“You’re tired already? We haven’t even started.” He says, shifting in his position. Khamzat sits up and leisurely adjusts you with his hold on your hips, settling you above his lap with a quick and easy grunt. Khamzat was strong, and his firm physique showed that it was easy to see the physical differences between man and woman just by having you pressed against him. 

You feel it then, a soft nudge against your lower abdomen that sends your heartbeat lurching back into overdrive—it’s an instinctive reaction—you don’t need to look down to see what it was that pressed against your front, and Khamzat only clutched you tighter against him, keeping you in place. 

“I’ll go slow this time, I promise.” His voice is softer now, and you can’t really pick up any teasing undertones. Khamzat bends his head close to your shoulder, and you wince at the feeling of his damp forehead against your equally sweaty skin. “See? This way you won’t get tired. I’ll do all the work.” Khamzat’s expression is poking fun at you, in a way, dark brows knitted to create a small crease between them, his eyes slightly pinched. You could barely see the dull green of his irises through thick lashes. It's a struggle to swallow down your nerves, but you find your voice and manage somehow. 

“You promise you’ll go slow? Promise me.” 

“Maybe.” 

You don’t think you like the look of his eyes on you very much. It seemed like Khamzat was contradicting himself and what he was very clearly telling you was: “I do what I want.” 

Khamzat sucks in such a sharp breath you can almost feel it rattling around inside his chest where you’re pressed up right against him, moulding your back to the firm planes of his front. His hands drop to your waist, taking a bruising hold of your hips to press your lower body equally flush with his. Khamzat is stiff as he shifts his weight, redistributing his balance to the full center of his body, angling his pelvis away from you. You rock with the motion, following his movements without really meaning to, staying pressed against him. Khamzat reaches one hand down to hook a thumb into the waistband of his briefs, blindly tugging them just enough to slip himself out. 

Your whole body flushes, warming to the point of real discomfort, but Khamzat doesn’t give you enough time to fully process any of it. Not the unexpected burn of the curling tendril of wanting low in your abdomen. Not even the fact that you could feel the full weight of him in between your thighs. 

There’s no mistaking the press of him now, the way it dug into your front, being able to feel the faint pulse of him between your thighs, Khamzat was lined up so perfectly with the seam of your cunt like it naturally belonged there. It almost feels like you had suddenly forgotten how to breathe again, Khamzat stiffly rolls his pelvis and grinds into you, slow, yet eager at the same time, before he goes still again. Testing you. 

You pointedly push back on him, meeting his next stiltedly excited thrust. Khamzat’s fingers bite into the curve of your hips in return, clutching at you so desperately, you had a feeling that there would be some bruising blooming in the same spots the next morning. That doesn’t really matter right now, though, not when Khamzat curls in tight against you. He presses a hard kiss against your temple in a coaxing manner, and you tip your head back towards him. 

Khamzat angles his mouth down and slots it against your own in a kiss that is equal parts tentative and demanding, the heightened state of his desperation is blatant in the hard press of his lips, the hungry pull of him that never fails to lure you into his axis. Khamzat drags his palms away from your waist to grab onto the sides of your upper legs, pressing them more tightly together around him. The simple slide of him along your still overly-sensitive slit is hot, tiny sparks flashing behind your eyes. Khamzat knows he has to keep moving, he knows he has to chase that pinprick ember of satisfaction, and he only reinforces that when he pulls you back to meet the next enthusiastic thrust of his hips. 

A moan is caught in Khamzat’s throat at the soft, wet click, and he tips his face down to look at you. The sight of you so bare, over the curves of your abdomen and lower, he can just make out that the head of him nudging out from between your legs, blooming for but a brief moment before retreating back into the tight squeeze. You let out a soft sigh, rocking in time with Khamzat’s steady thrusts, the difference in size was a good thing, it ensured that he would stay pressed up tight against you, constantly knocking your cunt with a fleshy jostle whether he was pulling out or pushing in. 

Groaning as if he’d been sucker punched right in the gut, Khamzat leans further into you until his weight presses you down into a half stooped position, skin sticking to your back. His body heat bleeds into you, warming you up far more than anything in the world ever could. You unintentionally squeeze the muscles in your thighs to keep them locked in place, and you’re sinking deeper and deeper into ecstasy as Khamzat’s thrusts sent fresh bursts of static energy coursing through your system, further highlighting the sensitivity of your aching clit, luxuriating the fleshy drag of his stiff length against your opening. 

Khamzat keeps his rhythm slow and even, but so vigorous that it pushes you forward. The slick dampness that oozes out of you is worse than before, but it smoothes the glide of him between your legs. It’s overwhelming, and you can’t really think straight. Khamzat shudders, never faltering no matter how wild you get or how hard you shake as he presses against you a little harder each time—the firm, unyielding planes of his pelvis meeting with your backside, hard, fast. The distant tickle of his coarse beard skimming across the smooth flesh of your shoulder. The low, guttural sounds Khamzat makes against the side of your face nearly had you drowning in them. 

His thick, callous worn fingers curled, the jolts of pleasure he was experiencing were so intense it was riding on the line of being overwhelming. You press yourself back into him with mindless desperation, hips seemingly moving on their own even as you’re oversensitive, judderingly grinding yourself down on him, on that length pressed up right into you. 

“A little more.” Khamzat quietly wheezes under his breath, his thumbs smoothing over the flesh of your thighs. Your name slips past his lips in a breathy plea. “Just a little more.” It’s apparent in the way he was so insistent with his ministrations, encouraging you to keep moving your slit back and forth against him—a slow, encouraging pull anytime your pace begins to falter and you unintentionally slow down. All you can feel was the touch of Khamzat’s hands, his lips brushing the back of your neck when he kisses the burning flesh there, the constant motion of his thighs flexing behind you, driving himself unendingly into the hot, damp spot between your legs. Khamzat’s taller, wider frame trembling against yours with all the pent up tension running through it that so perfectly mirrors your own. 

Your hands reach to grasp onto Khamzat’s muscle-corded forearms, using the leverage to draw him against you at a quicker pace, allowing him to snap his pelvis into you with greater ferocity. He issues a wounded, faltering grunt into your hair, and he doesn’t fight it. 

“Oh.” Khamzat rattles out, gritting through tightly clenched teeth while he fucked himself between your thighs, pistoning in and out of the tight squeeze of you like a jackhammer. 

The breakneck speed at which he ruts into you effectively steals the air from your lungs though and all you can really do is just hold onto him, clutching at his powerfully flexing arms to ground yourself—unknowingly encouraging him. Khamzat doesn’t need more encouragement, yet, that one little nudge from you was more than enough. You should have known that he couldn’t truly be polite or gentle with you. At least, not when you had him reduced to this. The friction against your slit is amplified until it seems to blur into a tingle, persistent tingle that just grows and grows to the point of delirium—Khamzat can’t help himself. Not anymore. 

A shaky moan snakes out of Khamzat, his fingers faltering, quickly readjusting to latch back on. What little rope of self-control he had been holding onto—holding onto—dissapates like dust in the wind, and he clings onto you so hard it brings tears to your eyes. 

The demanding press of his fingers sinking into your flesh sends you over the edge with a sudden, lurching jolt as your opening clenches up and squeezes uncontrollably against Khamzat’s cock, who makes a sound that almost sounds high-strung, a sound of desperation. You tremble, but not as violently as he does in the throes of his release waiting just at the edge of the cliff, he just keeps humping into you like he’d die if he didn’t chase his own pleasure quickly enough. The continuous drag over your slit draws out even more involuntary spasms, and you can’t help but dig your nails into his flesh in racking bliss. 

You watch, dumbly, as Khamzat’s flushed tips appear between the silky press of your legs, disappearing quickly and reappearing again just a split second later—he’s pounding into you so fast and so hard—that you find yourself in a trancelike stupor, barely even registering the moan he lets out right against your shoulder blade. This time, his tip appears with an eruption of cum that shoots out to splatter across your stomach and thighs, most of it smearing over the skin where the two of you are connected. Khamzat hisses like his soul was actively trying to leave his body, haltingly slowing down to a stiff roll of his hips that makes the length of him nudge back and forth, just enough to drain the rest of himself. Another spurt rushes out, beading at the tip for a short stretch of seconds before it spills over to drip onto the bedsheets between your legs. It joins the rest of the mess Khamzat had made on you. 

You struggle to get a grip on reality once more after what had just transpired, the afterglow was soft and sweet, but the moment was shattered when Khamzat straightened up. 

“You’re more awake now, aren’t you?” Khamzat laughs, bemused, and you can’t quite bring yourself to lift your gaze again. Your heart gives a tiny little thump against your ribcage, before you finally look at him. Looking at Khamzat felt like looking at graffiti; he was lawless and beautiful all at the same time. 

“You say that like it’s a good thing.” You huff. 

“It is a good thing.” He graces you with a look of his eyes that was no less frustratingly charming, as well as a bit infuriating. “It means we can go again.” 

You knew the difference between peace-making and shit-stirring—you just wished Khamzat knew the difference too.

[khabibear]

STALKER!KHAMZAT X READER

Warning: don’t read if you don’t like this type of thing. If you do, that’s on you. English is not my first language and it’s been years since I’ve written anything so please have mercy on me lol

Note: I read a story about stalker umar by @tagirsluvrgirl and loved it so much I had to write my own <3 just a teeny tiny bit darker :)

He knew everything about you long before you even knew of his existence. Your routine, your family, where you worked. He even made sure to befriend your whole friend group.

To be fair you weren’t the brightest when it came to being aware of your surroundings, so when your friend introduced you to Khamzat, you could’ve sworn you’d never met this man before.

He shook your hand forcefully as if he was trying to make a good first impression.

“You remember me?” he asked.

No, no you didn’t. You’d remember if you met a tall man with a cleft lip…right? You shook your head.

“You’re the cashier at the corner store, no?” he continued. Who remembers a random cashier? And yet he knew you.

“Oh! Right. That’s me” you pretended to remember him even though you see tons of faces at work every day and have no clue what he was talking about. You just didn’t want to seem rude.

His eyes pierced yours, lingering far beyond what politeness allowed. It almost seemed like he was waiting for you to say something else. But the truth is, he was taking advantage of the closeness to study your face while he had the chance. After all, this was one of the few lucky times he got to see you up close.

Even as the evening went on and the conversation between the friend group shifted, he kept sneaking quick, out of place glances even when you said nothing.

…

Days went by and you quickly forgot all about this odd encounter.

That is, until you got a text from an unknown number.

Didn’t see you at the store today, why? :(

The profile picture gave it away, it was him. You had told your friend Arman to stop giving your number to guys, but he never listened. He constantly nagged you about finding a boyfriend.

I quit yesterday you replied

Oh no :( he replied

You ended up texting back and forth. He listened to you complaining about your job, and even told you a little bit about himself. His responses were quick and always a tiny bit too flirty but you ignored it until you couldn’t anymore.

A small knot of unease formed in your stomach when he asked you to meet up that night. There was something wrong about the way he texted, so urgent, almost hungry. You didn’t reply.

He seemed to take the hint, but sent one final message before going offline.

Fine. But I won’t give up easily.

His tone had shifted almost mechanically. Not a single emoji or flirty implication. Just a warning.

…

Khamzat seemed to have taken the rejection very personally, and ensured to make the following weeks a living hell for you.

It felt like a fever dream. Flowers showed up at your door, your phone constantly rang from unknown callers and wherever you went, he was there. Each time he acted surprised as if it was a coincidence and murmured something about how fate brought you together.

You tried telling Arman but he dismissed you almost immediately. Calling you paranoid and insisting this was just normal courting and real coincidences. Khamzat was very good at making it seem like that, like you were the crazy one.

It reached the point where nights became their own terror, each one feeling riskier than the last. You knew it was only a matter of time before he grew tired of the chase and come get you.

…

You tossed and turned in bed while your phone blew up with his texts.

Hi baby

You up?

This was new, he’d never been bold enough to spam you from his personal number.

Baby?

