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Ever since he could remember, Islam has always wanted a big family. He'd even admitted in a now viral interview that he wanted seven kids with you. Fast forward half a decade into your marriage, and you'd popped out three beautiful children who would carry on the Makhachev family name: Two boys and a girl.

Sounds like paradise right? That's what Islam thought too. And even though everyone (including Khabib) had warned him about how exhausting having three kids all under the age of five would be, Islam could not be happier.

But there was just one little issue that was proving to be more troublesome than expected… And that was spending time with you.

“Milayshka I’m home!” Islam called out as he dumped his gym bag by the front door, adrenaline still pumping in his veins after that quick sparring session with the team. He shuffled into the open kitchen and found you there cutting up some vegetables for what he assumed would be lunch.

“Hi darling,” you greeted without looking up, eyes still focused on the chopping board as you diced up some carrots.

Suddenly, you felt a pair of strong arms snake their way around your waist, hugging you tightly. Islam pressed a big wet kiss to your cheek before snuggling his face into the crook of your neck, sighing deeply as if he hadn't held you in years.

“I miss you baby,” he cooed, swaying his hips slightly as he pressed you against the countertop. You chuckled in response.

“We literally got up together this morning. I watched you pee like three hours ago.”

“So what? I cannot miss my wife when I go gym?” He whispered from behind you as he kissed you again on the side of your neck. You hummed happily as Islam started pressing his lips all over — your jaw, your earlobes, your shoulder… His calloused hands had conveniently found their way under the waistband of your shorts, caressing the skin at your hips.

“Careful now, the kids are awake,” you chastised quietly, silently not wanting him to stop. It'd been a hot minute since you and Islam had gotten any. Between raising two toddler boys and a newborn girl, you guys simply had no time alone for sex.

“It’s okay, they're upstairs no?” Islam said as he pushed your legs further apart with his feet. He pressed his hips against you and you could feel his hardness poking into your ass. You gasped as his hand worked his way down your pelvis, his fingers resting gingerly atop your entrance, separated only by the thin fabric of your shorts.

“I need you,” he growled primitively as he felt the warmth and desire of your cunt radiating through those cotton shorts. He let out a low moan as his other hand moved up your torso to fondle your breasts.

“PAPA!” The unmistakeable sound of bare feet pattering down the staircase jolted the two of you out of a trance. Islam recoiled back in the blink of an eye, clearing his throat like he had just been caught doing the unimaginable.

“Papa! Sayyid stole my firetruck!” 

“Liar!” Your youngest son retorted, crossing his arms defiantly. You and Islam exchanged tired but amused looks. If the past 5 years have taught you anything about parenting and family planning, it was that raising 2 toddler boys took the patience of a saint. They fought almost every day over who got to play with what, but it was just a shame it had to happen when you two were finally getting back into the rhythm of things… 

And as if the universe needed to send yet another interruption, your newborn daughter suddenly began to wail from her bassinet as she woke up from her midday nap. No words needed to be said between you and Islam. He placed a quick kiss on your cheek before springing into action as he pulled apart your sons from their tussle — seamlessly switching from husband-mode to dad-mode. You smiled to yourself before going to comfort your daughter. 

After a long time wrestling with the boys to put aside their petty beef, you and Islam finally got the whole family to sit down for lunch. Distracted with feeding your newborn her softfoods, as well as making sure your sons ate their vegetables, you had totally forgotten about your brief interaction with Islam earlier. But it was slowly becoming more and more apparent to you that it was still very much on his mind; a subtle grin from across the table, leaning over you as he served soup around, a quick tug at your ponytail as he got up to put the dishes in the sink… It was clear that Islam had some unfinished business with you.

Lunch was concluded in an impressively short time, and as you cleared the table, Islam had whisked the children away into the playroom to entertain themselves. You were about to go upstairs when Islam almost ran into you on the way down. 

“Where are you going?” He asked, almost aghast that you’d be doing anything other than waiting for him back in the dining room. 

You chuckled and placed a cheeky kiss on his lips. “I wanted to take a shower while the kids aren’t bothering us.” 

As you took a step up the stairs, Islam moved to cage you against the stairwell wall. He pressed your back against the wall, arms on either side of you, his face so close to yours that you could feel his breath against your cheek. His torso was firmly glued against yours, and you could feel his groin pushing against the fabric of his gym shorts. 

