FUCK IT WE BALL I HOPE THE M*LE TWITTER LOSERS FIND THIS BULLSHIT
The apartment is quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside your window. You're curled up on the couch in nothing but an oversized sleep shirt that barely reaches right below your waist and a pair of cotton short shorts underneath—comfortable, innocent, the kind of thing you'd never think twice about wearing alone at home on a lazy evening.
Until you hear the key turn in the lock.
Your heart jumps. You'd forgotten Khamzat said he might stop by after his evening training session. Before you can even think about changing into something more substantial, the door swings open and there he is—all six feet two inches of solid muscle, gym bag slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from the shower.
His eyes find you immediately.
And then they stay there.
You watch his jaw tighten, watch the way his grip on the door handle turns his knuckles white. He doesn't move from the threshold, doesn't step inside. Just stares at you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle with awareness.
"Khamzat?" you say softly, pulling your knees up instinctively. "I didn't think you'd be here so soon."
He finally moves, closing the door behind him with deliberate slowness. When he speaks, his accent is thicker than usual, rougher. "You always dress like this when you're home alone?"
There's something in his voice—something dark and hungry that makes heat pool low in your belly. You glance down at yourself, suddenly hyperaware of how thin the fabric is, how much skin is showing.
"It's just comfortable," you say, trying to sound casual even as your pulse quickens. "I wasn't expecting company."
Khamzat drops his bag by the door but doesn't come closer. He stands there, hands flexing at his sides like he's physically restraining himself. His eyes trace over you—your bare legs, the way the shirt drapes over your curves, the delicate line of your collarbone.
"You should put something else on," he says finally, his voice strained.
"Because—" He cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. "Because you look too...You look too soft like this."
The confession hangs in the air between you. You can see the war happening behind his eyes—desire battling with something else. Something protective and almost afraid.
You stand slowly, and his entire body goes rigid. "Khamzat, what's wrong?"
"Nothing is wrong." But he takes a step back when you move toward him. "Stay there."
"Because I don't trust myself right now." The admission comes out rough, almost angry. Not at you—at himself. "You're standing there looking like that, and all I can think about is touching you. But I can't. I shouldn't."
Your breath catches. "Why shouldn't you?"
His eyes meet yours, and the raw hunger in them makes you shiver. "You know why. Look at you, then look at me. You're so small, so..." He gestures helplessly. "I could hurt you without even meaning to. I break people for a living. I don't know how to be gentle."
The vulnerability in his voice cracks something open in your chest. This man—this fighter who dominates in the octagon, who's known for his brutal efficiency and overwhelming power—is standing in your apartment afraid of his own strength.
You take another step toward him. "Khamzat—"
"Don't." But there's less conviction in it now.
"You don't know that." His hands are fists at his sides. "I'm not... I'm not good at soft things. At being careful."
"Then learn." You close the distance between you, and this time he doesn't back away. You have to tilt your head back to look at him, and you can feel the heat radiating off his body. "I trust you."
"You shouldn't." But his hand comes up, hovering near your face without quite touching. "You're too easy to break."
"Compared to me, you are." His thumb finally makes contact, brushing across your cheekbone with such careful reverence it makes your eyes flutter closed. "So delicate. So soft. And I want—" His voice drops to barely a whisper. "I want you so badly it hurts."
You lean into his touch. "Then have me."
"You don't understand what you're asking."
"I understand perfectly." You place your hand over his, pressing it more firmly against your face. "I'm asking you to stop holding back. I'm asking you to trust yourself the way I trust you."
Something in him breaks. You can see it in the way his shoulders drop, the way his breathing changes. "If I start," he says slowly, "if I touch you the way I want to... I don't know if I can be what you need."
"What I need...." you say, reaching up to curl your fingers in his shirt, "...is you. However that looks."
For a long moment, he just stares at you. Then, with a sound that's half-growl, half-surrender, he cups your face in both hands and kisses you.