Open the door?

Ignore, ignore, just ignore…

Right as you were about to drift off to sleep, a noise made you sit up. You couldn’t tell if it was a dream or not and frankly you were too tired to care.

Then again, another. This time louder and unmistakeable.

The sound of your front door opening.

[polkadotaspinall]

Khamzat Chimaev being a toxic ex-boyfriend, but then getting back together with him, please ☝🏻😔

This poor man needs a break from our request

I don't care if you post this late.👁️🫦👁️

forever

𓈒⟡₊⋆∘ toxic!khamzat chimaaev x reader

𓈒⟡₊⋆∘ warnings: mentions of sex, slight harassment, love-bombing, stalking, khamzat being toxic, toxic situations/behavior, MDNI, f!receiving oral, creampie, mentions of baby-trapping

𓈒⟡₊⋆∘ summary: khamzat ensures you'll never leave him again

"unknown caller ID" you stare at your phone unsure of who it could be a small uneasy feeling in your stomach at who you think it is you answer raising the phone to your ear "hello?" you're almost breathless when you hear his voice "hey why you block me" you're frozen standing still so quiet he asks again "hey I said why you block me?" his tone more annoyed not as nice

"u-um who is this?" you already knew and regretted even asking "you know who" he responds his tone angry at the idea another person could be calling and asking the same question as him your breath is caught in your throat "khamzat?" you ask quietly almost not wanting to know If it really is him but you recognize his voice you know its him.

youre actually unsure as to why he wants you back so badly- the relationship was so toxic at least it was to you, khamzat was explosive and argumentative. would always get mad bat small things and hated if you had any male friends or any other male interaction if it wasn't with him "yes" his tone is almost playful like he's enjoying this "why do you keep calling me?" you ask slightly shaky. don't get it twisted despite his toxicity and bad behavior you just couldn't get enough of him

the way he towered over you, the way his beard tickled your face when hed kiss you, his big strong arms he'd hold you in, his big cock- "I want you back" he responds so monotone as if he doesn't really care if he gets you back so nonchalant it almost bothers you. so nonchalant for a man who keeps calling, texting, and sending gifts to your house.

"khamzat I wont get back with you" you respond you were trying to stand your ground, this happened a lot while you were with him being on and off. it was unhealthy and it was bad always taking a toll on you after hearing how he was dm-ing other girls while you were on a break made you snap and finally break it off for good- yes he was technically single but you hadn't even been apart for a full week. you couldn't excuse that not when that week before you decided to take him back he spent that time begging for you-

its this weird cycle of he begs and pleads for you, sends you gifts, and when his sweetness and begging doesn't work he becomes nonchalant, finding another way to insert himself in a situation that makes him look good. the last situation was a guy harassing you after your last breakup wanting sex from you- khamzat came to your rescue and beat him up, took you home like a gentleman after you were rattled and proceeded to fuck you all over your apartment till you couldn't handle to cum anymore.

yes a big factor of staying and dealing with khamzat was the sex. It was good he was good. he knew exactly how to push your buttons to ensure you cum so hard you can barely calm down till your next orgasm.

"why not? you don't miss me?" he asks his tone full of fake sadness you gulp "no.. I don't please stop calling me" you say and hang up before he can respond you sigh now feeling drained and exhausted but before you can decide to just wallow in bed your door is being knocked on.

you open it to see your friend holding a large bouquet of flowers "dunno who's this from but they're for you" she holds it out and you take it seeing a note tucked away in the bouquet feeling that pit in your stomach again as you set it down on your counter "we're going out tonight! you need it" your friend says before you can protest shes rifling through your closet.

finding the sluttiest smallest dress she can- shes successful you almost forgot this dress existed it hugged your figure nicely and had a low back lots of cleavage as your friend giggled excitedly at the sight of you in a small, tight, slutty dress. "perfect!" she says with a pleased hum.

the club is loud- crowded as well the amount of men who've been trying to flirt with you already has you annoyed- you're drinking with your friend as the bartender taps you "miss someone got you a drink" he points at a man- he's attractive tall, dark hair and brown eyes he's smiling- he's not as good looking as khamzat but he isn't bad either.

youre flirting with the man his hand on your thigh sliding up and down gently you enjoy the touch "so- you wanna get back to mine?" he asks and before you can respond you gasp khamzat yanking him by his collar. khamzat in a black zip up hoodie and black joggers. "k-khamzat!" you gasp "shes fine- get lost" he growls at the man who's holding his hands up and scrambles away quickly.

before you can get mad khamzats large hand is grabbing your wrist you yelp at the pressure. he's yanking you through the crowd shoving people out of the way if he needs to as you follow behind as quick as you can hoping he wont yank you so fast you'll fall.

the cold air hits your skin you shiver as khamzat lets go of your wrist, he's taking off his jacket a black tank underneath it- he puts it onto you no words his jacket so large it covers you perfect he walks away you follow him- you're not sure why you are but you are your heels clicking as you try to keep up.

he hears you and slows his pace he's opening his passenger side door not a single word as you sit inside and buckle up he closes your door gently as he gets in, the car ride extremely silent as you stare out his window looking at all the city lights in the night the music low but just enough for you to hear and enjoy.

khamzats got you thrown over his shoulder- you protested, not even tipsy from the drinks you had but he didn't listen walking you up to your floor his hand on your ass "watch your hands" you mumble which causes him to slap your ass gaining a gasp from you "don't act like you don't like" he teases which earns a huff from you

khamzats on top of you kissing you "you were gonna let him be me..?" he says he's jealous upset "I watched you- watched the way you look at him- you look at him differently" you groan his cock stretching you out his hands rough on your skin he's mad "n-no I wasn't- ah" you moan as he thrusts into you.

"he couldn't do this to you.." his voice low and his thrusts violent so rough and he's so big you swear he's in your stomach. "n-no he couldn't" you moan out your hand gripping his bicep as he pounds into you- your bed hanging on for dear life.

youre cumming on his cock as he whispers "you're gonna be mine forever hm?" you nod your head furiously "y-yes forever" you moan out seeing stars "gonna have my kids?" he asks his thrusts sloppier "yes" you cry out overwhelmed and overstimulated "you're gonna be stuck with me forever" he mumbles into your neck as you feel him fill you up with cum.

and just like that khamzats rubbing your stomach soft hum as you lay on him small kisses to your forehead " I love you malysh" he hums as you sleep on him.

[authors note: HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOYYYYY!! thank you anon for your request <333]

[uflirtc]

You Feel It Now?┃ᝰ.ᐟ

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: khamzat x female reader ˎˊ˗

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : ♡ After a painfully mediocre situationship, you’re convinced sex is just overrated. Khamzat is convinced he’s identified the problem. The argument should have ended there. Instead you give him the perfect opportunity to prove his point.

ִ𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: best friends to lovers, bickering, mutual attraction, man-hater!reader, sexual tension, male ego, bad decisions, dominating!khamzat, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), rough sex 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝑺𝑴𝑼𝑻 18+ 𝑴𝑫𝑵𝑰 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.2k

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐞: anon I need you to know this request had me staring at my screen for a solid minute like “oh…” and i had to take multiple breaks when writing to let my brain come back to reality. i can’t lie im going to be thinking about this for a long time. thank you so much for the idea!! and a big thankyou to @brittletalismanvigilante for proof reading my dirty thoughts, enjoy <𝟑 .ᐟ

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: masterlist┃requests open! ♡⸝⸝

The gym had emptied out an hour ago. Just the hum of the fluorescent lights and the wet slap of gloves against the heavy bag as you worked through your final combinations.

You heard him before you saw him. Khamzat always made noise - unwrapping his hands, dropping his water bottle, exhaling loud enough to shake the drywall.

“You still here, crazy girl.”

“You’re also still here, idiot.”

He grinned, leaning against the cage wall with his arms crossed. Sweat still darkened the collar of his shirt. His hair was a mess, and he had that look - the one that said he’d been watching you longer than you realised.

“What?” You caught the bag mid-swing.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I stare at many things.” He shrugged, unbothered. “Beautiful things especially.”

You snorted. “Save it for your groupies.”

“Groupies.” He laughed, the sound bouncing off the mats. “You think I have groupies?”

“I’ve seen your DMs.”

“Jealous?”

Khamzat was a ladies' man through and through, charming, smooth, and always looking for the next conquest. You were the opposite. You hated men. You loved the power you held over them, the thrill of making them want you only to leave them frustrated and wanting more, but you had zero patience for their egos or their needs. It was a miracle you two were best friends.

“Allergic to men, actually.” You turned back to the bag.

Jab, cross, hook.

“I think I’ve developed an immunity.”

“Ah, yes. The famous man-hating.” He circled around the bag until he was in your peripheral vision again. “But I am not men. I am Khamzat.”

“That’s worse.”

He clutched his chest like you’d stabbed him. “You wound me. After everything we’ve been through.”

This whole ordeal all started at the Allstars Training Center, long before anyone started asking questions about what you were to each other.

You were only supposed to be there briefly - just passing through, training while you stayed in Sweden.

Keep your head down, do your shit, leave.

Then he noticed you.

Not quietly. Not subtly. Khamzat Chimaev never really did subtle.

“You new?” he asked.

You didn’t even look up from your wraps. “No. Just better at staying unnoticed than most.”

That made him pause. Then grin.

From that day on, you was always together.

He started pulling you into everything - training sessions, food runs, random drives, recovery days that turned into hours you didn’t plan for. Like it was obvious you were coming with him, even when no one said it out loud.

You became the duo nobody really knew how to label.

At first it was just “him and that girl who talks back.”

Then it turned into “they’re always together.”

Then finally: “don’t separate them, it’s worse when they’re apart.”

You didn’t trail him like a fan. You didn’t orbit him like people expected.

You matched him.

If he was loud, you were sharper. If he was intense, you were colder. If he pushed, you pushed back harder.

People noticed how naturally it worked. The way you’d sit next to him without thinking. The way he’d pass you things before you asked. The way conversations around you always ended up involving both of you, even when only one of you was spoken to.

It became a kind of language between you two - one no one else really spoke.

“Why aren’t you two a thing again?” someone would ask.

You shrugged. “We’d probably kill each other if we was’’

From across the room, his voice came instantly.

“She’s right,” he said. “But I win.”

And that was the thing about you two.

No explanation ever really fit.

Yet here you were, two years later, still attached at the hip.

You stopped punching. Your shoulders rose and fell with your breath. He wasn’t wrong - the past few weeks had been ugly and Khamzat had been through it all with you.

Sighing, you leaned your head back against the cool wall.

Your latest situationship finally imploded. He turned out to be a clingy, spineless waste of space. And somewhere between the third and fourth vent session, Khamzat had gone from being the loudmouth you tolerated to the loudmouth you actually needed.

“Exactlyyyy,” he said, reading your silence. “Who brought you your favourite food when you were stress crying? Who let you kick his shins until they were purple?”

“Me cry? I think it was you who was crying.”

“That was sweat.”

“From your eyes?”

Khamzat chuckled in response.

"I told you he was soft."

"Yeah, well, you were right," you admitted, hating the words as they left your mouth. "But it’s whatever. I’m over it."

It wasn’t a total lie. You were over the guy, but you weren’t over the nagging feeling that something was wrong with you. The sex had been mechanical-boring. You’d gone through the motions, wet enough, responsive enough technically, but inside? Nothing.

No spark, no fire, just a dull rhythm that you endured to get it over with. You’d found yourself staring at the ceiling more often than not, wondering if you were broken or if you were just supposed to feel this hollow.

"You’re thinking too loud," Khamzat said, breaking into your thoughts.

You snorted. "I’m just thinking about how I need a drink."

"Bullshit." He turned his body toward you. "You’re thinking about him. Or rather, about how he didn't do it for you."

Your breath hitched. You looked away, picking at a loose thread on your glove. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you do," he pressed, his voice dropping an octave. "You joked about it before. How you don't feel shit. How you wonder if there’s supposed to be more."