“But…” he whispered, tracing his fingers delicately up your arm. 

“But what Islam?” You teased, batting your eyelids innocently at him. You swung your arms over his shoulder and kissed his cheek gently. You felt him let out a shaky breath as you massaged his ears. “What does my lovely husband want hmm?”

His grip on your waist only tightened and before you could get another word out, Islam picked you up effortlessly and threw you over his shoulder. You burst out laughing as Islam raced up the stairs with you swinging away on him. He made a beeline straight to your bedroom, making sure to lock the door behind him before slamming you down on the bed. 

“But I want to take a shower!” You giggled as you scrambled away from the edge of the bed towards the headboard. Your half-hearted protests fell on deft ears and Islam climbed onto the bed. Like an animal on all four limbs, he stalked his way towards you, his eyes full of desire and need. He gripped your ankles and yanked you down until you were lying flat on your back and he was directly on top of you. 

“Shower later,” he growled, lowering himself to kiss you, “let me have you first”.

He lavished the taste of your soft lips and hummed delightedly. He gently brought your hands together above your head and grasped both your wrists firmly in place against the mattress. You squirmed in anticipation, aching for his touch, as Islam’s other hand snaked its way down to the waistband of your shorts. 

“Islam I need —” 

Suddenly, there was a loud pounding on the bedroom door that could only be recognised as a child’s insistent banging. “Mama! Are you in there?” 

You and Islam froze in place. You stifled a laugh as Islam closed his eyes and let out a frustrated sigh. You could see the gears in his head turning furiously to figure out a way to keep you here in his arms. 

“Mama’s busy!” Islam yelled back at the door. “Go play!” 

There was a beat of silence and Islam took that as a sign to resume his kisses. But as his lips had barely grazed your jaw, there was more banging on the door. The doorknob jiggled incessantly from the other side. 

“Mama! Sayyid and I wanna go to the park! Please!" 

Defeated, Islam let go of your wrists and collapsed on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You couldn’t help but chuckle as your husband let out a most helpless groan. Islam wasn't used to losing, but this was a battle he truly seemed to have no power over.

“I’m gonna send them away,” he mumbled lowly, pouting as he pressed his face to the mattress. You cooed sympathetically and ran your fingers through his short buzzed hair. You pressed a quick kiss to his temple, hoping that it would be some form of consolation, before squeezing your way out from under him. Islam barely moved an inch, just lying there on the bed face down into the mattress like a lifeless mannequin. 

When he could no longer deny that retirement had softened his hard, angular physique into something wider, burlier— more bear than eagle— Khabib became determined to make the transition from sedentary to active once again. Now, his nights are stretched even thinner. Home-cooked meals have become replaced with protein bars and shakes, and time with you has dissolved into late nights spent strong-arming weights alone.

He pushes through the front door to his house and enters into a cramped foyer, where swirling shadows creep and prick at him in the stillness. He blinks against the surrounding dimness as his eyes adjust to the uniform dark gray sweeping the modest interior. Without much caution, he drops his gym duffel near his feet and trades his sneakers in for felted house-slippers. Then, off comes his lightweight jacket, which he hangs on a wall-hook to the right of the entry way. 

Largely by memory, Khabib navigates the house’s infrastructure, flicking on light switches in passing until he reaches the living room where he pauses under an arched cutout in the dry wall. He finds you exactly where he imagined you’d be, with your legs folded criss-cross underneath yourself and your back supported by a collection of decorative pillows. A vibrant blue headset distorts your bedhead in a sight he’s grown increasingly accustomed to since your initial meeting, and became even more acquainted with following the wedding. Blue light from the flat-screened television seeps in blurry lines across the hardwood floor to reach you, and the pale glow milks the color from your snug hoodie, hair, and skin.

Khabib sighs— the noise absent of irritation or judgment but lands heavy with the weight of relief— and it's the kind of soft sound one makes when they return to their sanctuary after a long journey’s end. He’s finally home. 

With one fluid gesture, he tips the lightswitch on and the living room winks into brightness. You wince, recoiling from the sudden onslaught of yellow. Your head whips in Khabib’s direction. 