It's not gentle. But it's not rough either. It's desperate and searching, like he's trying to memorize the taste of you. His hands are so large they cradle your entire head, and he kisses you like you're oxygen and he's been drowning.
When he pulls back, you're both breathing hard.
"To the bedroom?" he asks.
You nod yes while trying to hide an excited smirk, and he sweeps you up into his arms like you weigh nothing. The casual display of strength should probably intimidate you, but instead it sends a thrill down your spine. He carries you down the hallway, his grip secure but careful, like he's carrying something precious.
He sets you down beside the bed, and for a moment just looks at you. The lamp on the nightstand casts soft shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes.
"Last chance," he says quietly. "Tell me to stop and I will."
Instead of answering, you reach for the hem of your sleep shirt and pull it over your head.
His eyes darken as they travel over your newly exposed skin, taking in your bare chest that was just hidden beneath the thin fabric, the curve of your waist, the shorts that sit low on your hips.
"You're going to kill me."
"I thought you were the dangerous one," you tease, but your voice comes out shakier than intended.
"I am." He steps closer, his hands settling on your waist with exquisite care. "That's why I need to go slow. Need to make sure I don't—" He swallows hard. "Just tell me if anything is too much. Promise me."
His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. You arch into the touch, and he makes a low and rough sound, filled with want but so carefully controlled.
"So responsive," he murmurs, leaning down to press kisses along your neck. "So perfect."
He takes a moment just to look. Then his hands are back on you, palms rough from years of training but touch impossibly gentle. He explores you like he's mapping territory, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you press closer.
"Tell me," he says against your skin. "Tell me what you want."
"You," you breathe. "All of you."
He lifts his head, eyes searching yours. "You have me. You've had me since the first time I saw you." Then he's kissing you again, deeper this time, as his hands work your shorts down your hips.
You reach for his shirt, tugging at it until he breaks the kiss long enough to pull it over his head. The sight of him—all that sculpted muscle and scars from years of fighting—makes your mouth go dry.
"Your turn to stare," he says with a hint of amusement, but there's vulnerability there too.
"You're beautiful," you tell him honestly.
Something flashes across his face—surprise, pleasure, something softer. "Beautiful," he repeats, like he's testing the word. "No one has ever called me that before."
"Then they weren't looking properly."
He kisses you again, slower this time, as he guides you back onto the bed. He follows you down, settling his weight carefully, always conscious of his size. You can feel him hard against your thigh, and when you rock your hips experimentally, he groans into your mouth.
"Patience," he murmurs, even though his own control seems to be fraying. His hand slides down your body, fingers hooking in the waistband of your underwear. "Can I?"
He removes the last barrier between you with reverent slowness, then just looks at you laid bare beneath him. "So beautiful," he says, echoing your earlier words. "So small under me. I have to be careful with you."
"Shh." His hand slides up your inner thigh, and your breath hitches. "Let me take care of you. Let me show you I can be gentle."
When his fingers finally touch you where you need him most, you melt into the bed. He's watching your face intently, gauging every reaction, learning what you like. He's methodical about it—the same focus he brings to studying opponents, now directed entirely at your pleasure.
"So wet already," he murmurs appreciatively. "Is this all for me?"
You can only nod, words beyond you as he works you with skilled fingers. He's patient, building you up slowly, and when you're trembling on the edge, he pulls back.
"Not yet," he says, ignoring your whimper of protest. "Want to be inside you when you come."
He stands long enough to remove the rest of his clothes, and your eyes widen slightly at the sight of him. He's proportional to the rest of him—which is to say, intimidating.
He catches your expression and pauses. "We don't have to—"
"We do," you interrupt. "I want to. I want you."
"I'll go slow," he promises, settling back over you. "So slow. And if it's too much, you tell me immediately. Understand?"
He reaches for the nightstand, finding a condom and rolling it on with practiced efficiency. Then he's back, positioning himself between your thighs, one hand braced beside your head while the other guides himself to your entrance.
"Look at me," he commands softly, and your eyes lock with his. "Keep looking at me."