Heat flushed your neck. You hated that he remembered those late-night rants, the ones fueled by vodka and frustration. "Maybe that’s just how it is," you muttered, defensive. "Maybe it’s all overhyped. Just friction and fluids."

Khamzat laughed, a dark, rich sound that vibrated in your chest. "That’s the man-hater in you talking. You’ve been fucking boys who don't know what to do with a woman like you."

"And what?" you challenged, turning to face him, hands on your hips, your eyes narrowing. "You think you’re different?"

"I know I am," he said simply. No arrogance in his voice this time, just a flat, confident statement of fact. He leaned in closer, the air between you suddenly charged, heavy with something that hadn't been there before. "You’re too much for them. You need someone who can handle the heat, who isn't afraid to push you past that overthinking brain of yours. These boys you choose, they don’t know what to do with you. They want to impress you, so they rush. They want to prove something, so they forget to pay attention.”

“Okay,” you said, raising a brow as you held his gaze. “And you know what to do, do you?” The corner of your mouth twitched. “Funny. You always seem to have all the answers.”

The words left your mouth before your brain caught up. They hung between you, sparking like a live wire.

His expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind his eyes. “What?”

“You heard me.” Your pulse betrayed your calm exterior. “You’re talking like I’m some problem you could solve”

“I don’t think you need fixing,” he murmured, his hand closing around your forearm, thumb brushing absent-mindedly against your skin. The contact felt far more significant than it should have. “I think you need to be wrecked. I think you need someone to make you feel so much you can’t think.”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head.

Sometimes Khamzat certainty was impressive.

Right now, he was irritating as hell.

Standing there talking like everything was obvious, like he knew exactly what made you tick, exactly what you needed, exactly where everyone else had supposedly gone wrong.

“And that’s you, is it?” you asked dryly. “All this talk. All these ‘big guns’ you keep hinting at.” You held his gaze. “Put up or shut up, Chimaev.”

The nickname landed. You saw it in the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his weight shifted forward onto the balls of his feet.

Predator recognition.

“You are serious?.” he tested

“Are you backing down? Because that would be a first.”

He closed the distance in two strides. Not touching - not yet - but close enough that you could smell the salt on his skin, the faint spice of his deodorant. Close enough that his height became a physical fact you had to reckon with.

“Rules,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “You say stop, we stop. No questions, no bruised egos. I mean it.”

“Fine.”

“And you don’t perform. No sounds you think I want to hear. No faces you think I want to see.” His jaw tightened. “I want what’s real. Even if it’s nothing. Even if you’re bored. I want to know.”

The request unsettled you more than any physical advance could have. Being known was different than being touched. Being known was terrifying.

“Fine,” you said again, quieter.

His hand lifted. Slow enough that you could have moved, but instead you did nothing but look at him. His palm met the side of your neck, thumb resting against your pulse point.

“Your heart is fast,” he murmured.

“That’s from the workout.”

“Liar.”

His thumb traced a line down to your collarbone. The touch was feather-light, almost medical in its precision - like he was mapping you, cataloguing every nerve ending.

“The men you’ve been with,” he said, “did they ever just do this? Just touch you for the sake of touching? Not as a stepping stone to somewhere else?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“That’s what I thought.”

His other hand found your hip. Not gripping. Not claiming. Just... present. A warm, steady pressure through the fabric of your leggings.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said. “I can hear it.”

“I’m always thinking.”

“I know.” His lips curved, just barely. “That’s the challenge. Getting that brain of yours to shut up for five minutes.”

“Good luck.”

“I don’t need luck.” His hand slid from your neck to the back of your head, fingers threading into the damp hair at your nape. “I need you to breathe.”

You hadn’t realised you’d stopped.

The inhale you took was shakier than you wanted it to be. His thumb stroked the skin behind your ear, and something in your chest unlocked - a door you hadn’t known you’d kept bolted.

“There she is,” he whispered.

The kiss caught you off guard, not because it happened, but because of how it happened. Soft. Almost questioning. His mouth brushed yours like he was asking permission, and when you didn’t pull away, he deepened it by degrees - a slow, unhurried exploration that made your fingers curl into the front of his shirt.

He tasted like mint gum and something earthier underneath.

When he pulled back, your eyes stayed closed for a beat too long.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did. His pupils had blown wide, but his expression was still focused. Still watching. Still cataloguing every micro-shift in your face.

“We’re not doing this here,” he said. “Not against a gym mat with lights and security cameras. You deserve better than that.”

“How chivalrous.”

“How strategic.” He stepped back, and the loss of heat was almost physical. “My place. Twenty minutes. You know the address.”

He grabbed his bag before you could answer. Paused at the door, one hand on the frame, and looked back at you with something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Bring the attitude,” he said. “I like it.”

The door swung shut behind him.

The drive to his place took fourteen minutes.

You counted.

Not because you were nervous. Because you were methodical. Because cataloguing the streetlights and the turns and the exact shade of the sky gave your brain something to do besides replay the kiss on a loop, the pressure of his thumb against your pulse, the way he'd said There she is like he'd found something he'd been looking for.

You hadn't showered fully, only freshened up. You'd stood in the gym locker room for a full ninety seconds staring at the tile before realising that washing him off your skin felt wrong. You wanted the salt and the sweat and the evidence.

His building was unremarkable. Buzzer. Stairs. A hallway that smelled like laundry detergent and someone's overcooked dinner. The door was open. Just a crack. Just enough light spilling through to tell you he was waiting.

You pushed it open.

He was there. Leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, wearing a plain tee and grey joggers, still looking at you like you were a puzzle he was halfway through solving. The smirk was back, but it didn't reach his eyes. His eyes were something else entirely.

"No small talk," you said, dropping your bag by the door.

"No small talk," he agreed.

Three strides. That was all it took for him to cross the room. One moment you were standing in the doorway, the next his hands were on your hips and your back was against the doorframe and the air left your lungs in a rush that wasn't quite surprise.

Show me, you'd said. Prove it.

He pinned you there, one forearm braced above your head, the other hand sliding up your ribcage with deliberate, agonizing slowness. His thumb found the underside of your breast through your shirt and stopped.

"Breathe," he reminded you.

"Stop telling me to breathe."

"Stop forgetting."

His mouth found your neck. Not the soft, questioning kiss from the gym - this was different. Teeth grazing skin. Tongue tracing the tendon that had gone tight with anticipation. He sucked at your pulse point and the sound that escaped your throat was involuntary, a half-formed thing you didn't have time to edit.

His smile pressed against your skin. "That one was real."

"Shut up."

"You want me to shut up?" He pulled back, one eyebrow raised. His pupils were blown. His breathing wasn't as steady as he wanted it to be. "You want me to stop talking and just fuck you like the others?"

The question landed in your chest and spread outward like a bruise.

"No," you whispered.

"Good." His hands dropped to your thighs. "Because I have plans."

He lifted you. Not carefully, not like you were fragile - like you were weightless and he'd been waiting hours to get his hands on you. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically, ankles locking behind his back, and the friction of his hips against yours drew a sharp inhale from somewhere deep in your diaphragm.

"Hold on," he said.

The bedroom was dark except for the streetlight bleeding through the blinds. He didn't pause to turn on a lamp or dim the mood or any of the other careful choreography you'd come to expect from men who treated sex like a performance review.

He threw you onto the bed.

Your back hit the mattress with enough force to bounce once, twice, before he was over you, caging you in with his forearms on either side of your head. His weight pressed you into the sheets, and somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice noted that this should feel claustrophobic, feel threatening.

It didn't.

It felt like being held together.

"Too much?" he asked.

"Not enough."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Moya dерзкая devochka." My bratty girl.

The Russian unspooled something in your stomach. You'd heard him speak it before - on the phone with his mother, cursing at the heavy bag - but never like this. Never low and rough and meant only for you.

He sat back on his heels, knees bracketing your hips, and pulled his shirt over his head. The streetlight painted shadows across his torso, the ridges of muscle, the scar on his shoulder you'd never asked about. You'd seen him shirtless a hundred times at the gym. This was different. This was yours to touch.

You reached for him.

He caught your wrist. "Not yet."

"Khamzat-"

"I've been watching you for years." His free hand found the hem of your shirt, rucking it up inch by inch. "I've been watching you pretend for years. With those boys. Making the sounds they wanted. Moving how they expected." The shirt cleared your head and disappeared somewhere behind him. "You don't pretend with me."

"I wasn't-"

"Shh" His thumb traced the edge of your bra. "You think I didn't notice? You think I don't notice everything?"

The clasp snapped open. Cool air met your skin, and then his mouth was there, hot and wet and so focused on one specific spot that your back arched before you gave it permission. His tongue circled your nipple and your fingers fisted in the sheets.

No sound. You were too busy trying to remember how your lungs worked.

"Still with me?" He lifted his head.

"Unfortunately."

He laughed - a real one, the same laugh from the gym - and the sound vibrated through your chest. "You are impossible."

"So I've been told."

"I like impossible." His mouth moved lower, kissing the soft skin below your ribs. "Impossible is my favorite."

The rest of your clothes came off in stages. Your leggings, your underwear, each piece of fabric peeled away with a patience that bordered on torture. He didn't rush. He didn't fumble. He mapped your body with his hands and his mouth.

And his eyes, they catalogued every flinch, tense and involuntary twitch like he was memorising them.

By the time he settled between your thighs, your hands were in his hair and your heartbeat had migrated to your clit.

"Look at me," he said.

You did.

His thumb found you first. Not inside - just against. Just a slow, circular pressure that made your hips buck and your jaw go slack. He watched your face the whole time.

Adjusting the angle when your brow furrowed. Adding speed when your breathing stuttered.

"There," he murmured. "Right there. I feel you. You're-" He swallowed. "You're so wet. For me."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late."

His mouth replaced his thumb and your spine became a question mark. Tongue flat and broad, then pointed, then something in between that made colours bloom behind your eyelids. Your thighs clamped around his head. He didn't stop. He groaned against you, and the vibration traveled upward, outward, everywhere at once.

The edge approached like a held breath. Your muscles coiled. Your toes curled. And then -

He stopped.

"What-" You pushed up onto your elbows. "Why did you-"

Khamzat lifted his head, beard glistening, and smiled the smile of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. "Because I can."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't." He crawled up your body, leaving a trail of kisses along the way - hip, rib, breast, throat. By the time he reached your mouth, you could taste yourself on his lips. "You hate that you don't hate me. It's very different."

His forehead pressed against yours. You felt him, hard and hot against your inner thigh, and the wanting was a physical ache that had nothing to do with performance.

"Ready?" he asked.

"You've been edging me for ten minutes. What do you think?"

"I think I want to hear you say it."

"Yes. God. Yes."

He positioned himself at your entrance - and stopped. Just the tip pushed inside. Just the suggestion of fullness. His eyes found yours in the dark.

You felt your mouth curve. The old habit, the reflex, the armor you'd worn so long it felt like skin. "Is it in?"

Silence. One beat. Two.

Then his head dropped to your shoulder and his laugh shook through both of you, unguarded and genuine. "Is it in," he repeated, the words muffled against your skin. "Is it - moya gryaznaya devochka." My dirty girl.

His hands hooked under your knees and pressed your legs back, folding you until your thighs met your chest and your legs rested on his shoulders. The new angle made you gasp. Made everything tighter, closer, more immediate.

"You want to know if it's in?" He shifted his hips, and the pressure intensified - just the tip, still just the tip. "You want to make jokes?"

"I was just-"

He thrust.

Deep. Full. All at once, in a single stroke that buried him to the hilt and forced the air from your lungs in a sound you didn't recognise as your own. Your hands flew to his shoulders. Your nails dug into muscle. He held there, motionless, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him sheathed inside you.

"Now," he breathed, "Do you think it’s in now?"

You couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Could only feel - the stretch, the fullness, the pulse of your own blood in places you'd forgotten existed.

"There she is," he whispered. "There's my girl."

