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twilight fanfiction! ufc fanfiction! bisexual type beat! inclusion! sexiness! wonderment and dreams coming true! amazing writing! a baddie writing wild fantasies!

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dark!isu who doesn’t have the time to feel bad for following you home..

islam is just a man. a real man— dedicated to his faith, yes, but faced with temptation and inevitable haram. he’s still a good man beneath it all, he believes. he knows this, his heart, his attempt at doing and making good in the world; even as he watches you climb out of your car from where he stands in the shadows.

he had followed you here, as he had many times before, but nothing more than watching had ever happened. with his hood pulled over his head and balaclava pulled up just below his eyes, islam felt like nothing but a silent watcher. he never took pictures, despite the shayateen whispering in his ear to do otherwise.

no, he just watched.

but tonight posed a different threat to his resilience. islam was used to watching you disappear out of sight from your bedroom window periodically, mostly to shower. it happened every time like clock work, the layout of your apartment burned like a factual memory in his head where you’d walk off to the left where the bathroom was. when you’d reemerge, you’d be covered in silk and satin for no one but yourself and him.

oddly enough, you decided to strip your clothes in front of the open window. islam would have to think of a clever way to scold you for this tomorrow without making it obvious he was the one watching. the clothes you had been wearing earlier in the day—the ones he spent hours secretly staring at you in— were becoming a forgotten memory as you discarded them on the floor. one by one, inch by inch, your bare skin became more visible to islam.

what he didn’t like though was how possibly anyone could see you like this. how silly of you to strip in front of your large window. what if some creep just stood in the darkness and watched you? he tsked under his breath, hardly finding the strength within himself to look away when you reached back to unclasp your bra.

“oh, котенок..”

when he returned his gaze to your window, you were gone. finally in the shower. so, islam felt it was safe enough to step forward; away from the shadows and into action. putting one foot in front of the other, he did just that. still with the cover over his face and hood over his head, he made haste towards your apartment building.

stepping in behind someone who gave him a sideways glance to which he paid no mind to, islam made the short trek up the stairs and to your floor.

FLOOR THREE

when he saw the big sign, he knew he was where he needed to be. crossing the expanse of the slim hallway with the outside view in mind, islam counted the doors much like he would count the windows outside. this was important. any miscalculation could have him ending up exactly where he didn’t want to be. but he was used to this little game by now. never knowing what to expect, being on the edge of absolute certainty and all-consuming ambiguity.

he could smell your scent even from outside your door. pulling his most trusted knife from out of his pocket, islam went to work on the poorly made lock meant to protect you. it was so easy for him to break in, what if it had been someone else? he lingered there for a split second, hand engulfing your doorknob before pushing forward. he thought for a moment of weakness that he should turn around.

no— mawaddah forbid it. he must be with you, his love.

the door to your apartment opened without a creak and it was fragile, to say the least. islam felt good knowing breaking your door down would not be a struggle for him if necessary. he took in the view, each blind spot from outside finally filling out to make the complete picture. everything was warm and familiar, very distinctly you—islam liked that a lot.

water dripping could be heard throughout like white noise. stepping forward cautiously and slow, islam peeked around the corner of your doorframe to find that you were hidden behind the shower curtain, steam curling around your faint silhouette. now you were humming a sweet tune. he had never been able to hear things like that from outside. he pulled his balaclava down and ran a hand over his beard. he couldn’t let himself get distracted.

he walked deeper into your private space; once just shared with yourself, but now it was his too. he plucked your used panties off the floor and stuffed them deep in his pocket with an inaudible sigh. he thought about what to do next, which was weird. he had a plan in his head of exactly how this would go, but now he felt lost.

your place was littered with many things. he kept wandering about, staring intently at framed pictures and notes you’d written to yourself. his fingers skimmed lightly over your furniture and countertops. it was a small space, but he’d get used to it eventually.