“Hey. You’re here,” you said while adjusting one side of your headphones away from your ear. Your attention then flicks rapidly between the vibrant colors splashed across the TV monitor and your husband. “Before you say anything, I didn’t spend the whole day gaming. I accomplished a lot while you were gone, actually.”

The raised corners of his mouth carve deep lines into his cheeks. “You think I nag you.”

“You do!” You laughed.

Laser gunfire sparks across the screen and your focus instantly returns to the game at hand. You manipulate buttons on a neon controller; your thumbs jerk rubber rods at a speed Khabib hardly comprehends. 

He crosses his arms over his chest and rounds the sofa to settle in the seat beside yours. The cushions dent underneath his weight and bend your body toward his. “Tell me what you do today,” Khabib said, already looping an arm around your shoulder.

“I was a perfectly good housewife,” you mumbled, your attention divided. “Your mother would be proud.”

He arches one of his signature thick and dark eyebrows. “That so?”

“I think her teachings are finally rubbing off on me. Dishes cleaned, laundry folded, plants watered. Oh, I also put tinfoil over dinner to keep it warm for you.”

You relax against Khabib’s torso, allowing the entirety of your weight to mold comfortably atop his. From where his arm reaches around you, Khabib fiddles with the sleeve on your hoodie; he draws slow, incoherent patterns onto your bicep. 

“Proud of you,” he said and looked at the television when your character’s sprite exploded into a pile of loot. 

You don’t mention it, but Khabib knows he’s distracted you. Your lips twitch into a suppressed frown. Moving swiftly on from the defeat, however, you load back into the game lobby. 

“Check out this skin I unlocked. She’s such a baddie,” you said. Your sprite stands front and center of the TV, her lower torso bathed by a pallid spotlight. You switch from playing a cartoon character Khabib can’t recall the name of to an unfamiliar woman dressed in tactical gear. With an upward press on the D-pad, the sprite begins to dance to American pop music. 

Khabib nods, and his expression is focused by all intents and purposes. The game itself means little to him, but you glance at him to witness his reaction, and the brightness you seem to draw from simple things has his rapt attention. 

“Very cool,” he said and his seriousness causes your undereyes to punch upward in a close-mouthed smile.

“You’re so funny.”

Light omits from a translucent glass mounted on the ceiling, its yellow glamour oscillating in Khabib’s shorn hairline, highlighting the perspiration on his forehead. You catch a whiff of the gym on him, a mechanical odor from plastic mats and sculpted metal, but the smell doesn’t bother you. It’s just…unusual. Cleanliness was close to Godliness, and for as long as you'd known him, Khabib’s commitment to his beliefs had remained his utmost priority.

You make a show of it, wrinkling your nose and scrunching your face to exaggeration. “Babe, aren’t you missing a key step in your nighttime routine?” 

Khabib knocks his head against the back cushion and slides his eyelids shut. He releases a noise just short of a hum: “Yes. Need to clean up, but…”

“But?”

He squeezes your upper body. “Comfortable here.”

“Oh, I see,” you said and cracked an impish smile. “You’re becoming careless in your old age.”

He cracks an eye, a faux scowl sharpening his appearance. “Thought you said I was in my prime?”

Leaning far back in your seat so that you can see him directly, you raise your eyebrows high in a skeptical look. “Definitely in your prime appearance wise but slacking in the shower department,” you said. 

Khabib calls your name, not a warning or a whine, but a verbalized white flag set to waving in the wind. You plop a chaste kiss onto him as encouragement, but when your husband instinctively chases for more, you're forced to place two fingers against his lips. “Nuh-uh, mister.”

He sinks back into his seat, defeated. 

“I know you too well, Bib. You’ll regret it if you don’t feel like you squeezed every drop of productivity out of the day. So, go. Clean up. Then, come back and tell me all about work when you’re finished,” you spoke gently. 

Khabib studies you for a short moment, his countenance stitched together by equal parts curiosity and respect. When his mind finally accepts the care behind your suggestion, he reaches out to you and sweeps away the flyaway hairs from around your eyes. 

“You take care of me,” he stated quietly, matter-of-fact.

“We take care of each other.”

You lean to the side to accommodate his departure and Khabib mounts off the sofa with a stiff groan. 