The stretch of him didn't fade. Didn't soften into something manageable. He stayed buried deep, motionless, his weight pinning your thighs to your chest, and every breath you took pressed you against him in places you didn't have names for.

"Feel it now?" His voice was sandpaper and smoke.

You nodded. Words had abandoned you somewhere between the first thrust and the way he was looking at you - like he owned this moment. Like he owned you.

"Good." He withdrew. Slow. Every ridge of him dragging against your walls. "Because I'm not done."

The emptiness lasted half a heartbeat before he drove back in - harder this time, a punctuating thrust that forced a sound from your throat, raw and unpolished. Your nails raked down his shoulders. He didn't flinch.

"Again," he said. "Don't hold it. Let me hear."

His rhythm built like a tide. Not the frantic, jackhammer pace you'd endured with other men - this was deliberate. Each stroke measured, angled, aimed at something inside you that made your vision flicker. His hips rolled, grinding pubic bone against your clit on every downstroke, and the double sensation was a fork in a socket.

Your head thrashed against the pillow.

"Look at me." His hand caught your jaw. Thumb pressing into one cheek, fingers into the other. "I said look at me."

You did. His face was inches away - sweat beading at his temple, lips parted, pupils blown so wide they ate the iris. The streetlight carved shadows across his cheekbones. He looked unhinged. He looked beautiful.

"You spend so much time in here." His thumb tapped your temple. "Thinking. Planning. Controlling everything." Another thrust. Deeper. "Not here. Here, I control. Here, you feel."

His hand left your jaw and traveled down your throat, not squeezing, just resting there - a reminder of the power he had and wasn't using. His hips didn't stop. The pressure built, a coiling in your pelvis that had nothing to do with performance and everything to do with the way he was watching you come apart.

"Khamzat-"

"I know." He shifted his weight, dropping one of your legs so he could brace himself on his forearm. The angle changed. The new depth punched a gasp from your diaphragm. "Right there. I can feel you tightening. Don't fight it."

"I'm not-"

"You're always fighting." His mouth found your ear. Teeth closed on the lobe. "Stop fighting me."

The bite sent a shock down your spine. Pain and pleasure braided together, indistinguishable. His tongue soothed the sting, then traveled lower - your jaw, your throat, the hollow where your collarbones met. He sucked hard enough to leave a mark.

Your hips bucked without permission.

A smile against your skin. "greedy girl."

He pulled out. Completely. The loss was a physical ache.

"What are you-"

"Turn over."

You hesitated half a second too long. His palm connected with the side of your hip - not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to sting. The sound echoed off the walls.

"Turn. Over."

You moved onto your stomach, knees finding purchase in the rumpled sheets. His hands guided your hips up, pressed your shoulders down. The position was primal. Vulnerable. Your cheek pressed into the pillow and you could smell him on the fabric - salt and cedar and something uniquely Khamzat.

"Beautiful." His palm smoothed over your ass, traced the curve of your spine, settled between your shoulder blades. "You have no idea how long I've thought about this."

"Years, apparently."

"You're still making jokes." Another smack, sharper this time, landing on the fullest part of your backside. The sting bloomed outward, heat spreading across your skin. "Still have that brain running."

"I can't -" Your voice cracked as he soothed the spot with his palm. "I can't just turn it off."

"Then I'll turn it off for you."

He entered you from behind. One thrust, smooth and deep and so different from the front - fuller somehow, reaching places that made your fingers claw at the sheets. His hands settled on your hips, grip tight enough to anchor.

The pace was rougher now. Skin slapping skin. His thighs against the backs of yours. Each impact pushed a sound from your chest, and you stopped editing them, stopped filtering, because there wasn't room in your head for anything except the feeling of him filling you again and again.

“Where’d all that attitude go?” he teased, and then his hand was in your hair, twisting the damp strands in his fist. He pulled. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to arch your back, to lift your head from the pillow, to change the angle so the next thrust hit somewhere that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

"Fuck."

"That's it." His voice was strained now, the control fraying at the edges. "That's the sound I wanted."

The coil tightened. Pressure building at the base of your spine, radiating outward in waves. Your thighs trembled. Your breath came in gasps.

"Close." The word was half-sob. "I'm-"

"Now." His free hand reached around, fingers finding your clit with surgical precision. "Cum now."

The command unlocked something. The pressure detonated - not a wave, not a crest, a white-hot bloom that started in your pelvis and radiated outward until your fingertips tingled. You heard yourself cry out, a sound you'd never made before, muffled by the pillow as your body clenched around him in rhythmic pulses.

He didn't stop. He fucked you through it, drawing out each spasm until you were twitching, oversensitive, trying to crawl away from the intensity.

"Where are you going?" His grip tightened and he held you in place. "I didn't say I was done."

"Too … much - "

"No." He pulled out, flipped you onto your back in one fluid motion. Your legs fell open, too heavy to control. "Not too much. You can take more. You've been starved." He was over you again, pushing your knees wide, lining himself up.

The second orgasm built faster. You felt it approaching like a freight train, no subtlety, just barreling toward you while he watched your face with those dark, hungry eyes. His thumb returned to your clit, painting circles that matched his thrusts.

"Give me another." His forehead pressed to yours. "I know you have it. I can feel you."

"I can't-"

"You can." His rhythm faltered, caught, steadied. "You will. Cum for me again."

He thrust deep and held there, grinding against your clit, and the second orgasm broke over you like a wave. Different from the first - deeper, rolling, pulling sounds from you that were closer to sobs than moans. Your nails scored his back. Your heels dug into his ass. You clenched around him so hard he groaned, a broken sound that vibrated against your throat.

When you came back to yourself, he was still hard. Still inside. But his movements had slowed to something almost tender - gentle rocking that kept you on the edge without pushing you over.

"Open your mouth."

You blinked up at him, brain lagging. "What?"

"Open your mouth."

Your lips parted as you stuck out your tongue. He leaned forward, eyes locked on yours, and let a thread of saliva fall from his mouth into yours. The act was filthy. Degrading. Intimate in a way that made your stomach flip.

"Swallow."

You did. His thumb traced your bottom lip, wiping away a stray drop.

"Moya gryaznaya devochka." The Russian was a growl now, nearly gone. "You have no idea what you do to me."

"Show me."

Something snapped behind his eyes. The control he'd been clinging to evaporated. His hips slammed into you, no rhythm now, no calculation - just need, raw and desperate. The headboard knocked against the wall. He buried his face in your neck and fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside your skin.

His hand fumbled between your bodies, found your clit and pressed hard.

"One more." It was a plea now, not a command. "One more. With me."

The third orgasm caught you by surprise. Not a detonation this time - a unraveling, a slow collapse that started in your chest and spread downward until you were shaking, clenching, pulling him over the edge with you. He groaned your name against your throat, thrust deep and held there, pulsing inside you while his whole body shuddered.

Silence.

Nothing but breathing. His weight settled onto you, heavy and warm and impossible to escape - not that you wanted to. Your fingers found their way into his hair, stroking through the damp strands.

"Well," you managed, voice wrecked. "That was adequate."

He snorted. The vibration shook through your chest. "Adequate. I just gave you three orgasms and you call it adequate."

"I've had better."

"Liar." He pushed up onto his elbows, looking down at you with a grin that was starting to resurface. "You couldn't even speak. You were making sounds like - what was it? - like a dying animal."

"I sounded nothing like a dying animal."

"A very sexy dying animal."

You shoved at his shoulder. He didn't budge. "I'm not stroking your ego."

"You don't have to." He pulled out slowly, and the sensation made you wince, oversensitive. "Your body already did."

He rolled onto his back beside you, chest still heaving. The streetlight painted stripes across his torso. You stared at the ceiling, trying to remember how your limbs worked.

"So," you said. "That's the big guns."

"That's the big guns." He turned his head, studying your profile. "And you felt it. All of it."

It wasn't a question. You didn't treat it like one. "I felt it."

Silence stretched. Comfortable. The kind of silence you'd only ever found with him.

"Your turn next time," he said.

You turned your head. "My turn?"

"To take control." His grin sharpened. "You think I didn't notice? The way you were pushing against me? The way your nails dug in?" He reached over, traced a line down your sternum. "You want to be in charge sometimes too. I can tell."

"Maybe."

"No maybe. I know." He caught your wrist, pressed a kiss to your palm. "But tonight, you needed someone else to drive. So I drove."

"And tomorrow?"

His smile was all teeth. "Tomorrow, you show me what you've got, crazy girl."

"Careful what you wish for, idiot."

"I never wish." He pulled you against his chest, arms locking around you like you might escape. "I plan."

𐙚⋆.˚

[catchymemes]

[digitalnaya]

[m4feez]

Khabib Nurmagomedov x reader

TW: Fluff, some smut?, implied younger but legal reader, dad’sbestfriend! Khabib, lowkey high key a size kink

Authors note: this is literally the first time I’ve ever really wrote fanfic/blurb if you want me to do more just like and send prompts 🙏🙏

Dbf!Khabib Nurmagomedov

Dbf!Khabib Nurmagomedov who stays with you when your dad leaves the state for work

Dbf!Khabib Nurmagomedov who wakes you up at 8am every morning with breakfast, making sure you don’t sleep in too late

Dbf!Khabib Nurmagomedov who makes sure you eat at least two meals a day, knowing you forget sometimes

Dbf!Khabib Nurmagomedov who knows his feelings for his best friends younger daughter are wrong but he can’t help himself

Dbf!Khabib Nurmagomedov who puts his arm around you when you guys are watching a movie in the living room together

Dbf!Khabib Nurmagomedov who always notices the size difference between you two when you need his help reaching for something

Dbf!Khabib Nurmagomedov who sometimes lays in your bed with you rubbing your leg subconsciously

Dbf!Khabib Nurmagomedov who sees you walking around the house in tight clothes and has to hide his hard on with a pillow

[rainedravens]

"holy shit they finally confessed, what comes next--"

[brittletalismanvigilante]

Mountains Do Chase (Sometimes)

NOTES: Big Ank smut, 18+, MDNI

This is a continuation of the prior fic I did for Big Ank, but can be read as a standalone too :)

Three days after the wedding

Magomed Ankalaev was a patient man.

He'd waited longer than enough for Leyla to agree to marry him. He'd been certain from the first moment he saw her that she was his, and he'd simply waited for her to come to the same conclusion.

Mountains didn't chase. Mountains stood firm, and the world adjusted around them.

That philosophy had served him well his entire life.

Until now.

He stared at the ceiling of their bedroom, acutely aware of Leyla reading beside him, her small body curled up against the headboard, completely absorbed in some mathematics journal.

Three nights.

Three nights of being politely, sweetly, devastatingly turned away.

The wedding night: "Magomed, I'm so exhausted from the wedding. All those people, all that dancing. Can we just sleep tonight?"

The second night: "I have such a headache. I think I am coming dow with something. Tomorrow, okay?"

Tonight: "I really want to finish this article. It's fascinating, and I'll lose my train of thought if I stop now. You don't mind, do you?"

Each time delivered with a sweet kiss to his cheek, a gentle pat to his chest, and those dark eyes that wouldn't quite meet his.

He'd been good. Patient. Understanding.

Because that's what mountains did. They waited.

But something was wrong. He could feel it in the tension of her body when he pulled her close. The way she found excuses to stay up late, reading or studying until he fell asleep first. The nervous flutter in her voice when he suggested they go to bed early.

"Leyla," he rumbled.

"Mmm?" She didn't look up from her journal.

"Is late."

"I know. This is fascinating though. Did you know there's a proof for—"

"Don't care about proof." He rolled onto his side, propping his head on his massive arm to look at her. "Care about my wife."

"I'm right here." Still not looking at him.

"Are you?"

That got her attention. She looked over the top of her journal, her eyes wide. "What do you mean?"

"Mean you've been reading for two hours. Mean this is third night you find reason to not..." He gestured between them. "To not be with me."

"I'm not finding reasons, I just genuinely—"

"Leyla." His voice was gentle but firm. "Look at me. Really look at me."

She did, slowly lowering the journal.