when the shower cut off islam finally came back to reality and away from his thoughts. he had been eyeing a particular dark corner in your living room since he stepped inside, and gravitated towards it. like he was so used to doing outside, islam let the darkness shroud him as he took a quiet seat in a rather uncomfortable chair.

he knew your habits by now. he knew after your shower you put on just enough clothes to not be considered naked, knew you refilled your water bottle in the kitchen, knew you spent the rest of the night in your bed. well, that’s what you usually did anyway. tonight you seemed to have other plans.

not bothering to get extra water caught your watcher’s attention. falling onto your bed with a sigh, islam could see your face tilted up to stare at the ceiling. he had a perfect view of you here. the soft light of your lamp splayed over your skin, over the rise and fall of your chest, over your delicate fingers dancing down—

wait.. what?

manicured fingers that had occasionally touched islam’s in passing just slipped past the waistband of your underwear. his palm slid over his mouth as to not make a reactive sound, your meanwhile your palm slid into forbidden territory. he couldn’t believe this was happening. he had never seen you do this before from outside. he couldn’t tell if he was lucky to be witnessing this or completely damned for watching.

it was hard to see everything clearly from where he was sitting, but he could definitely hear you. it was faint at first, a little whine or a whimper escaping past pursed lips, and then there was something else— something wet sounding. your arousal was sloppy, unforgiving. islam had to dig his own hands into his thighs to keep himself in the chair, in the darkness where his presence was still unknown.

he couldn’t help himself when he started tugging on his sweatpants. he watched you, never himself; eyes closed, mouth now agape, hand moving fast back and forth over your clit, when he pulled his erection out of its confinement. biting down on his own knuckle, islam started to work his hand up and down his shaft. his eyes never left you once. his ears never stopped listening.

you, the sweet receptionist at AKA that was always so sweet, quiet but willing to jump into jokes, now had your own panties pulled to the side and two fingers deep into your core. islam worked over his length with the same fervor, so much so that sweat started to bead and drip over his temple. he couldn’t stop thinking about how wrong this was, while also trying to justify it in the name of his love for you.

when you become his wife, none of this will matter.

that thought had him reeling. his hips twitched into his palm, pre-cum lubricating his sins. you started to moan louder, and islam would kill to know what kind of thoughts spurred your actions. him, maybe?

filthy words spilled past your lips in the most innocent cadence. like you were hardly capable of this act. even from this distance, in the poor lighting, hardly able to see you, islam felt attuned to your body. felt as though you were close. your legs were wide and spread so nicely over your bed sheets, chanting and choking on your small pathetic breaths while you humped your fingers. islam watched your back arch off the bed, watched you dig your head into the pillow with a moan and a twitch of your legs.

did you just finish? islam’s heart thrummed at the thought. he conjured ideas in his head that he was the one you were touching yourself to.

the things islam would do for just a second of your touch..

he treated his own infatuation similarly; thrusting into his hand wound tight around his cock. beet red and leaking. the tip crying out for you as he spilled out onto himself with a moan that ended up being smothered in his free hand. but, it wasn’t enough.

yes baby i know exactly what you mean! i have a fic like this and a dark!isu fic coming VERY SOON!

your husband ilia is just too tired to do all the work himself..

your husband worked harder than anyone else you knew. so determined and dedicated to his goals, his hopes and dreams that drove one of the greatest purposes for his life. you admired that work ethic. now that his efforts extended to almost every day of the week, there were moments when ilia was too tired to keep his head up.

tonight, ilia didn’t even bother with clothes after his shower. he collapsed into the king bed immediately, skin still warm and damp from his shower. with a huff of air he buried his face into the blankets and pillows scattered around messily. you whispered a soft greeting to him, meeting him as he shifted just enough to be able to reach you. his left hand disappeared beneath the fabric of your top, over the soft and delicate skin he worshipped with such reverence.

he knew something that could shoot some life back into him. or rather, more accurately, possibly shoot life into you.

he groaned at the simple thought, turning his head to look at you thoughtfully. had he been more energized, he’d surely have you folded in half by now, big thick cock drilling into your little hole. you caught that look on his face, something caught between pleasant memories and desire to make new ones. if not for the look, you’d have figured it out by the way his fingers traced the soft skin under your breast.

