Baby Fever ⋆˚꩜｡

dad!Islam Makhachev x wife!Reader 🫧⭐️🪷

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

Warnings: Implications of smut

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

Masterlist link

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

OMG YES

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

islam makhachev x reader

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

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

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

He's massive.

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

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

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

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

"Bigger," you admit quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

"Islam—"

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

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

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

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

Your face flushes hot. "Islam..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You won't," you whisper.

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

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

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

"Yours," you agree breathlessly.

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

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

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

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

"Yes," you mutter.

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

"You won't hurt me."

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

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

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

You can't form words, just nod desperately.

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

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

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

"Don't stop," you plead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm yours," you breathe.

"Again."

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

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

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

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

"Yes, yes—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Never," you mumble against his skin.

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

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

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

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

You're his, and he's yours.

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