His head dips suddenly downward and his mouth captures yours. You don’t even process the play before you’re leaning unconsciously into the affection— your lips peppering his’ in a series of slow, svelte kisses. He supports your head, his hand threaded into the hair bunched around your nape, and the subtle pressure helps to deepen the intimacy. His trim beard tickles your chin, but the sensation is an afterthought compared to his warm, pleasant taste. 

“Bib,” you protested weakly. Your hands find their way to his chest, where you plant your palms solidly against him. 

Khabib retracts from you, even if he never promises to let go of your hips. He blows hot-air. “You trying to get rid of me so you can play your game.” 

“Slander.” You scoff, the sound more humorous than offended. “C'mon. I’ll be here when you get back.” 

“And you’ll play?”

Your teeth sink into your lower lip in a sheepish grin. “Only for a little longer. I’m trying to grind the last few levels of the Battle Pass.”

Khabib spares you a look that suggests he finds your response inadequate, then mounts up from the sofa. He rounds the coffee table, moving slowly against a backdrop of mellow wallpaper, family portraits, and linen drapes.

“I don’t understand how you can play games for so long,” he mumbled. Sure, he’s dabbled with video games in the past— Tekken or the occasional sport-based cash grab— but the desire to spend hours on electronics never appealed to him in the way it does you. 

“Hey. I thought you said you didn’t nag?”

“Merely making comment.” 

You return to the position he came home to earlier and adjust your headset so that it sits properly over your scalp once again. Before he can disappear into the hallway, you call out to him in passing: “Oh— and you should eat dinner after you shower, too.”

His voice comes in muffled under the compression muffs slotted over your ears: “You trying to buy more time for your game.”

“I have no such ulterior motive,” you grinned.

Jogging your controller, you load into your next match. Focus smoothes over your demeanor, easing the plains of your face. Khabib accepts his fate with a sigh— he understands you’re already gone, absorbed into a world of laser gunfire, childish emotes, and vivid battlefields. He mumbles in Avar under his breath, then lumbers toward your shared bedroom, his spent muscles stiffening his gait. 

Time blurs as you load into match after match. Music and the clank of discharged bullets fill your ears, blurring your surroundings. When Khabib returns, refreshed, he’s dressed himself comfortably for bed. A pair of simple joggers and an oversized cotton tee. His sizable frame glances in your peripheral, but since he’s caught you in the throes of battle, you wait to address him. Your sprite bounces around the screen, narrowly dodging bullets that ricochet near her feet. You spare a panicked glance at your health bar right as a pair of strong arms intrude into the space beneath your tailbone and thighs.

You yelp, tucking into yourself as Khabib maneuvers your weight off the sofa. One handedly, you push back your headset so that it slopes around your neck. Splashed across the TV screen, your loot sprays about a carpeted room, signaling another defeat.

“Asked you to make room for me, but don’t listen,” Khabib explained patiently. He settles onto the wrinkled pleather cushions and positions you atop his lap.

“Sorry,” you mumbled with a faint dusting of warmth on your face. “I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

“I fixed it now.” He gestures toward your video game. “Sorry for your loss. Try again.”

Khabib’s skin is dewy from the shower; the apples of his cheeks subtly red due to the water’s heat. You lean in and peck the underside of his jaw, then comfortably situate yourself on his wide thighs. “OK,” you said while propping your headset upward again. “I won’t be too long. Promise.”

“Few more rounds?”

“Yeah. Just a few.”

Your spine aligns with his torso’s soft curvature, and Khabib rests solidly underneath you. Steady, firm, and safe. The scent of ivory soap lingers on his person. At once, a well of emotions threatens to overwhelm you as you’re reminded of how badly you’ve missed him throughout his busy day. You resign yourself to playing only one more match. 

“Tell me how today went,” you said. “Don’t leave anything out. Even the boring stuff.”

“Nothing you haven’t heard hundred times before,” he spoke in a quiet voice, as if he felt wholly content with his place in the world and had fixed upon some unshakeable solidity— his secret to remaining grounded and present at all times in his life. It’s his quality that drew you so heavily toward Khabib in the first place; what made you equally envious of his calm as you were in awe of it. Little seemed to truly affect him, while you spent the better half of your free-time hollering insults at the television in an embarrassing bout of gamer rage. 

