#mmafighter

HOLLANDER V ROSANOV

“Tommy's Lucky Star”masterlist

tommy conlon x f!reader series

Tommy Conlon was supposed to be your past. But when he re-enters your life years later, you realise he never stopped looking for you. ✦ warnings — angst, smut, complicated love ✦ status — completed

01 — Return

02 — Echo

03 — Luck

04 — Distance

05 — Almost

06 — Night

07 — Thread

08 — Damage

09 — Yours

islam makhachev x reader

angst/smut- dark isu (or as dark as i can get with him) power dynamic, islam is dominant, islam is controlling, they have sex? sorry im so bad at this

authors note: first off thank you anon for requesting this is definitely out of my usual writing so i hope i did the request its justice but im trying to reach out of my comfort zone but i think this will be one of my last times writing angst i just don’t love it and dont like to write (especially islam) this way because in my head i have decided they are perfect 😭 but thank you guys for reading and requesting im extremely thankful that someone of you guys are enjoying my writing! (sorry this is the longest authors note ever) anyways enjoy :)

The apartment is dark when Islam comes home at 11:30 PM, but you're awake. You've been awake for hours, sitting in the living room with only the city lights filtering through the windows.

He doesn't turn on the lights. Just drops his gym bag by the door and moves through the space like he owns it—which, technically, he does. Everything here is his. The lease, the furniture, the life you're living.

"You're still up," he says, and it's not a question. His voice is flat, tired.

"I wanted to talk to you."

He stops in the doorway to the kitchen, silhouetted against the ambient light. "About what?"

"About us. About this." You gesture vaguely at the space between you. "About how I feel like I don't exist in your life anymore."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then he moves to the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water. "We are married. You exist."

"That's not what I mean."

"Then say what you mean." He leans against the counter, and even in the darkness you can see the set of his shoulders—tense, defensive. "I work. I train. I come home. What more you want?"

"I want you to care." Your voice cracks on the last word. "I want you to look at me like you used to. I want to feel like I matter."

"You matter."

"Then why do I feel invisible?"

He sets the water bottle down with more force than necessary. "Because you are dramatic. Because you sit in the dark, waiting to have this conversation instead of living your life."

The words sting because there's truth in them. "What life, Islam? I don't have a life. I have your life. Your apartment, your schedule, your world. And in that world, I'm just—"

"Just what?" He moves closer, and suddenly the air feels different. Charged. "Just my wife? Just the person I come home to? Just the person who lives in my apartment, eats my food, spends my money?"

Your breath catches. "That's not fair."

"No?" He's close enough now that you can smell the gym on him—sweat and exertion and that sharp scent of the mats. "You want to talk about fair? I fight. I train six, seven hours a day. I break my body so you can have this life. And you sit here in the dark, telling me is not enough."

"I never said—"

"You don't have to say." His hand comes up to grip your jaw, tilting your face up to his. The touch is firm, possessive, and your heart starts racing. "I see it. Every time I come home, I see it in your face. You are angry with me."

"I'm not angry. I'm lonely."

"Same thing." His thumb brushes across your cheek, and the gentleness of it contrasts sharply with the strength in his grip. "You are lonely because you want something I cannot give. You want me to be different person. Softer person."

"I just want you to try."

"I am trying." His voice drops lower, rougher. "You think this is easy for me? Coming home to you looking at me like I am disappointing you? Like I am not enough?"

The vulnerability in his words catches you off guard. "Islam—"

"No." His other hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer. "You want to know why I don't come home early? Why I stay at gym? Because there, I know what I am doing. There, I am good at something. Here—" He pauses, and something flickers across his face. "Here, I don't know how to make you happy."

Your chest tightens. "You could start by being present. By talking to me. By acting like you want to be here."

"I do want to be here." His grip tightens slightly. "But I don't know how to be what you need. I only know how to be this." He gestures at himself with his free hand. "Fighter. Champion. This is who I am."

"I know who you are. I married you."

"Then why you want me to change?"

"I don't want you to change. I want you to see me."

He stares at you for a long moment, and something shifts in his expression. "I see you." His hand moves from your jaw to your hair, fingers threading through it. "I see you every day. Waiting for me. Needing me." His grip tightens, pulling your head back slightly. "You think I don't notice? You think I don't know you need this?"

Your breath catches. "Need what?"

"This." He pulls you flush against him, and you can feel the solid strength of his body, the controlled power in every muscle. "You need me to take control. To make decisions. To be strong." His mouth is close to your ear now. "You are angry because I ignore you, but when I don't ignore you, you want it like this. You want me to make you feel small."