“papi, you need to rest.”

oh, he was planning on it.

“c’mere, cariño.”

he wasn’t asking, not really. your husband’s hands tugged at the thickness of your thigh, wrapping around the back to pull it nearer. he turned over onto his back with a tired determination only a need like this could drive into him. after spending his entire day training and sparring, surely he earned this moment of reprieve.

“come ride me.” he muttered into the air between you and him, shoulders rolling back achingly against the mattress.

the only problem was ilia spoiled you. he never made you work for anything anymore, never made you beg or even ask nicely. he gave you everything you wanted without hesitation. only now did he realize how entitled you’d become when your eyes went wide and you laughed?

“just rest, ilia. you’ll have more energy later if you’re still in the mood.” he was stunned for a second, utterly shocked—eyes wide, lips pursed, brows furrowed deep. he only blinked once you planted a falsely sweet kiss on his cheek.

since when were you so entitled? how had he not noticed sooner?

“i wasn’t asking cariño.”

silence lingered between the two of you for a moment. you stared at him expectantly, a look he returned with even more intensity. you shifted, thighs pressed together when that familiar heat thumped between your legs. your eyes danced over his bare figured— chest rising and falling in rhythm with the heavy breaths he let out through his nose, abs tightening when he moved his arms, his length hard and waiting for you. his right hand dropped over his length, stroking slow and lazy while his other hand busied itself with your ridiculous sleep shorts.

“but papi,” you started, bottom lip jutting out in a pout, “i’m tired too. can’t you just—”

“my beautiful wife.. you do nothing all day. deberías darme las gracias. don’t be ungrateful.”

he moved sluggishly, shifting until his back was pressed against the large expanse of the bed frame. he motioned you forward, no room for argument. and you didn’t argue, not yet, but your pout lingered when you kicked off your shorts and panties. ilia had to fight the urge to roll his eyes when you didn’t speak while settling yourself over his lap.

he could tell you were purposefully holding back the usual moans and whimpers you made when you started grinding your wet heat over his cock, soaking him in your arousal. he wished he could relax, but your bratty pout was making it difficult. he watched your movements for awhile hoping to distract himself. your pussy lips glided over him with ease, making obscene noises, but his eyes always drifted back up to your face.

eventually he couldn’t help himself anymore and stubbornly thumbed his cock head into your tight hole. finally, happily, he sighed with relief. you nearly choked on your moan, holding your own tits tight in front of his face.

“was that so hard?”

he asked, annoyed tone, snarky even. you rolled your eyes, actually rolled your eyes right in front of his fucking face. what happened to not biting the hand that feeds you?

maybe don’t roll your eyes at the man stuffing your cunt full of his cock, either.

“fuck you,” you finally muttered out, voice shaking and breathless when you started grinding and moving your hips.

“fuck me?” ilia laughed at that. you’ve gotten bold. “you’re the one riding my cock, cariño.”

for some help and support, you begrudgingly reached for his sounds. despite the exchange of words your hips kept moving. not once did ilia help you, he didn’t want to. he was gonna make you do this one all by yourself. his hands, known for carrying enough power to knock a grown man out, help your hips in a lazy grip, pushing you down each time you raised your hips.

“you’re so mean.” you whined, pathetically. ilia ignored you.

he watched his dick get coated in your slick. watched the inches disappear into your dripping pussy. for someone with such harsh words, you seemed to be enjoying it.