But together, you two were like a well-oiled machine made more efficient by his patience toward you. On the rare occasion Khabib was home, your household chores were halved between him and you in a way that made typical mundane activities seem like a date night. With your shared music playlist set to go on the home stereo, Khabib would wash the dishes while you stood nearby with a rag for drying. When you set to vacuuming the rugs, he lifted the furniture in a routine that simply worked for your household. 

“You know this is just a trick so I can listen to you talk and be reminded of how lucky I am that I have a husband with an accent as sexy as yours,” you said in response to his protest.

Khabib’s stoic expression cracks. The corners of his eyes crinkle. “You tease me.”

“I compliment you.”

His hand spans over your stomach, where he twists and folds the hem of your sweatshirt. Absently, his slow caresses drag further below to venture underneath the waistband of your biker shorts. 

“You saw me this morning,” he began and paused in between sentences to sparse through the day’s memories. Khabib continues in lethargic bursts and details his interactions vaguely, as interested in his own story as a child who’s outgrown their old toys. “Then, came home to spend evening with you,” he finished.

“Sounds decent enough,” you said with your attention split between your husband and the match’s finale. Your fingers fly across the controller at their capacity, toggling its sticks and hammering its triggers. On screen, your sprite flails around an open valley, seeking cover behind large boulders and fat tree trunks. 

A figure glides in from the sky, then fires off a three-chamber shotgun in quick succession. You jolt in surprise and jerk backward into Khabib. Your ass pushes across his lap, and with every shift in position, your wriggling sends little jolts of stimulation straight through his crotch. His dick twitches against his boxers, and Khabib sits straighter. Tension rigs his shoulders. His stare, low-lidded and drunk with fatigue only a moment ago, blinks widely now.

“No, no, no,” you stammered. Panic sparks through you, and you resort to button-mashing; twisting, jerking, pressing every key with the vain hope that a twist of fate might save you from death.

Khabib’s Adams apple throbs.

The two of you are married now— a sacred bond preserved between husband and wife and God— but a strange nervousness around sex persists within him still. After a better portion of his life having gone without intimacy— his lust chastised rather than appeased— the idea of a forbidden act still holds power over his mind and body. Khabib’s breath shortens. He pauses his mindless caressing of your stomach, suddenly far too aware of the heat coming off your skin.

“Great. I was so close,” you grumbled and returned to the in-game lobby. You sigh and your body decompresses into a jello-ey slump. Your tongue readies to release a slew of complaints when you adjust in your seat and find an unexpected firmness prodding at your rear end.

Khabib’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. “I,” he paused uncomfortably. “You were moving lot.”

“Oh.”

“You can ignore,” he said and the words sounded as if they were battling each other to see which would get past his teeth first. “You are probably tired.”

You spare him an oblique glance from underneath your lashes. “I mean— are you…tired? Because I don’t mind, Bib.”

Undoing your headphones, you lay the tangle of wire and plastic alongside your controller on the lacquered coffee table. Then, you switch around in your seat so that your knees dig into the cushions on either side of him. “I missed you,” you confessed, hoping to instill further confidence within him that it wasn’t a crime to want you anymore. “It’s so lonely in this house without you.”

A dense beard rims his round face, sparse strands climbing toward the apex of his angular cheekbones, and a thin smattering of a mustache darkens his upper lip. Khabib cranes his neck backward so that his eyes easily meet yours. He inhales deeply through his nose; his chest rises and falls in deep waves beneath the palms of your hands. 

HIs mouth narrows in quiet thought. “Sorry. I should stay more often.”

 “Don’t apologize for doing what’s important to you. You’re busy, I get it. Besides, the time apart only makes the moments when we are together better. When I get you all to myself.” Through his shirt’s thin cotton, you start to massage his pecks. Leisure, teasing touches you hope will leave him wanting more. 

Khabib blinks slowly and his long lashes wink against his olive skin. “You’re too forgiving of me,” he spoke around a tight throat.

“I promise there’s nothing to forgive.” 

Unwilling to waste another second of your time alone with him, you decorate kisses along his jawline, where what used to be skin stretched taut over sharp bone has been made soft by a post-retirement weight gain. Quickly, you roll his top upward and pull the fabric over his head. 

Khabib paws at your hip, his big meaty hands slightly moist with body heat. He sits back with his plush stomach folded over his waistband and thick body hair climbs his torso in dark veins, trailing down his navel to vanish into his sweatpants. 