He pushes in slowly—so slowly—watching your face for any sign of discomfort. The stretch is intense, and you have to breathe through it, but it's not painful. Just overwhelming in the best way.
"Okay?" he asks, voice strained with the effort of holding back.
"Okay," you confirm. "Keep going."
He sinks deeper, inch by careful inch, until finally he's fully seated inside you. You both groan at the sensation—the perfect, overwhelming fullness of it.
"Fuck," he breathes, forehead dropping to rest against yours. "You feel incredible. So tight. So perfect." He's trembling with the effort of staying still, giving you time to adjust. "Tell me when I can move."
You wrap your legs around his waist, tilting your hips experimentally. The sensation makes you both gasp. "Move," you whisper. "Please move."
He starts with slow, careful thrusts, each one deliberate and controlled. His eyes never leave your face, constantly checking, making sure you're okay. One hand slides down to grip your hip—not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough to hold you steady.
"More," you breathe, and he groans.
"Don't want to hurt you."
"You won't. Please, Khamzat. More."
He increases his pace slightly, thrusts going deeper, and the angle has him hitting something inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes. You cry out, and his hand immediately comes up to cup your face.
"No. Perfect. Right there."
He adjusts his angle, making sure to hit that spot with every thrust, and you can feel the tension building in your core. His thumb finds your clit, circling with the same careful precision he's been using all night, and it's too much, not enough, everything.
"That's it," he murmurs, watching you come apart beneath him. "Let go for me. Want to feel you."
Your orgasm hits like a wave, and you arch up into him, heat spreading from your toes slowly to your core, now crying out his name. He groans at the feeling of you clenching around him, his rhythm faltering.
"Where?" he grits out. "Where can I—"
"Inside," you gasp. "It's safe. I want to feel you."
That's all it takes. His control finally breaks, and he buries himself deep with a guttural moan, his whole body shuddering as he comes. Even in the throes of his own pleasure, his grip on you stays careful, controlled.
He collapses beside you rather than on top of you, immediately pulling you against his chest. You can feel his heart hammering, his chest heaving with exertion.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Then his hand comes up to stroke your hair, the gesture achingly tender.
"Did I hurt you?" he asks quietly. "Tell me the truth."
"No," you assure him, pressing a kiss to his chest. "You were perfect."
He makes a skeptical sound. "I lost control at the end."
"You were still careful. Even then." You prop yourself up to look at him. "You're not going to break me, Khamzat. I'm stronger than I look."
His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "Maybe. But I'm still going to treat you like you're precious. Because you are. To me, you are."
The confession makes your throat tight. "You're precious to me too."
He pulls you back down against him, arms wrapping around you securely. "Stay," he murmurs into your hair. "Stay with me tonight."
"I'm not going anywhere," you promise.
And as you lie there in his arms, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek, you realize that this—this careful, controlled tenderness from a man who makes his living through violence—is the most intimate thing you've ever experienced.
He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Next time," he says quietly, "I'll be even more careful. I'll learn exactly what you need. What you like."
"Next time?" you tease, even though warmth blooms in your chest at the implication.
"There will be a next time." It's not a question. "And a time after that. And after that. I'm not letting you go now."
"Possessive," you murmur, but you're smiling.
"Yes," he agrees simply. "You're mine now. And I take care of what's mine."
You should probably object to the caveman declaration. Instead, you just snuggle closer, feeling safe and cherished in a way you never have before.
"Yours," you agree softly.
His arms tighten around you, and you feel him smile against your hair. "Mine," he confirms. "My delicate, precious girl. And I promise—I'll always be gentle with you. Always careful. You never have to be afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid of you," you tell him. "I never was."
"Good," he says. "That's good."
And as you drift off to sleep in his arms, you think that maybe being delicate isn't a weakness after all. Not when it brings out this side of him—the tender, protective, vulnerable side that he shows to no one else.
Not when it makes him hold you like you're the most valuable thing in his world.
Not when it makes him yours.