“you’re a big girl.. sabía que podías hacerlo.”

you couldn’t help the way your core clenched around him at those words. so demeaning, teasing, meant to rile you up. your head dropped in a moan and he just smirked. he felt that flutter of your walls around him, tightening and constricting. he always knew how to get to you. he noticed when his words really sunk in and you started moving faster. your hips lifted and slammed back down in a delicious rhythm.

you could feel his tip kiss your cervix; prodding low in your tummy, ilia cursed quietly under his breath and a gruff groan followed. his rough thumb ghosted over your clit with reverence but stopped quickly—he couldn’t make it easy for you.

you brought this upon yourself.

you’d been switching between grinding and bouncing for awhile. head thrown back, brushing your swollen clit over his tufts of hair since he refused to help you. at one point, you almost gave up, whimpering a small ‘m’tired’. your husband almost broke—almost helped his sweet angel. but he realized seeing you like this, worn out and desperate, was his new favorite thing.

ilia could see the sweat bead between your breasts and watched as it trailed down your tummy. he could see your legs quivering, could feel it too. his weak fatigue made everything feel so much more intense. he wanted to suck your pebbled nipple into his mouth, wanted to lick up the sweat and tug your clit between his fingers but he just couldn’t. your sweet, tight cunt proved to be exactly what he needed. a relaxant.

he banged his head back against the headboard, squeezing the plush on your hips with a nearly pornographic noise slipping past his throat. your husband looked at you with heavy lidded eyes and pulled you down with hard finality. his thighs twitched, his hips bucked, knuckles turning white.

white danced across his vision and his white seed painted your walls like a masterpiece. he felt like it would never stop.

thinking about ilia whose extremely cocky, especially around you..

ilia has always been a certain way. a seed was planted in him at childhood to always believe in himself. as he grew up, and his belief in himself became fruitful, it evolved into something else. something more… cocky.

you don’t make it any better. worse, actually.

he had never been prouder of himself the day he managed to attract enough of your attention to make you his. and when the two of you got married his cockiness increased tenfold. your ring finger, adorned with something made specially for you, from him, well that was everything he ever needed in life. to claim you, a subtle message to anyone that ever looked at you again.

‘yes, she’s mine.’

ilia realized very quickly into your relationship that there is in-fact, much more, he could do.

when the two of you had sex for the first time.. well, he would never let you go after that. the only foreplay he seemed to need was watching the tip of his cock touch your belly button. growing, aching for you, as small beads of precum leaked off his tip. honestly, he’d never felt like more of a man. knowing he could stuff you full—that he was definitely going to— had him smiling that stupid cocky smile at you. your hesitation only made him throb harder. so nervous and sweet, pliant and willing to let your little pussy swallow his dick whole.

“it’s okay, my love,” he cooed, leaning over to press a feather-light kiss over the quickly beating pulse at the base of your tiny neck, so easy to wrap a hand around.. “i’ll go easy on you.”

of course, he’d have to help you beyond his falsely comforting words. his fingers danced over your soft skin with a gentleness only possible. slowly, they traced the shape of your breasts, round and warm under his touch. ilia pinched a nipple and chuckled softly against your skin at your desperate whine. what a fucking dick, you thought. bruised knuckles skimmed over the wet folds before being replaced by the pads of his fingers, prodding and spreading in uncharted territory.

“so fucking wet. did i do this?” he already knew the answer, of course. your lover clicked his tongue, shaking his head, “of course i did.”

he wanted to taste you. he was greedy, drunk off of the look of the glistening arousal alone. with silent determination, ilia lowered himself on the bed, ready to worship you. he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t take it slow, no matter how much he wanted to save this moment and make it last forever.

he just couldn’t; not when you were babbling something softly above him about how badly you wanted him.

his tongue shot out at the same moment his fingers did, both exploring the warmth between your legs. for a moment beyond his control, his eyes shut and he thought that, maybe, he was in heaven. he groaned against your stiff clit with a huff of air and his shoulders finally relaxed. the taste of you danced around on his tongue unlike anything else he had ever experienced before now. you moaned sweet and loud from the suddenness of the warmth that was his mouth and that was the second time he felt it that night—the obnoxiously growing feeling of pride, or worse, and ego inflation.