"Are you..." He searched for the words. "Are you having second thoughts? About us? About marriage?"

"What? No! Magomed, no, I love you!"

"Then what is wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong! I'm just tired, and busy, and—"

"And lying to me." He sat up, careful not to crowd her. "You forget. I watch you for long time. I know when you're nervous. When you're scared. When you're hiding something."

She bit her lip, looking away. "I'm not—"

"You are." He touched her chin gently, turning her face back to his. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. We're married now. Partners. You can tell me anything."

For a moment, he thought she would. Her mouth opened, her eyes shimmered with something that looked like relief.

Then she blinked, looked away, and the moment passed.

"I'm just really tired, Magomed. That's all. The wedding took a lot out of me." She set down her journal, turned off her light. "Let's sleep. Tomorrow will be better."

She curled up on her side, facing away from him.

Magomed stared at her small form, feeling something unfamiliar twist in his chest.

Helplessness.

He didn't know what to do. How to fix this. For the first time in his life, being a mountain—being patient and certain and immovable—wasn't working.

He turned off his light, pulled her against his chest despite her slight resistance, and lay awake for hours trying to figure out what he was doing wrong.

Four days after the wedding

The next day, Magomed went to the gym earlier than usual.

He needed to hit something.

Abubakar found him destroying a heavy bag with more force than technique.

"Whoa, whoa!" Abubakar grabbed the bag, steadying it. "What did this bag do to you?"

"Eh."

"That's not an answer." Abubakar crossed his arms. "What's wrong? Trouble in paradise?"

Magomed hit the bag again, hard enough to make Abubakar stumble.

"Okay, yes, definitely trouble." Abubakar moved around to face him. "Talk to me. What happened?"

"Nothing happened. That's the problem."

"Nothing... oh." Understanding dawned on Abubakar's face. "Oh. Nothing happened."

"Eh."

"How many days now?"

"Four. Almost five."

Abubakar whistled low. "And she's giving you reasons?"

"Every night. Different reason. Tired. Headache. Studying. Always something." Magomed stopped hitting the bag, breathing hard. "And she won't tell me what's really wrong."

"Did you ask?"

"Of course I asked! She says nothing is wrong. That she's just tired."

"But you don't believe her."

"I know her. Something is wrong. She's scared of something. But won't tell me what."

Abubakar was quiet for a moment, thinking. "You know what your problem is?"

"What?"

"You're being a mountain."

Magomed frowned. "Mountains don't—"

"I know, I know. Mountains don't chase. But Magomed, my friend, sometimes mountains need to become avalanches."

"What does that even mean?"

"Means you can't just wait for her to come to you this time. She's not going to. She's scared, she's hiding, and she's hoping... I don't know, that the problem will solve itself?" Abubakar shrugged. "You need to pursue this. Actively. Figure out what's wrong and fix it."

"How?"

"I don't know! You're the one who's been obsessed with her for ages. Use that big brain of yours." Abubakar clapped him on the shoulder. "But whatever you do, don't just wait. Waiting isn't working."

Magomed stared at the heavy bag, Abubakar's words sinking in.

He'd been waiting. Being patient. Expecting Leyla to come to him when she was ready.

But she wasn't coming to him. She was pulling further away.

Maybe, just this once, the mountain needed to chase.

Five days after the wedding

That night, Magomed tried a different approach.

He came home early from training, showered, and started making dinner. Leyla's favorite—his mother's recipe for lamb stew.

When Leyla came home from the university, she stopped in the doorway, surprised.

"You're home early."

"Eh. Wanted to make you dinner."

"Oh." She set down her bag, looking uncertain. "That's... that's really sweet, Magomed."

"Sit. Is almost ready."

He plated the food, poured her juice, even lit a candle on the table. Leyla smiled at the setup, but he could see the nervousness in her eyes.

They ate in comfortable silence at first, Leyla making happy sounds at the stew that normally would have pleased him. But tonight, he was watching her too carefully. Seeing the way she barely met his eyes. The way her hand trembled slightly when she reached for her glass.

"Leyla," he said finally.

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

She blinked, surprised. "I love you too."

"Then why are you scared of me?"

"I'm not—"

"You are. Ever since wedding night, you've been scared. And you won't tell me why." He set down his fork. "Did I do something wrong? Say something wrong?"

"No! Magomed, no, you're perfect."

"Then what is it?"

She looked down at her plate. "Nothing. I'm just adjusting to married life, that's all."

"Leyla—"

"I'm fine. Really." She stood abruptly. "I should clean up."

"I'll clean. You go rest."

"No, I'll do it. You cooked, I clean. That's fair."

She gathered the plates quickly, escaping to the kitchen.

Magomed sat at the table, frustration building in his chest.

She was shutting him out. Every time he tried to get close, she found a way to pull back.

He followed her to the kitchen, found her washing dishes with more force than necessary.

"Leyla."

"Almost done."

He moved behind her, his hands on her waist, pulling her back against his chest.

She stiffened.

"Please," he said quietly. "Please talk to me. Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong," she repeated, but her voice shook.

His hands tightened on her waist. Not hard, just... there. Grounding.

"I'm your husband. You're supposed to tell me things. Trust me with things."

"I do trust you."

"Then why won't you let me touch you?"

She went very still. "You touch me all the time."

"Not like that. Not the way husband should touch wife." He turned her around gently, tipped her chin up so she had to look at him. "Is it me? Do you not want me?"

"That's not it!"

"Then what?"

For a moment—just a moment—he saw it. Real fear in her eyes. Her mouth opened like she wanted to tell him.

Then she shook her head, pulled away. "I'm just tired, Magomed. That's all. Tomorrow. We can... tomorrow."

She fled to the bedroom before he could respond.

Magomed stood in the kitchen, staring after her, and realized Abubakar was right.

Waiting wasn't working.

The mountain needed to chase.

Seven days after the wedding

That night, Magomed came home determined.

No more waiting. No more accepting her excuses.

He found Leyla in the living room, curled up on the couch with—of course—a book.

"Leyla. Put down the book."

She looked up, startled by his tone. "What?"

"Put it down. Now."

She set the book aside slowly, nervously. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes. Something is wrong." He sat down beside her, close enough that his thigh pressed against hers. "And you're going to tell me what it is."

"Magomed, I already told you—"

"You've been lying to me for a week. And I've been letting you because I thought you needed time. Space. But I was wrong." He turned to face her fully. "You don't need space. You need me to push. To not let you hide."

"I'm not hiding—"

"You are. Every night, new excuse. Every time I try to touch you, you run. And I'm done accepting it." His hand found her waist, pulled her closer despite her resistance. "So you're going to tell me the truth. Right now."

"There's nothing to tell!"

"Leyla." His voice dropped, became softer but somehow more intense. "I love you. I waited long for you. But I won't let you pull away from me without at least knowing why."

Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

"It's embarrassing."

"Don't care."

"Magomed—"

"Tell me." He pulled her into his lap, held her there despite her half-hearted attempt to escape.

"I can't," she whispered.

"You can. You will." His forehead touched hers.

"You're being impossible."

"Eh."

She took a shuddering breath, and he could feel her gathering her courage.

"Okay," she said. "You want the truth? I'll tell you."

She took a deep breath.

"I'm scared," she said finally.

"Of what?"

"Of... of you. Of us. Of..." She gestured helplessly. "Of sex."

He blinked. Of all the things he'd imagined—regrets about marriage, second thoughts about him, a hundred terrible scenarios—this wasn't one of them.

"You're scared of sex?" he repeated, trying to understand.

"Yes! Okay? I'm terrified!" The words came out in a rush now, like a dam breaking. "Because Magomed, have you looked at yourself? You're enormous! You're nearly two meters tall, you weigh over 100 kilos of pure muscle, your hands are the size of dinner plates, and I'm—" She gestured at herself. "I'm tiny! I barely come up to your chest! And if you're proportional everywhere, which, I saw aflicker of you in the shower once and you definitely are, then—"

She broke off, her face flaming red.

Magomed just stared at her.

"That's it?" he said finally. "That's what you've been scared of?"

"Don't say it like that! It's a legitimate concern!"

"You think I'll hurt you."

"I think you're huge and I'm small and biology only goes so far!"

He leaned back, processing this. "So for eight days, you've been avoiding me because you're worried about... size?"

"Don't make it sound stupid—"

"Is not stupid." He stood, moved to sit beside her. "Is real concern. I'm big. You're small. Makes sense you'd worry."

She looked at him warily. "You're not upset?"

"Upset? No. Relieved? Yes." He pulled her closer onto his lap, ignored her squeak of protest. "This we can fix."

"How can you possibly—"

"Because bodies are amazing things. Designed for this. And yes, I'm big. But you know what else is big?"

"What?"

"My patience. Again, like mountain." He kissed her forehead. "We go slow."

"But you want—"

"Of course I want. Want you so badly I can barely sleep."

She looked up at him, hope and fear warring in her eyes. "Really?"

"Really." He tucked a curl behind her ear. "Now. Tell me exactly what you're scared of. Everything. Don't hide anymore."

And finally—finally—she did.

She told him about seeing him in the shower. About how intimidated she'd been. About lying awake at night trying to do math in her head (of course she did math) to figure out if it was even physically possible. About reading medical articles about vaginal capacity and stretching and tearing.

By the time she was done, Magomed was trying very hard not to laugh.

"What?" she demanded. "Why are you smiling?"

"Because you did research. Of course you did research. Is very you."

"This isn't funny!"

"Little bit funny. My genius wife, trying to calculate if we're sexually compatible using mathematics."

"Magomed!"

"Okay, okay. Is not funny. Is cute though." He kissed her nose. "And I appreciate you trying to solve problem scientifically. But Leyla, this is not math problem. Is trust problem."

"What do you mean?"

"You don't trust me not to hurt you."

She started to protest, then stopped. "Maybe," she admitted quietly. "Not because I think you'd do it on purpose. But because you're so big and strong, and what if you lose control?"

"I would never forget." He took her hand, placed it on his chest where his heart was pounding. "Feel that? That's how much I want you. How much I've wanted you every night for eight days. And every night, I've stopped when you asked. Didn't push. Didn't force. Didn't lose control."

"That's different—"

"Is exactly the same. Wanting you doesn't make me lose control. Makes me more aware. More determined to do it right." He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her palm.

"You make it sound so simple."

"Is simple. You trust me in everything else. Trust me in this too."

She bit her lip, considering. "What if it doesn't work? What if we try and it's too much?"

"Then we stop. Try again later. Or we do other things. Many ways to make love, Leyla. Many ways to be together." His hand cupped her face. "But we don't know what will work until we try. And we can't try until you trust me."

She looked at him for a long moment, searching his face.

"Okay," she said finally.

"Okay?"

"I trust you." She took a deep breath. "And I'm tired of being scared. So... show me. Show me how we make this work."

"Now?"

"Now." She smiled nervously. "Before I lose my courage."

Magomed stood, lifting her with him. "Then let's do this properly."

"What do you mean?"

"Mean you've been scared for eight days. We're not rushing this. We're taking all the time you need." He carried her toward the bedroom. "Going to show you exactly how patient I can be. How careful. How good I can make you feel."

(...)

Magomed laid her on their bed with infinite gentleness.

"First rule," he said, kneeling beside the bed. "You tell me if anything hurts. You tell me stop, I stop. Immediately. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Second rule. You relax. Let me take care of you." His hands found the hem of her shirt. "Can I?"

She nodded.

He pulled it off slowly, revealing her breasts. Small, perfect, nipples already peaked.

"Beautiful," he murmured, and bent to kiss one.

Leyla gasped, her back arching.

He took his time with her breasts. Kissing, licking, sucking until she was squirming beneath him, little sounds escaping her throat.

Only then did his hand trail down her stomach to the waistband of her pants.

"Okay?"

"Yes," she breathed.

He removed her pants and underwear in one smooth motion, leaving her completely bare. For a moment, he just looked at her. His tiny wife, spread out on their bed, flushed and breathing hard.