"That's not—"

"Yes, it is." His hand tightens in your hair, and a small sound escapes your throat. "You hate that I'm right. You hate that you like it when I am like this."

The air between you is electric, dangerous. Your heart is pounding and you can't tell if it's from anger or something else entirely.

"I hate you," you whisper.

"No, you don't." His mouth brushes against your temple. "You hate that you need me. You hate that you cannot leave. You hate that this apartment, this life—is mine, and you are just living in it." His grip loosens slightly, becomes almost gentle. "But you are still here. You know why?"

You can't speak.

"Because you like it." His lips find yours, and the kiss is possessive, claiming. "You like that I take care of everything. You like that you don't have to worry. You like that I am strong enough to carry both of us."

When he pulls back, his eyes are dark, intense. "Bedroom. Now."

It's not a request.

Your legs feel unsteady as you move toward the bedroom, and you're hyperaware of him behind you, solid and inevitable. This won't fix anything. This won't bridge the distance between you. This won't make him suddenly see you the way you need to be seen.

But your body doesn't care about any of that.

He turns you around when you reach the bed, his hands on your hips firm enough to leave impressions. "Look at me."

You do. His face is intense, focused in a way it hasn't been directed at you in months. It's the same look he gets before a fight—total concentration, like you're the only thing that exists in his world right now.

"You want me to see you?" His hands slide under the hem of his shirt you're wearing, palms rough against your skin. "I see you. Every day I see you. You think I don't notice when you cook for me? When you wait up? When you try so hard to make me pay attention?"

His hands push the shirt up and you raise your arms automatically, letting him pull it over your head. The cool air hits your skin and you resist the urge to cover yourself.

"I notice everything," he continues, his accent softening his words even as his touch remains firm. "Is my job to notice. To see weakness, to see opening, to see what opponent wants before they know they want it."

"I'm not your opponent," you say, but your voice is unsteady.

"No." His hands span your waist, and you're reminded of how much bigger he is—not tall, but solid, powerful, built to control other men's bodies. "You are my wife. Is different. Is more."

He guides you backward until your legs hit the mattress, then pushes you down with a hand on your chest. Not rough, but undeniably in control. You sit on the edge of the bed, looking up at him, and the power dynamic is impossible to ignore. He's standing over you, all controlled strength, and you're looking up at him like you're waiting for permission.

"You want to know why I don't talk about feelings?" He steps between your legs, forcing them apart to accommodate him. His hand comes to your jaw, tilting your face up. "Because this is more honest. This is what we are."

"Islam—"

"Shh." His thumb presses against your lips. "You talk too much. Always talking, always asking for things I don't know how to give. But this—" his other hand slides down your side, "—this I know how to give."

He kisses you again, slower this time but no less possessive. His tongue slides against yours and his hand tightens in your hair, controlling the angle, the depth, everything. You grab onto his arms, feeling the muscle shift under your fingers, and you hate how much you want this. How much you need to feel wanted, even if it's like this.

When he pulls back, you're breathing hard. He studies your face for a moment, then reaches down to hook his fingers in the waistband of your sleep shorts.

"Lift up."

You do, and he slides them down your legs along with your underwear, leaving you bare while he's still in his sleep pants. The inequality of it should bother you, but instead it just makes everything feel more intense.

He pushes you back on the bed, following you down, and the weight of him is overwhelming. He's not crushing you, but you're acutely aware of every point of contact—his chest against yours, his hips between your thighs, his hand still in your hair.

"You feel small like this," he murmurs against your neck, and there's satisfaction in his voice. "Under me. Is good. You should feel small. You should remember who takes care of you."

"I'm not a child," you protest, but it comes out breathy.

"No. You are my wife." His teeth graze your collarbone. "My responsibility. Mine."

The possessiveness in that word sends a shiver through you. His free hand roams your body, mapping you like territory he owns, and you arch into his touch despite yourself.

"You are angry with me," he says, his mouth moving lower. "Is okay. Be angry. But you are still mine."

His hand slides between your legs and you gasp, your hips lifting involuntarily. He makes a satisfied sound.

"See? Your body knows. Even when your mind fights, your body knows who you belong to."

"I don't belong to anyone," you manage, but it sounds weak even to your own ears.

"No?" He slides a finger inside you and your breath catches. "Then why you are here? Why you stay? Why you let me touch you like this?"

You don't have an answer. Or maybe you do, but you don't want to admit it.