with a mouthful of your pussy, he muttered something about how easy you were being for him. you didn’t care though, how could you when he was eating you out so eagerly? his lips wrapped around that little bundle of nerves between your legs and sucked gently. he so badly wanted to pull those sweet sounds out of you. over and over again. greedily, his middle finger dipped into the wetness. his saliva mixed with your arousal made it so that his finger could slip into your cunt without restraint. the second finger wasn’t so easy. you whined, a sweet sound, and clenched around his fingertips.

how were you supposed to handle his cock?

but, like with many other things, ilia was able to coax your body into a deeper state of relaxation. after making you cum once there wasn’t much resistance. his eyes followed his own ministrations, watching his knuckles disappear into your gummy walls. fuck, he could’ve come then if he hadn’t learned such strict discipline.

he quickly became obsessed with making you finish. his fingers stroked faster, curled in tune with the rest of his movements, and he was absolutely mesmerized. he hadn’t been going at it for very long, not at all, when your legs started trembling and you were practically trying to run away from his fingers.

“i— oh, mygod,”

but your man had no intentions of letting you go anywhere. he watched you, silently mesmerized, and curled his fingers a little harder, more persistent. he could tell you felt all the small changes. ilia’s muscles flexed under the warm lamp light, contorting and nearly twitching at how fast he was making them work. but, like every time he tried anything, he succeeded.

you came. more than that, actually. you squirted.

like the selfish man he could be when it came to you, he wanted every last drop of everything you had to give. it didn’t matter if it got on his nice expensive bed sheets or all over his abdomen and thighs. actually, he preferred it that way. you were gushing, like a fucking waterfall. it was the most beautiful thing ilia had ever seen. and he made it happen all by himself, of course.

“fuck yeah,” he muttered, massaging your hole with his fingers while he tapped his dick over your swollen pussy, “you must like me a lot, baby.”

husband islam who grows his hair out for you…

everyone has started to question why islam has decided to let his har grow; even his beard is getting ridiculously untamed. everyone in the gym has started to tease him, but all he does is push the sweat-dripping hair back and continue on. it’s not like him. for most of his life, islam kept a tight buzz atop his head because he simply did not have the time to take care of it, nor did he want to.

but all of that changed when isu realized his sweet wife likes to pull it. oh yes, you, his polite and respectful wife had a thing for pulling her husband’s hair until he winced. and to be quite honest, islam would do anything to keep you happy. so, he decided to let his hair grow for a little bit.

and your husband is so so generous, so, he decided to give you more than just a couple inches of hair.. he gave you the full length of his cock too. with your knees pressed to your chest and your back pressed to the couch, isu gave you exactly what you’ve been begging for. the noises are filthy, but not as filthy as the rhythm of his hips snapping into your soaked and worn out pussy.

she’s dripping all over the fabric of the couch but that’ll be another day’s work. right now, islam is much too busy with you. the mating press he has you in makes you feel so much more of him and of course he knows it. he can feel the way you squeeze him like a vice, can hear the sound of your arousal coating his dick every time he pushes back into your dripping hole. he loves it.

he especially loves the death grip you have on his hair. your fingers card through the short locks just briefly before you squeeze. it’s all you can do to contain the overwhelming amount of pleasure he’s making you feel. he doesn’t mind either; in fact, he’s bringing his head down for you so it’s easier to reach. your other hand somehow finds its way to his beard, where you use this leverage to pull him down into a sloppy kiss. it’s just a small something you use to connect with him even further.

all the while, islam’s long cock hits the tip of your cervix for the umpteenth time in just a couple of minutes. the feel of him has you spiraling, your heat convulsing around him. but you want more, you need more, and so does he. he buries his sweaty head into the crook of your neck. his hot breath fans over your skin, dampening it further. with fingers still hidden in his dark locks, you pull him back to see his handsome face twisted up in pleasure. he’s like a work of art, eyebrows knitted together in concentration and lips parted in heavy breaths of air.