“Seriously get inside me already,” you said, only for an uncontained airiness to flutter your voice, hollowing your joke and giving way to the effect the sight of him has on you. Khabib grins; the edges of his cauliflower ears paint red. 

Featherlight, his fingers graze your temple and glide down your cheek. Khabib kisses you then, his lips molding firmly to yours so that the heaviness of his emotions transfers through to you. He helps you shrug off your hoodie in between exchanges, unveiling black lace drawn over your skin. Khabib pauses, drinking in the sight of you. 

“I thought you deserved something special. You’ve been working hard, and I saw this online and thought I’d surprise you with it,” you explained.

He inhales sharply; his eyes fly to meet yours. “You plan this?”

You shrug off the gesture. “Planned, hoped— same thing really.”

His calloused thumb traces one of the flowers in the lace. A quiet chuckle escapes him. “I’m lucky man that you do this for me.”

“I love my husband. I want to treat him nicely,” you said with a lopsided smile. “Let me take care of you, Bib.”

Khabib slumps in his seat as if your words held the same power as a physical blow. He swallows hard, and his demeanor only intensifies when you begin palming his erection through his joggers. The hard feel of him makes your stomach clench.

In between kisses, Khabib mumbles into the corner of your mouth: “We should take this to bedroom.”

“Mm, afraid of making a mess?”

“It important to practice self control when I can.”

You angle your head so that your hair streams toward one shoulder. Loose strands rain around your eyes and you see Khabib through the haze of blurry stripes. “I remember how you used to pretend like you didn’t want me,” you spoke a fraction louder than a whisper. “But I don’t need your restraint anymore, Khabib. I need you inside of me.”

Slipping a hand into his pants, warmth envelopes everything below your wrist. You grasp his cock and guide it free of his boxers. Pale, glistening semi-fluid leaks from his circumcised tip and dribbles down his shaft in watery streams. His cock twitches with the slightest stimulation, a sight made prettier by the thick black pubes which cloud at the base of his penis. His happy trail climbs attractively over his stomach.

In a succession of slow, feeling pumps, you help harden his length to fullness, and your breath hitches with the anticipation of it entering inside you. Khabib keeps a stern clasp on your bottom, with his palms cemented between your ass and calves. His focus trails the lingerie dressing your breasts. 

“You look dangerous.” His voice drains into a thoughtful hum: “Pretty.”

“I’m like this for you. Only you.”

Khabib unwinds an arm from underneath you to cup a tit. He drags the brassiere straps down one at a time until the lace bunches around your midriff. “I want you too much, too often. You drive me crazy,” he admitted with a trace of shame. “This is why I no longer fight; too difficult being away from you for long.” 

You glide your thumb over the slit at the head of his cock and Khabib’s hips tense. He curses in Avar, a few short words that your limited knowledge is able to narrowly translate. Nonsensical stuttering like holy and I swear and please.

Khabib grabs your breasts and lifts, kneading his thick sausage fingers over the soft, malleable tissue. A noise between a sigh and a groan grinds on his tongue and catches at the back of his throat. 

“I’m really wet, babe,” you whined. 

Intense heat churns through you, accompanied by a pulsing ache which forms between your legs and weighs uncomfortably on your panties. You hook a knuckle inside the leg hole of your biker shorts and pull the damp crotch of your underwear to one side. “Forget the bed— I can’t wait any longer. Please, honey.”

“Alright, alright,” Khabib panted.

You press two fingers together and spread your wet folds. Your other hand guides his cock toward your aching hole, and the first nudge of his tip inside you makes your pelvic muscles gasp. Sharp thrills coarse through your limbs. Your lips part with muted keens, soothed only by Khabib’s length as it bottoms out your cunt.

Slowly at first, you gyrate your hips, moving to an intuitive rhythm. His hips buck into yours when the sensitivity hits too hard— plenty of attractive noises coming in muffled against his grit teeth. His words slur between punchy grunts: “You feel good wrapped around me…I want to be deep inside you…Make you feel good, too.”

Light sweat sheens dampen your forehead around the temples, then ears, as your entire body seems to warm from the inside out. You hold onto Khabib’s shoulders, your biceps flexing as your fingernails crescent his skin. His hands return to your ass to help guide his cock in and out of you. 