"Perfect," he said. "All of you. Perfect."

His hand traced up her inner thigh, watching her reactions. When he reached her center, she was already wet.

"See?" He circled her clit lightly. "Your body knows. Wants this. Wants me."

He worked her clit with his thumb while his other hand explored, learning every sound she made, every movement that made her gasp.

When she was panting, trembling, he slipped one finger inside.

She tensed immediately.

"Relax," he murmured. "Breathe. Just one finger. Nice and slow."

He didn't move it at first. Just let her get used to the feeling while his thumb continued its work on her clit.

Gradually, she relaxed around him.

"Good," he praised. "So good, Leyla. See? Not so bad."

He started moving the finger, slowly, carefully, watching her face.

The discomfort faded, replaced by pleasure.

"More?" he asked.

"I don't know if—"

"Try. Just try. Tell me if it's too much."

He added a second finger, moving very slowly.

She whimpered, and he froze.

"Too much?"

"No. Just... tight. Really tight."

"I know. You're doing so well." He scissored his fingers gently, stretching her. "Breathe. Relax into it."

It took time. Patience. But eventually, she was moving against his hand, chasing the pleasure.

"That's it," he encouraged. "Take what you need."

When she came, pulsing around his two fingers, he thought he might die from wanting her.

But he didn't push. Didn't ask for more. Just held her while she came down, whispering praise in her ear.

"See?" he said softly. "Already better. Tomorrow, we practice more. Every day, little more. Until you're ready."

"How will I know when I'm ready?"

He smiled against her hair. "You'll tell me."

Ten days after the wedding

Every night, Magomed worked her open a little more.

Two fingers became three, though it took two more nights of patient, careful stretching.

He learned exactly how to touch her, how to make her forget her fear in the pleasure.

On the tenth night, with three fingers inside her and his mouth on her clit, Leyla came so hard she saw stars.

"Magomed," she gasped when she could breathe again. "Please... I think I'm ready."

He looked up at her, his eyes dark with want. "You sure?"

"I'm sure. I want you. All of you. Please."

He didn't need to be told twice.

Magomed stripped off his clothes, and Leyla's eyes went wide.

He was, as she'd feared, massive. Thick and long and impossibly hard, jutting from a nest of dark hair.

"Still want to try?" he asked gently, seeing her expression.

She swallowed hard. "Yes. But... go slow?"

"As slow as you need." He settled between her thighs, his weight braced on his forearms. He reached for the lubricant, warming it in his hands before slicking himself generously. "This will help. And remember—you say stop, I stop."

She nodded, trying to calm her racing heart.

He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head pressing against her opening.

"Deep breath," he instructed.

She breathed in.

He pushed forward, just the tip breaching her.

Leyla gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait."

He froze immediately. "Too much?"

"Just... give me a second. You're so—it's so—" She breathed through it, willing her body to relax. "Okay. Little more."

He pushed in another centimeter, his jaw clenched with the effort of going so slowly.

She whimpered.

"Breathe, Leyla. You're doing so well. So well for me."

Another tiny thrust. Then another.

"It's so much," she panted, her nails digging into his shoulders. "You're so big, I don't think—"

"You can. You are. Look at you, taking me so well already." He kissed her softly. "We're about a third of the way there."

"A THIRD?!"

"Shh, shh. Don't think about it. Just feel. Focus on my voice. On breathing." He rocked gently, working himself deeper fraction by fraction. "You're so tight, Leyla. So perfect. Made for me. Your body knows how to do this."

It burned. It stretched. It felt utterly impossible.

But slowly, impossibly, her body opened for him.

His hand found her clit, circled it gently, and the pleasure helped offset the overwhelming stretch.

"That's it," he groaned. "Relax into it. Let me in. Almost halfway now."

"Halfway," she whimpered. "Oh God, there's still so much—"

"And you're taking it all so beautifully. So brave. So perfect." He pushed in another inch, felt her tense. "Breathe. Just breathe. I've got you."

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes—not from pain exactly, but from the overwhelming sensation of being so impossibly full.

"Too much?" he asked, concerned.

"No. Yes. I don't know." She laughed shakily. "It's just so intense. I feel like I'm being split in half."

"You're not. Your body is stretching. Accommodating. You're doing perfect." He wiped away her tears with his thumb. "Want to stop?"

"No." She grabbed his face, made him look at her. "Don't stop. I want all of you. I want to do this."

"Okay. Okay, we keep going." He kissed her deeply, distracting her as he pushed in further.

Inch by agonizing inch, he worked himself deeper.

"Three quarters," he groaned against her mouth. "So close, Leyla. Almost there."

"I can't take any more—"

"Yes you can. Just a little more. You're being so good for me. Taking me so well."

His fingers worked her clit faster, building her pleasure, making her body relax further.

One more push.

And finally—finally—he bottomed out, fully seated inside her.

They both froze, breathing hard.

"Oh God," Leyla whimpered. "So full. So full, Magomed, I can't—I can feel you everywhere—"

"I know. I know, I've got you." He was shaking with the effort of holding still. "Look. Look at us."

He angled her head down so she could see where they were joined—his thick length disappearing completely into her small body, their hips flush together.

"See?" His voice was strained. "All of me. Every inch. Inside you. You took all of me, Leyla."

She stared at the impossible sight, couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. "How?"

"Because you're made for me. All of you made for me." He kissed her deeply. "Can I move? Please? Need to move."

"Slowly."

He withdrew an inch, pushed back in carefully.

She tensed, whimpered.

"Relax. Let me in. Let me make you feel good." He did it again, a little smoother this time. "There. See? Your body is learning. Learning to take me."

The burn began to fade, replaced by something else. A fullness that was still overwhelming but no longer painful. A stretch that made every nerve ending sing.

"There," Magomed said, seeing the change in her eyes. "There it is."

He established a slow, deep rhythm. Each thrust measured, careful, giving her time to adjust.

His hand found her clit again, circled it in time with his movements.

"Oh." Leyla's head fell back. "Oh, that's—when you do that while you're—oh God—"

"Good?"

"So good. Don't stop. Please don't stop."

He increased his pace slightly, still careful but more urgent now. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, mixed with her gasps and his groans.

"Taking me so well," he praised between thrusts. "So tight. So perfect. Look at you, taking every inch like you were made for it. Because you were. Made for me. Made to take me."

"Oh, oh God —" She could feel it building, that coiling tension.

"Come for me. Want to feel you. Want to feel this tight little pussy squeeze me while you come."

His words, his thrusts, his fingers on her clit—it was too much. She came, crying out his name, her body clamping down on him like a vice.

The feeling of her coming around him—so tight and hot and perfect, pulsing around his length—destroyed the last of his control.

"Leyla. Leyla." He managed three more deep thrusts before he buried himself to the hilt and came with a roar, spilling deep inside her.

They lay tangled together afterward, both breathing hard, covered in sweat.

"You okay?" he asked carefully, slowly withdrawing from her.

She winced slightly. "Sore. Really sore. But okay. Better than okay."

"Hurt?"

"A little. But in a good way?" She touched his face wonderingly. "We did it. We actually did it."

"You did it. You were so brave. So perfect." He kissed her softly. "Was so scared of hurting you."

"I know. I could feel how hard you were trying to be gentle." She kissed him back. "Thank you. For being so patient. For taking so much time to prepare me. For not pushing when I was scared."

"Always." He pulled her close, careful of her soreness. "Always take care of you. Always make sure you're ready. Is my job."

"I love you. I love you so much."

"Love you more." He kissed her forehead. "And Leyla? Tomorrow night, we practice again."

"Again?!"

"Eh. Many more times. Until your body is completely used to me. Until it doesn't hurt at all. Until you can take me easily." His eyes darkened with promise. "Going to make love to you so many times you forget you were ever scared."

She laughed softly, exhausted and satisfied and happier than she'd ever been. "Promises, promises."

"Not promises. Facts." He pulled the blanket over them both. "Now sleep. You need rest. Tomorrow is going to be very busy."

"Why tomorrow?"

"Because tomorrow, I teach you that it gets even better than this."

And despite her exhaustion, despite her soreness, Leyla found herself looking forward to it.

Her mountain had chased her after all.

Had pursued her through every excuse and deflection until he got the truth.

And then he'd proven, with infinite patience and care, that she had nothing to fear.

"Magomed?" she whispered as she drifted off to sleep.

"Eh?"

"The mountain didn't just wait this time."

She felt him smile against her hair. "No. Mountain learned to chase. For you. Only for you."

"Good," she murmured. "Because I'm never running again."

"Good. Because I'm never letting you."

[brittletalismanvigilante]

The Only Thing He's Ever Asked For

NOTES: BIG ANK SIZE KINK SMUT

...ALONG WITH EVERYTHING ELSE BEING FICTIONAL, THE DATING THAT TAKES PLACE IS PROBABLY UNREALISTICS AF AS WELL BUT LET'S JUST IGNORE THAT HEHHEHE

18+, MDNI!!

The first time Magomed saw her, she was twenty-two years old and laughing with her friends at a café.

He was twenty-three, and he'd stopped caring about his coffee the moment he'd spotted her across the room. She was tiny—couldn't have been more than 160cm—with an easy smile and animated hands as she talked.

He wanted her immediately. Viscerally. In a way that made no logical sense.

"You're staring," his teammate Abubakar said, following his gaze. "At the small one?"

"Yes."

"She looks like a strong wind would blow her over, and you want to—" Abubakar laughed. "Brother, you'll break her."

Magomed didn't respond. He was already calculating how to approach her without scaring her off.

It took him three days of "coincidentally" being at the same café before he finally worked up the nerve to talk to her and catching her alone. And when he did, standing at her table and blocking out the sun with his frame, he watched her eyes go wide as she looked up... and up... and up at him.

"Hello," he said, keeping his voice soft. Non-threatening.

"Um. Hi?" She looked uncertain.

He realized, with a sinking feeling, that she was nervous. Not interested-nervous. Scared-nervous.

Of course she was. He was 191 cm of solid muscle, had fists that had knocked people unconscious, and probably looked like he could snap her in half without trying.

"I'm Magomed," he said, staying where he was, not moving closer. "I've seen you here before. I wanted to introduce myself."

"Oh." She relaxed slightly. "I'm... hi. Yes. Hello."

"Can I buy you a coffee?" he asked.

She hesitated, and he could see her weighing it. See her taking in his size, his build, probably wondering if this was a good idea.

"Just coffee," he added quickly. "Here. With..people, present. I just want to talk."

Something in his voice must have reassured her, because she nodded slowly. "Okay. Sure. Coffee."

It took weeks.

Weeks of careful conversation, of keeping his distance, of proving he wasn't a threat. Of showing her that despite his size, despite what he did for a living, he could be gentle. Could be patient.

"You fight people," she said one evening, about two weeks in, when they'd graduated to actual dates. "Like, professionally hit people until they can't get up."

"Yes."

"And you're..." She gestured vaguely at all of him. "...very large."

"Yes."

"So you have to understand why I was nervous at first."

He did understand. "I would never hurt you, if that's what you mean."

"I know that now," she said softly. "You've been nothing but sweet to me. It's just... it took me a minute to see past the..." Another gesture. "...everything."

"I'm glad you did."

She smiled then, that same smile that had caught his attention in the café. "Me too."

By the third week, she'd started to relax around him completely. Started to joke about the height difference instead of being intimidated by it.

"I feel like I would need a step stool to kiss you," she blurted out one evening when he picked her up. His brows did a funny little upwards dance. They haven't kissed, yet. And then, Magomed just did something...

"I can fix that." Without thinking, he picked her up by the waist, lifting her easily until they were eye-level.

She squeaked in surprise, then laughed, her hands settling on his shoulders.

"See? Problem solved." He said, and just leaned it for a kiss.

(...)

Two months in, she gave him a nickname that made him laugh so hard he nearly choked on his water.

"What did you just call me?" he asked, sure he'd misheard.

"Myshonok," she repeated, grinning up at him. Little mouse.