“woman.. please,” his tone is strong, somewhere between frustration and concentration. and maybe your grip is too tight, but you know your husband is a strong man. he can take it.

you let go of his beard, but the grip you have on his hair is the only thing grounding you back to earth. you simply can’t let go. and if you did, what else was going to get him making those sweet sounds of pleasure and agony? you pull again, harder than before, until he grunts and pushes his forehead into yours. he shuts his eyes, letting himself get consumed by the feeling of you all around him.

a new sense of urgency fills isu. his hips pound against you harder. his nails dig into the back of your knees. he folds you onto yourself with more pressure than before. that’s when the heat starts to creep up your chest, burning your insides like a damn forest fire. islam is so lost in his own overwhelming sensations that he doesn’t realize yours until that grip on his hair tightens even further.

he groans in russian, his voice like gravel. but by then it’s too late, and your tight hole is already milking him for everything he’s worth. it doesn’t take much; just a few more shallow and staggered thrusts before he’s giving your pussy what she wants.

imagine you’re taking your new husband islam’s virginity…

both newlyweds are still buzzing from the wedding that took place only hours ago. islam can’t stop staring at you; he knows what’s coming next. he’s nervous and it’s clear to see: wringing hands, tapping shoes, rolling shoulders. he’s not even like this before a fight to defend his gold. just with you.

of course, you know what’s coming too. you have more experience, not much, but enough to where your knowledge makes you the ringleader. that’s why when you get to your honeymoon destination you’re the one laying your husband’s back flat on the bed, helping him strip off his clothes with fidgety fingers. he looks at you with lidded eyes, waiting for any instruction.

you sit over his lap where his throbbing cock leaks against your stomach, his size reaching past your bellybutton from this angle. jumping his bones now is tempting, but you have to teach your husband the necessity of foreplay.

dragging his thick fingers to the sweet nectar between your legs feels like the slowest, most intensely-charged moment of your entire existence. when the pads of his digits ghost over your slit, you’re practically jolting with electricity. it seems to jolt islam to life too by the way his eyes widen and his fingers press harder. his middle finger sinks into you with desperate need while his palm cups your pussy.

isu cant help but stare between your twitchy legs as his finger starts to slide in and out. only does he look up to your face when he hears your first moan; quiet and broken, laced with something sweet that he understands he’ll be addicted to from now on. he realizes that he doesn’t care how this’ll feel for him as long as he can make you feel good enough to make those sounds again. some sense of desperation grows inside of him watching you writhe against his palm, your wetness dripping down onto him and you happily smear it into his palm as you grind down in your own desperation.

his lonely cock twitches against his stomach now, fully hard and beet red waiting for your touch. by the way your pussy sucks his finger in, islam’s not too sure how his length is supposed to fit inside of you. that thought alone makes him adjust his hips in arousal, but that’s a conversation for another time..

seconds pass before you’re chanting your husband’s name, thighs squeezing around his hips in a desperate attempt to close from the stimulation. has he really made you cum this easily? and islam hears that other men have struggled with this, how? he’s obsessed with this new side of you, flushed and gushing around his finger.

and when you recover? when he’s got you flat on your back, manicured nails between your legs to guide him to your needy hole? oh.. he’s done for! his eyes fight between shutting and opening wide, watching in bewilderment as your cunt stretches around his length. it’s a slow process, trying to get you to adjust, islam trying not to cum right then and there, but eventually you reassure him that it’s okay and you feel good.

he’s so breathless and it’s right in your ear when he leans over to start rocking his hips. you think you might explode from the sheer size of him alone, every thick vein scratching the walls of your pussy deliciously, and he knows it. it’s all so overwhelming for him really, getting to touch you and see you like this. islam sucks your left nipple into his mouth and closes his eyes to debate with himself where to focus his attention.

of course, he picks your cunt that drenches him newly each time he pushes back into her. her. he likes that, thinking of your pussy as a separate entity. the way she squeezes his cock, sucks him back in, pulses around him..

his pace is fast and frantic. he’s talking, maybe to you, maybe not, muttering something in russian that you don’t fully understand. the two of you start to stick together from the sweat that’s accumulated, but neither of you find it in yourself to care, especially not when you’ve pulled him in for a sweet kiss. your husband is a strong man; but you can break him like no one else.