You hunch forward so that your cheek mushes against his clavicle, your arms draining down your sides. Your body slants comfortably against his pudgy stomach, and honestly, his body turns you on. Every version of him did. Both during and after the UFC— everything about your husband felt perfectly designed. The fullness of his face, his intensely sloped brow bone, his sharp features, meaty fingers, fat calves; you could recount every detail that made up Khabib and not find a single flaw. Even though Khabib's view of himself has become corrupted— where his belly and thick thighs signified to him the end of his glory days— you will always find an excuse to jump his bones. 

“Close— I feel close,” Khabib punched-out. His grip on you tightens. “‘M going to.”

He freezes; his muscles atrophy. Sudden warmth shoots into you, a tangible fluid sensation that fills you up and leaves you trembling. Noticeable wetness pools around your cunt and leaves pretty dark stains on Khabib’s sweatpants. 

“Khabib,” you moaned. 

He pauses to draw in shallow breaths. “You near?”

“Mhm. Almost there. Just need a little of your help,” you said while swirling your hips to drag friction from his erect length inside your pussy. 

He wipes at his nose, then nods to himself. Khabib loops an arm around your waist and thigh, and he adjusts your body so that you’re kneeled on the cushion beside him, with your forearms propped on the sofa’s spine. His dick glides out of you, and at once, a miserable emptiness hollows through your body. You moan weakly and raise your ass in a silent plea for his return.

“Now I take care of you,” Khabib said and situated himself behind you. He grabs onto your shorts from where they sculpt to every curve of your bottom and pulls them downward until the malleable fabric crumples between your bent knees. 

“Please.” you whined.

Khabib rests a hand on your ass cheek and aligns his cock again with your entrance. He pushes inside, stretching you entirely back open. He adjusts his position, grabs your hips and jostles them until your posterior adheres flat to his pelvis. As he fucks into you, his tempo is initially measured but soon swells to a desperate fervor. Stunning squelching noises echo in the room; the television glow haloes his staunch figure.

With every thrust of his hips, you gawk. Drool falls from your open mouth onto your arm and the pleather cushion below it. Your legs tremble with exertion. A tightness spasms through your abdomen, then releases, and wetness milks out of your pussy in slow streams, slicking Khabib’s cock and leaking out onto the sofa. You groan— spent. Your expression glazes over; your eyes are watery. For a quiet moment, you remain slumped in the same position as the last of your orgasm weeps from your body.

Khabib cautiously unwinds himself from you. His dick greases out of your puffy hole to sag over time. 

“Said we’d make mess,” he stated in a hushed voice. Khabib steps toward you, works his arms under your shoulderblades and the back of your thighs, and lifts you into a bridal hold. You wilt into his strength, gazing up at your husband with a blissed out smile.

“I bring out your reckless side,” you said.

“The responsible me isn’t going to be so happy when time comes for me to clean tomorrow.”

“I’ll help.”

“No. You rest.” He bent forward to kiss the crown of your head. Instinctively, your face cranes upward to be nearer to him. 

“Only if you rest with me.”

Khabib carries you through the dim hallway which leads toward your shared bedroom. Upon arrival, he nudges the ajar door further open with his elbow. The space isn’t anything remarkable: clean walls, a quilted comforter, made bed, standing mirror and hamper in the corner. But it’s the safe place Khabib and you have built together. Your knick-knacks lay out on the nightstand; one of his prized watches waits for him by the digital alarm clock; an amalgamation of his clothes and yours sways on hangers in the closet.

With a stiff groan, he lowers you onto the queen-sized mattress. Your legs tuck underneath your bum; your arms spread wide across the plush bedding. In a twisted mess of wrinkled fabric, your shorts and underwear still tangle around your ankles. 

Your eyes are almost closed, so that you can see Khabib only as a mass of color crowding the room. He disappears into the connected bathroom, then returns a moment later in the nude. His dick weeps over his lap, wiped of cum and softened in your absence. “Bib,” you called for him happily when ushy, gushy, heartstruck emotion threatened to overwhelm you. That’s your fucking husband right there.

Khabib single-handedly drags your calf to one side and spreads your legs. “Yes?”

A cold draft within the room wafts along your nude form, goosebumps prickling along your pelvis. You shiver and try to curl into yourself for warmth, but Khabib stops you. He plants his hand upon your abdomen, warning you to keep still. And at once, another rush of desire tunnels through your body.