He works you with his hand, methodical and focused, and you can feel yourself getting close embarrassingly fast. It's been so long since he touched you like this, since he paid attention to your body, and your treacherous nervous system is responding like you're starved for it.

Which you are.

"Islam—" His name comes out like a plea.

"What you need?" His voice is rough. "Tell me."

"I need—" But you can't finish the sentence because he curls his fingers and your mind goes blank.

"You need me," he finishes for you. "Is okay to need me. Is what I'm here for."

He pulls his hand away and you make a sound of protest that he ignores. You hear him pushing his pants down, and then he's back, settling between your legs, the blunt pressure of him against you making your breath catch.

"Look at me," he commands, and you do. His face is intense, focused, and for this moment—just this moment—you have his complete attention. "I want you to remember this. Remember who makes you feel like this."

He pushes inside you in one slow, deliberate thrust, and your back arches off the bed. He's not gentle about it, but he's not rough either—just controlled, purposeful, taking what he wants while making sure you feel every inch of it.

"Fuck," he breathes, his accent thicker now. "You feel good. Always feel good."

He starts to move, and his rhythm is measured, controlled, like everything else about him. One hand pins your wrist to the bed above your head, the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. You're completely at his mercy, and the worst part is how much you like it.

"You want me to be soft?" he asks, his voice rough. "Want me to be gentle, talk about feelings while I fuck you?"

"No," you admit, and you hate yourself for it.

"No," he agrees. "You want this. You want me to take control. Want me to make you feel small and safe and owned."

Each word is punctuated with a thrust, and you can feel yourself getting close again. Your free hand clutches at his back, nails digging in, and he makes a satisfied sound.

"That's it," he encourages. "Take what you need. Is okay."

His hand slides from your hip to between your legs, and the added stimulation makes you cry out. He watches your face with that same intense focus, like he's studying you, learning you, figuring out exactly what makes you fall apart.

"You are beautiful like this," he says, and it's the first tender thing he's said all night. "When you stop thinking. When you just feel."

You're so close, teetering on the edge, and he knows it. He can read your body like he reads his opponents.

"Come for me," he says, and it's a command. "Show me you are mine."

And you do. You fall apart under him, your body clenching around him as pleasure crashes through you in waves. He doesn't stop moving, working you through it, and you can hear yourself making sounds you'd be embarrassed about if you had any capacity for embarrassment right now.

"Good," he murmurs, and then his rhythm gets less controlled, more urgent. "So good for me."

His hand tightens on your wrist, his other arm wrapping around your waist to pull you impossibly closer, and then he's following you over the edge with a groan against your neck. You feel him pulse inside you, feel the way his whole body tenses and then relaxes, and for just a moment, you're completely connected.

For just a moment, you're not invisible.

He stays there for a long moment, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his face buried in your neck. You can feel his heart racing against your chest, can feel his breath hot on your skin.

Then, slowly, he pulls back. Pulls out. The loss of contact feels like a physical ache.

He rolls onto his back beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, his chest still heaving. You lie there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the cooling sweat on your skin and the ache between your legs and the hollow feeling that's already creeping back in.

Because nothing's changed. You both know it.

After a moment, he gets up without a word and disappears into the bathroom. You hear the water running. When he comes back, he has a warm washcloth, and he cleans you up with the same efficiency he does with everything else. It's almost tender, but it's also clinical. Taking care of his responsibility.

When he's done, he tosses the cloth toward the hamper and climbs back into bed. He doesn't pull you close. Doesn't wrap his arms around you. Just lies on his back, staring at the ceiling like you are.

"Islam," you say quietly.

"Mm."

"This doesn't fix anything."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "I know."

"So what do we do?"

He turns his head to look at you, and his expression is unreadable. "We do this. Is all we have."

"That's not enough."

"I know that too." He reaches over and pulls the blanket up over both of you. "But is what I can give."

You want to argue. Want to push back. Want to demand more. But you're exhausted—emotionally, physically, completely wrung out. So instead, you just lie there in the darkness, listening to his breathing even out as he falls asleep.

And you realize that this is your life now. This cycle of distance and resentment and desperate physical connection that solves nothing. You're trapped in a marriage with a man who can give you everything except the one thing you actually need.

His hand finds yours under the blanket, fingers lacing through yours. It's the most affection he's shown all night outside of sex, and it breaks something in you.

Because it's just enough to make you stay.

Just enough to make you hope that maybe, someday, it might be different.

Even though you both know it won't be.

You close your eyes and let yourself drift, his hand warm in yours, and you try not to think about how you'll wake up tomorrow to the same empty apartment, the same distant husband, the same invisible life.