“kukolka, please, i never…” he pauses, breathing hard, licking the sweat off your temple, “i never felt so much.. so good.”

isu has you hurdling over the edge with his last few strokes: deep, erratic, and fast. his dick kisses your cervix while his lips kiss yours, swallowing every perfect moan and soaking up every shaky breath. the way your walls flutter and convulse around him it’s another kind of magic that he never realized you had.

you’ve been keeping a very special gift from him?

“i feel..” but the words never come. there’s nothing to describe the feeling, not in english at least. islam’s hips snap once, twice, three times, before his hot seed shoots deep into you. he’s completely bottomed out, and doesn’t plan on moving anytime soon. or ever!

oh nothing… just thinking abt khabib with an eye contact kink…

just imagine he’s bought you a nice new mirror and placed it right in front of the bed just for himself. he should get something out of it too right? and he does. now he gets to see you from different angles anytime you’re in the bedroom and doesn’t even have to turn around to do it. but his favorite part? oh..

he’s got you on your knees, chest pressed to those soft white sheets, your hands hold on for dear life while he drills his cock into you from behind. it’s magical really, cause he gets to see your face from a new position now, gets to bury his hand at the base of your scalp and pull so you have to look at him and take what he’s so generously giving you.

he’s getting frustrated with you now though, watching your eyes flutter too often and your head fight against his grip. you need to watch, he needs you to watch— to really see the mess he’s making of you.

with one hand in your hair and the other on your hip, khabib pulls your back flush against his chest with such ease you could only expect from him. he never stops, never slows his abuse to your sopping wet cunt. how could he when he’s got you placed on display so nicely for him?

“watch. eyes open. you must look.” and his voice tickles your skin, burns through your nerves like a demand you have no choice but to oblige. his hand, hot and rough against your smooth skin, passes over your tits like he’s playing an instrument sent from jannah, but what he cares about more is making sure you’re watching. his fingers wrap around your neck, squeezing just enough to get your full attention; no more dozing off into your bliss.

his sweat sticks to your skin. lewd sounds of your arousal fill the room as it drips down your legs and onto the sheets. you breathe— or try to at least— before crying out your husbands name.

“look at you,” he’s breathless just from the sight of you opened up like this for him, his eyes glued to your lidded ones through the mirror, “my beautiful malyshka,” his voice is like honey in your ear, permeating all your thoughts until only he remains. your skin grows hot and damp from his breath, panting from his most favorite exercise.

he can feel your tight walls contract around his cock, sucking him back into your little stretched hole until you can’t take it anymore. your nails dig into his meaty forearm, crescent moons likely to be left behind. it’s so much, really, too much, as your body starts to tremble and it’s just khabib’s strength that holds you up.

“let me see you, please, please let go.”

and as commanding as your husband can be, he knows all he has to do is ask nicely and he shall receive. his words seem to be the affirmation you need, gushing around his length while white stars dance in your vision.

your eyes remain open, and his eyes remain on you. he watches them twitch and your eyelashes flutter, hearing the sound of his name on your lips like a prayer. it makes his hips stutter, his gaze glancing down on the mirror to where he disappears inside you. finally, he watches himself. hips jerking with an uncontrollable fervor, skin reddening from holding his breath so hard, fingers digging into plush skin..

he’s so done for. without a second’s hesitation, his hot white seed shoots deep inside you. it’s enough to make him look back up at you, but now he’s the one struggling to keep himself together.