“What are you doing?” You asked in a strained voice. 

It’s now that your stare has broadened that you notice the rinsed rag in his hand, stolen from the bathroom, which Khabib uses to wipe along your inner thighs. 

“Bib? What is it?”

Khabib wears a strange, sullen look upon his face; his eyebrows furrow in apparent deep thought. He mechanically trails the damp cloth over your cunt, but there’s still intimacy in the moment. It shines in his gentle touches, his sweet gestures, how he takes care of you without needing to be asked first.

“In Dagestan, traditionally, the man is head of household,” Khabib spoke in a gradual tone, intense with abstraction, which demanded your complete attention. The thrills of pleasure wane from you and become replaced by sudden concern. Your chest trembles a little with anxiety.

“As your mother loves to remind me,” you said, absent of inflection. No judgement or resistance— a matter of observant truth. You would never judge Khabib’s mother for living a life complimentary to her beliefs and for holding standards for her son’s partner. When you knew you wanted to spend forever with Khabib at your side, you’d long inured yourself to the difference between his background and yours. His devout worship and your less than agnostic takes. 

Marriage has made some things more difficult between you, sure, but you weren’t afraid of the expectations of others. You and Khabib worked together to find your happy medium and that was all that mattered to you. 

“She only want us to have a happy marriage,” he said. 

“I know and I love her for that. Now, what were you saying?”

“Because the men in Dagestan make decisions for their family— they provide— many Westerners see that and believe this makes wife less important than her, er, husband. For me, I don’t think like this.”

You nod, listening intently. You run your hands through his buzz-cut and the softness of his short strands is like nothing else. 

“I provide, yes. I make hard decisions, yes,” he continued. “But you respect me as a man. You listen to what I say and share your opinion without making less of mine. Now that we married, I feel as if man is nothing without his wife.”

“Because I trust you,” you couldn’t help but interject. “There’s a lot of value in who you are to me. It’s not because you’re a man; it’s because you have proven to me that you are someone worth being respected.” 

Khabib nods and the sharpness of his features ease into something gentle. The crows' feet around his eyelids crinkle. He wanders away from you to discard the dirty rag into a nearby clothesbin. “How I, uh, feel about you,” he said. 

“That’s why we work, Khabib.” You prop yourself onto your elbows to better observe him. “The way I see you didn’t change when we got married. I don’t support you out of obligation. It’s because I don’t doubt that you have the best intentions in mind. You’re a good guy and a great husband.” 

Khabib unlatches drawers on your standing dresser, then collects several clothing items, their descriptions made vague by the bedroom’s dimness. When he returns to you, he lays the outfit out on the mattress.

“I’m glad I have you. You understand me,” he said and lowered himself onto his haunches. 

He unravels your shorts and underwear from around your legs and unclips your bra— Khabib undresses you with practiced efficiency as if helping you were second nature to him. When you shiver again, he rubs your spine to help warm you. 

“Let’s go to bed,” he mumbled. 

You shuffle off the bed to change. Khabib allows you to lean on him for support as you step into a pair of cotton panties, then he maneuvers one of his commercial white tees over your head. When your hair snags inside the collar, he tugs the tangled strands loose to lay them over your shoulder.

While he transitions back into comfortable clothes, you climb further into bed until you’re settled on your claimed side of the mattress, with a comfy pillow folded neatly underneath you. Khabib joins a moment later, shuffling into the open space beside yours. With confident ease, he gathers you into his well-built arms so that your body cradles against his chest. Your pulse hums in your ears, crossed only by the quiet rustling of the sheets and Khabib’s even breaths.

“Thank you for tonight,” you whispered.

“Tomorrow even better.”

“Yeah?”

Khabib shifts to adjust his hold on you. You feel a cheeky grin come over his face from where he’s buried his nose into your hair. “Yes. I took the weekend off to spend with you.”

You flip around in his arms to face him, and your legs then become intertwined with his; calf and thigh overlapping one another.

“Then, thank you for tomorrow, too.” You looked him in the eye and smile brilliantly. “What do you say we go for round two in the morning?”

Khabib chuckles, and this close to him, hot air fans over your face. He shakes his head with amusement; his eyelids scrunch in a cute, dramatic fashion.

"You are the death of me," he said softly.