"You're calling me little mouse?"

"Yes. And I very determined that is what I call you from now on."

He stared at her, this tiny woman who barely came up to his chest, who weighed probably 50kg soaking wet, calling him—a professional fighter who cut weight to make 93kg—a little mouse.

"You're insane," he told her.

"You like it."

He did. God help him, he absolutely did.

From then on, she used it regularly, and every single time, it made him smile. His teammates found out eventually and thought it was hilarious. His coaches were baffled.

Magomed knew he was going to marry her.

Knew it with the same certainty he knew how to fight, how to grapple, how to survive in the cage. She was his. Had been his from the moment he'd seen her in that café.

The size difference that had initially frightened her had become something else entirely. He'd catch her staring at him sometimes—at his hands, his arms, the way he dwarfed her when they stood next to each other. And the look in her eyes wasn't fear anymore.

It was want.

She'd started initiating contact more. Would grab his hand and compare their palms, marveling at how his fingers extended past hers by inches. Would ask him to reach things for her even when she could probably get them herself. Would press herself against him when they kissed, like she was testing how well she fit against his larger frame.

And Magomed, for his part, was losing his mind.

Every time she looked up at him with those wide eyes, every time she had to stand on her toes to reach him, every time his hands spanned her waist completely—it made him want things. Want her. In ways that went far beyond the sweet, patient courtship he'd been maintaining.

But he kept himself in check. Kept things slow. Because she was young, and this was important, and he wasn't going to rush her just because he was half-feral with wanting her.

(...)

Magomed's father had seen his son ask for very little in his twenty-three years of life.

Magomed never complained about training schedules. Never demanded expensive things. Never caused problems. He fought when told to fight, trained when told to train, and built his career with the quiet, relentless determination that had become his trademark in the octagon.

So when Magomed came to him with a request—a demand, really—his father didn't quite know what to make of it.

"This girl," his father said carefully, studying his son's face across the kitchen table in their home. "You're certain?"

"Yes." Magomed's voice was flat, absolute. No room for negotiation.

"You've known her four months."

"Yes."

"And you want to marry her."

"Yes."

His father leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming on the worn wood. His son's face was impassive as always—that maddeningly calm expression that made him so dangerous in the cage, that was earning him a reputation in the UFC. But there was something in his eyes. Something his father had never seen before.

Hunger.

"What is so special about this one?" his father asked. "You've never... you've never asked for anything like this before."

Magomed was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough. "She's mine. That's all."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have." Magomed met his father's eyes. "I need this. I need her."

His father had raised this boy. Knew when he was hiding something, knew when he was being evasive. This wasn't either of those things. This was... something else entirely.

"She's so small," his father said, remembering the single time he'd met her. Tiny thing, barely came up to Magomed's chest. Delicate-looking next to his son's broad, powerful frame. "Are you sure—"

"Yes." The word came out sharp. Final.

His father sighed. "She calls you 'little mouse,' your mother tells me."

Magomed's expression softened slightly. Almost smiled. "Yes."

"And you allow this?"

"I like it."

His father stared at his son—this fighter, this man who'd made grown opponents tap out from fear—and tried to reconcile it with someone who liked being called a little mouse by a woman who weighed 50kg.

"You're sure about this?" he asked one more time.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

His father nodded slowly. "Then we'll make the arrangements."

The relief that flickered across Magomed's face was brief, but unmistakable.

(...)

Two years later, she stood in their apartment kitchen, barefoot, stretching up on her toes to try to reach the cabinet where Magomed had—deliberately—placed the coffee mugs.

He watched from the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, a rare smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

She was wearing one of his t-shirts, the fabric hanging to her mid-thigh, the sleeves past her elbows. On him, it was fitted. On her, it looked like a dress.

"Magomed," she huffed, still reaching. "I know you can see me. And you can hear me."

"I can see you and I can hear you," he confirmed, not moving.

"The mugs. They used to be in the lower cabinet."

"I reorganized."

She turned to glare at him over her shoulder, hands on her hips. Even annoyed, she looked adorable. The top of her head would barely reach his shoulder if she was standing next to him. With the black heels he liked so much, she'd made it to his collarbone.

"You reorganized to mess with me," she accused.

"Maybe." He pushed off the doorframe, crossing to her in three long strides. He reached over her head—barely had to extend his arm—and pulled down a mug, setting it on the counter beside her.

She had to tilt her head back to look up at him. He loved that. Loved how small she was next to him, how he could cage her in completely, how his hands could span her waist with room to spare.

"You do this on purpose," she muttered.

"Yes." He didn't deny it. He cupped her face with one hand, his palm covering her cheek, jaw, part of her neck. His fingers threaded into her hair easily. "I like reminding you."

"Reminding me what?"

"How small you are. How easily I can..." He lifted her by the waist, setting her on the counter in one smooth motion. Now they were almost eye-level. Almost. "...move you wherever I want you."

Her breath hitched. Her thighs parted automatically, letting him step between them.

"That's not fair, myshonok," she whispered.

There it was. That nickname that still made him smile every single time, even after two years of marriage.

"What's not fair?"

"You know what it does to me when you—" She broke off, biting her lip.

He did know. He knew exactly what it did to her when he demonstrated the size difference, when he manhandled her like she weighed nothing, when he reminded her just how big he was compared to her.

It did things to him too. Had been doing things to him since the moment he'd first seen her, since those early days when she'd been nervous about his size and he'd had to prove he could be gentle.

He wasn't feeling particularly gentle right now.

"When I what?" he prompted, his voice dropping lower. His hands settled on her thighs, and he could feel the heat of her even through his shirt she wore.

"You know."

"Say it."

"Magomed..." His name came out breathy, wanting.

"Tell me." His thumbs stroked the soft inside of her thighs. "What does it do to you when I show you how small you are? When I pick you up like you're nothing? When I—"

"It makes me wet," she interrupted, her cheeks flushing. "You know it does. You like it."

"I fucking love it," he corrected, and kissed her hard.

She melted into him immediately, her small hands fisting in his shirt, trying to pull him closer. He obliged, pressing his body against hers, letting her feel the solid wall of muscle that made up his frame.

"Remember when you were scared of me?" he murmured against her mouth.

"I wasn't scared of you," she protested. "I was... cautious."

"You thought I'd break you."

"You're very large and you hit people for a living. It was a reasonable concern."

He pulled back to look at her, one eyebrow raised. "And now?"

She grinned up at him, that same mischievous smile he'd fallen in love with. "Now I know you only break people in the octagon. And that you're very, very careful with me."

"Most of the time," he corrected.

Her eyes darkened. "Most of the time."

(...)

He'd been thinking about this all day.

Through training, through the meetings with his management team, through dinner with his teammates. He'd been thinking about getting her home, getting her naked, seeing that perfect size difference that drove him insane.

Now she was in their bed, already stripped down to nothing, watching him undress with dark, hungry eyes.

"Come here," he ordered, and she crawled across the bed to him.

On her knees on the mattress, she was shorter than him standing beside the bed. He tangled his fingers in her hair, tilting her head back to kiss her deeply, possessively. His other hand roamed down her body—her neck, her collarbone, cupping her breast. His hand covered it completely, and something primal and satisfied rumbled in his chest.

So fucking small. So perfectly small.

"On your back," he said against her mouth.

She obeyed immediately, settling into the pillows and looking up at him with that mix of anticipation and need that made his cock ache.

He stood there for a moment, just looking at her. Taking in the sight of her spread out on their bed, tiny and bare and wanting. When he finally climbed over her, covering her body with his, she let out a small, desperate sound.

"Shh," he murmured, settling his weight on her carefully. He was more than twice her size—had to be careful not to crush her, even though some dark part of him wanted to just press her into the mattress and keep her there.

His body covered hers completely. His shoulders were broader than her entire torso. When he braced himself on his forearms on either side of her head, she disappeared beneath him entirely.

"Magomed," she whimpered, her small hands running up his arms, over his shoulders. "Please."

"Please what?" He rocked his hips against her, his cock—hard and heavy—pressing against her pussy. Even that felt obscene, the size difference. How thick he was compared to her, how much he was going to stretch her.

"Please fuck me," she gasped. "I need—I need you."

"I know what you need." He reached down between them, running his fingers through her folds. She was soaked already, slick and hot and ready for him. "So wet for me. Always so wet."

"Because you—" She broke off on a moan as he pushed one finger inside her. Just one, and she was already clenching around it, her back arching. "Oh god."

"Because I what?" He added a second finger, stretching her slowly, watching her face as he worked her open. "Because I'm big? Because you like knowing how much bigger I am than you?"

"Yes," she admitted, shameless now, rocking her hips against his hand. "Yes, I love it. I love how big you are. How strong. How you can just—"

He withdrew his fingers and gripped her hips, flipping her over onto her stomach in one smooth motion.

"—do that," she finished breathlessly, face pressed into the pillow.

He pulled her hips up and back, positioning her on her hands and knees. From behind, the size difference was even more obscene. His hands completely covered her ass, his body looming over her smaller frame.

"Stay still," he commanded, and lined himself up.

The first push was always intense. Always that moment where her body had to adjust, had to accommodate him. He was thick—too thick, really, for someone her size—and he watched with dark satisfaction as her pussy stretched around his cock, taking him inch by inch.

"Fuck," he groaned, gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks. "So tight."

She was whimpering into the pillow, her small hands fisting the sheets as he sank deeper. Halfway in, and he could already see her struggling with it, her body trembling.

"You can take it," he told her, pulling back slightly and pushing in again, working himself deeper. "You always take it. Take all of me."

"It's—it's so much," she gasped.

He bottomed out finally, his hips flush against her ass, and they both groaned. He gave her a moment to adjust, running his hands up her back, feeling how small she was beneath him, how completely he filled her.

Then he started to move.

He wasn't gentle. Couldn't be, not when she felt this good, not when the sight of his cock disappearing into her tight little pussy made him feel feral. He fucked her hard, deep, pulling her hips back to meet each thrust.

"Look at you," he growled, one hand sliding up her spine to fist in her hair. "Taking my cock so well. Such a good girl, letting me fuck you like this."

She was crying out with each thrust now, the sounds muffled by the pillow. He could feel her getting wetter, feel her pussy clenching around him, and he knew she was close.

"Touch yourself," he ordered. "Make yourself come on my cock."

Her hand slipped between her legs immediately, and he felt the change in her body as she found her clit. Felt her get even tighter, even wetter.

"That's it," he encouraged, fucking her harder. "Come for me. Want to feel you come."

It only took a few more thrusts before she was there, crying out his name as she came, her pussy spasming around him. The feeling of her coming undone on his cock almost made him lose control, but he gritted his teeth and held on.

He pulled out, ignoring her confused whimper, and flipped her onto her back again. He needed to see her face. Needed to watch her while he made her take him again.

"Magomed," she breathed, reaching for him.

He pushed back inside in one hard thrust, and her eyes went wide, her mouth falling open on a silent scream. From this angle, he could see everything—could see where they were joined, could see how obscenely stretched she was around him, could see her small body taking every inch.

"Look," he commanded, grabbing her chin and forcing her gaze down between their bodies. "Look at how you take me. Look at how small you are."

She looked, and he felt her clench around him, saw the flush spread across her chest.

"You like seeing it too," he said, not a question. He started moving again, slower this time but just as deep. "How much you have to stretch to take my cock."

"Yes," she moaned, her hands scrambling for purchase on his shoulders, his back.

He leaned down, covering her body with his again, and captured her mouth in a kiss. His hips snapped forward harder, faster, driving deep into her with each thrust. She felt impossibly tight, impossibly perfect, and he knew he wasn't going to last much longer.

"Where?" he growled against her mouth.

"Inside," she gasped immediately. "Inside, please, Magomed, I want—"

He kissed her again, swallowing her words, and fucked her harder. His hand slipped between them, finding her clit, and she shattered around him almost immediately, her whole body convulsing as she came.

The feeling of her pussy clenching around him, milking his cock, was too much. He buried himself as deep as he could go and came hard, groaning her name into her neck as he filled her.

For a long moment, they just lay there, breathing hard, his body still covering hers completely.

"Too heavy?" he murmured eventually.

"No." Her arms tightened around him. "Stay."

He stayed, keeping his weight braced on his forearms but letting her feel the size of him, the solid mass of muscle and strength that covered her so completely.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" she whispered, her fingers tracing patterns on his back. "When you saw me that first time. This is what you thought about."

He lifted his head to look at her. "Yes."

"Just this?"

"No." He shifted slightly, still buried inside her, and she gasped. "I thought about everything. Waking up next to you. Coming home to you. Having you in my corner at my fights. But yes... this too. How perfect you'd feel underneath me. How well you'd take me despite..." He rolled his hips slightly, making her whimper. "...this."

"Your father thought you were crazy," she said, smiling up at him. "Asking for me so quickly."

"I was crazy," he admitted. "Crazy about you. Still am."

"Even though I call you myshonok?"

"Especially because you call me myshonok." He nipped at her lower lip. "Little mouse. Like you're not the tiny one here."

She laughed, the sound bright and happy. "That's what makes it funny."

"You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

"I do," he admitted, kissing her softly. "I love you."

"I love you too." She ran her fingers through his hair, her touch gentle. "My big, scary fighter who lets me call him a little mouse."

"I'm not scary."

"You were. A little. At first." She smiled at the memory. "This giant man at my table, blocking out the sun. I thought you were going to ask me for protection money or something."

He groaned. "I was trying to be charming."

"You were! Eventually. Once I realized you were actually very sweet under all the..." She gestured vaguely at his body. "...muscles and fighting."

"Good thing you gave me a chance."

"Best decision I ever made." She pulled him down for another kiss. "Now, are you going to stay inside me all night, or...?"

He was already getting hard again. "Would you like me to?"

Her eyes darkened with renewed want. "Show me again, myshonok. Show me how big you are."

He growled at the nickname, at the challenge in her voice, and began to move.

He'd show her, all right.

He'd spend the rest of his life showing her.

END

[polkadotaspinall]

Good night, I hope you're okay.

I really need Khamzat, and he gives me the vibes of being a jealous and explosive person. 🥴

Could you do a story with that idea? And I was also wondering if you could include some caresses on his beard and biceps. I don't know. 🙈🤭. I know you have a lot of requests so I'll understand if you can't upload it quickly ❤️

you're mine

jealous!khamzat chimaev x reader

warnings: jealous/toxic/explosive behavior towards reader, rough behavior with reader, kissing, makeup sex MDNI

summary: khamzat hates when you're nice to others.

youre just being nice, but that doesnt matter to khamzat who's watching you be too friendly with his friend. he trusts you at least he swears he does, but he's not sure about his friend with the lingering eye who flirts with women when his wife isn't around.

khamzat isn't even engaged in the conversation his friend is trying to talk to him about his eyes glued on you and his friend his patience wearing thin his hand gripping his glass a little too tight- his eyes full of anger and hatred. you're smiling the beautiful smile he loves about you as his friend makes you laugh that's enough for khamzat slamming the glass down on the table in front of him startling his other friends and their wives.

he stands up making his way toward you "hi honey-" he cuts you off by grabbing your arm roughly you gasp as he yanks you out of the house holding your guys coats in his free arm he's seething, his jaw clenched as he opens your door letting your arm go- you instantly touch the place he roughly held soothing the skin as you buckle up quietly.

khamzat gets in the car and throws your coats in the back his breathing rough he's upset you can tell you look out the window your eyes brimming with tears unsure of why he was upset. the car starts on you're on the way home the ride uncomfortably silent as he drives you don't bother looking over at him knowing he'll probably ignore you anyways.

but you cant stop yourself from gently caressing his bicep knowing he loves when you do that "honey" you say softly khamzats eyes look softer "hm?" he hums back at least he's not giving you the silent treatment you think to yourself "why were you upset earlier?" you ask gently worried he'd get upset again as you gently drag your hand up and down his bicep he sighs his hands gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white "that idiot man" he says with a scowl "oh" you respond back knowing he was angry about his friend who was talking to you as you helped cook

khamzats phone started ringing his jaw clenching when he sees the name of his friend who was in the kitchen with you he motions for you to pick It up which you fumble with but pickup your hands shaking as you hold the phone up on speaker

"hey man- don't call me again" his tone angry his friend stutters on the other end "w-why??" he sounds confused poor guy you sit there as khamzat yells at his friend more angry than you would've expected but you shouldve known honestly.

you quietly follow behind khamzat hes fuming, youre following him to your guys bedroom as you grab your pajamas to change into when you come back into the room khamzats shirtless- in his sweats his eyes instantly on you full of hunger you gulp nervously, scared to move while his eyes are on you like this.

"come here" his voice dark you nod and slowly make your way to khamzat his hands on your waist he lays his head on you stomach "im sorry.." his voice quiet as his hands make their way to grip your ass and slowly p ull your gown up your breath hitches as you hold his head "its okay.." you respond back khamzat sits you on his lap your nightgown hitched up "no panties.. this your way to say sorry?" his voice deep as he gently tugs his sweats and boxers down you feel his cock spring out "yes.." youre breathless as his tip touches your wetness lubing himself up

you moan as he sits you down on his cock you feel him stretch you out- he always does but the feeling never gets old. youre a mess as you start slowly going up and down on his cock his hands on your hips whispering sweet things "such a good wife...' his words make you whimper you look down at him your hands going to caress his beard his eyes close enjoying the feeling of you riding him and touching his beard gently hes groaning as he feels your hips roll

"just like that dont stop" he groans out youre tightening around him as you moan "khamzat.. im gonna cum" you whine into his neck your pussy making squelching noises around him he groans as your hands grip his shoulders tighter and your cunt squeezes him

"im gonna give you a baby" he says as his hips thrust upward "wanna have my kids?" he asks his voice hot on your skin you nod furiously overwhelmed by being fucked through your orgasm "yes-wanna have your baby" you whimper you feel him smile on your neck "good" he says as he fills you up his warm cum invading you

khamzat holds you close his cock still inside of you "gonna stay, wanna make sure the babys there" he hums out you nod laying your head on his chest tired "im sorry- didnt mean to get upset with you" hes stroking your arm soft touch his voice filled with regret for how he acted "its kay" you mumble kissing his chest before closing your eyes.

[authors note!: thank you anon for this request!! i hope this is good !! enjoy <3]

[polkadotaspinall]

Delicate

༘⋆ Magomed ankalaev x reader!

༘⋆ warnings: size-kink, sex MDNI, m!receiving oral

༘⋆summary: ankalaev loves how delicate you are.

Hes so lucky- ankalaev thinks this everday. Everytime you do a small task hes always admiring you his eyes glimmering and soft when hes around you. You never see that side of him when hes training- that rough hash side of him . You never feel intimidated by him the way his opponents do, you never feel nervous because of his size.

You and ankalaev have been together for a few months now, moving kind of quick, his things residing in your apartment because he likes staying there when hes not in fight camp. He has things of yours at his house too- all your girly little frilly things that you like. Small plushies and trinkets you bought him because they reminded him of you, he loved that about you. Just how innocent and sweet you were.

The sweet treats youd bake him after his fights- the celebratory cakes that he loved. The way you had to tip toe to kiss him- you couldn’t even reach him he has to bend down you kiss his cheek so gentle as his hand is on your lower back- you love your boyfriend. Hes so big and strong. Hes really the best hes so gentle with you.

The way he always holds you close his body engulfing you hes so sweet as he kisses the top of your head his big hand resting on your stomach as he rubs a circle on your stomach his eyes fixed on whatever you guys wear watching your hands making its way to hold his hand he smiles as you compare your hand sizes . Hes finds it so cute how small you are compared to him- so delicate.

Like youre a porcelain doll, beautiful and delicate. Magomed shifts slightly youre not sure why- he knows why. He can feel himself getting hard with you on top of him.

“you okay?” you ask gently you’re straddling him now- magomed’s mind filled with dirty thoughts with you on top of him like this. his face is flushed he nods you shrug. wondering why he’s so shy suddenly- when you feel it you both know you felt it- his hard on in his sweats you feel it pressed against your clothed core. you both freeze.

“s-sorry milyaya” he mumbles he’s taking you off of his lap his face bright red. your core aching- now you realize it you guys have never been intimate. you think magomeds scared to hurt you- the times you tried to start something he gently moves your attention away from him- but not this time.

you’re on your knees in front of him his face getting redder “w-what are you doing?” his voice shy and soft “let me make you feel good ank” you purr your hand touching his hard on through his sweats he bites his lip “are you sure?” he asks his eyes full of lust but he’s so worried about you it’s so sweet.

you nod excited to see what you’ve been missing out on a small gasp leaving your lips when his cock springs out of his sweats he’s big- easily 8 inches maybe more you’re not sure. but he’s thick as well your eyes full of excitement as he watches your movements. shy and almost unsure your hand wrapping around his cock- well trying to. he’s too big in your hand his mind swirling with thoughts ‘if it’s too small in her hands imagine it in her-‘ he cuts off his thoughts as you kiss his tip- licking the pre-cum off of it he moans.

so pretty his moans deep and whiney. you’re trying to take him in your mouth he’s so big your jaw hurts trying to take him, his hands holding your hair to keep it out of your face “ хорошая девочка, пытаешься выдержать все это, да? мне так хорошо (good girl, trying to take it all huh? so good to me)” your core getting wetter with his praise.

you’re trying to bob your head on his length one of your hands finding its way into your shorts your hand playing with your clit you’re moaning around his cock listening to his grunts and moans. “no more” he hums taking you off he notices you touching yourself his eyes full of lust.

“so excited hm?” he purrs pulling you up onto his lap your shorts discarded as he takes off your top a soft exhale leaving his lips as he admires your body. you become shy trying to cover yourself his hands take your arms away kissing your arms soft praises leaving his lips “такая красивая - все для меня (so pretty- all for me)” he’s more than pleased his cock twitching as he kisses your body gently your soft moans making it hard to control himself.

your teasing your slit with the tip of his cock soft moans leaving you as he sucks and kisses on your breasts his tip teasing your hole a soft whine leaving your lips. his hands finding its way to hold your hips- firm but gentle not enough to hurt you “ready?” he asks his face in your neck kissing and sucking you nod furiously. he gently pushes you down on his cock your back arching as he pushes you down further. the stretch burning but so good.

you’re babbling his name trying to take his length “o-oh so much- too much” you whimper as you can’t fit his full length in you. you’re so tight it’s so overwhelming for him, he could fill you up right now but that wouldn’t be fair. he wants to see you cum on his cock he wants to please you- try to repay you somehow for your kindness.

his hands gently guiding you up and down his cock each time you’re so full. you swear he’s in your stomach as he fucks you gently praising you as your pussy greedily sucks him in- milking him dry. what a slutty pussy is all he can think. pussy drunk on how you feel- how you feel made just for him.

”так мило- мне всегда так хорошо со мной, черт возьми, я не заслуживаю тебя (so sweet- so good to me always so good to me fuck i don't deserve you)” you’re moaning your face in the crook of his neck as he fucks you so gently but each thrust practically knocks the wind out of you because he’s that big. your clamping around him babbling “so-so good-! i’m- nhggh- i’m gonna cum” you whine you’re creaming on his cock as he fucks you through your orgasm grunting as you coat his cock in cream. his hips sputtering as he cums in you- filling you up. you moan out his name as he fills you he’s kissing your cheek sweet words as he hums.

“ты в порядке, дорогая? (you okay honey?)” you nod as he chuckles your body leaning on him.

[authors note!: i understand the hype now 😝😝 enjoy!!!!!!]

[mimuuuu]

girls, we’re all looking at the same thing right??!??!

[avengedsixfold]

abdulmanap:

[1nternetangel]

Miku at the store…what will she buy? ʕʘ‿ʘʔ