#umar x reader

Umar loves you in a way that makes people jealous without even realising it.

It’s in the little things. The way he automatically reaches for your hand when you cross the street. The way he remembers exactly how you take your tea without asking. The way he looks at you like you hung every star in the sky yourself.

Being loved by him feels safe. Warm. Certain.

You never have to question where you stand with Umar. He tells you he loves you at random moments, kisses your forehead every morning before training, and acts like spending time with you is the highlight of his entire week.

He worships you openly, shamelessly. If you mention wanting something once, he remembers it. If you have a bad day, he’s already ordering your favorite food and pulling you into his chest before you even explain what happened.

And sex with him?

It’s good. Really good.

He’s attentive, patient and careful with you, like you’re something precious. He kisses every inch of you like he’s grateful for it. Makes sure you finish first almost every time. Whispers how beautiful you are against your skin until you’re melting beneath him.

But lately…

You’ve started wanting more.

Not because he’s lacking - God, he’s perfect - but because sometimes it feels too careful. Too soft. Predictable. You know exactly how the night will go before it even starts: slow kisses, gentle hands, sweet praise, lazy aftercare while he strokes your hair.

Comfortable.

Vanilla.

And tonight, with Umar stretched beside you on the couch, one arm around your waist while some random movie plays in the background, the thought won’t leave your head.

You glance up at him.

He notices immediately, because of course he does.

“What?” he asks softly, thumb brushing over your hip.

“Nothing.”

His eyes narrow a little with amusement. “You’re thinking too loud again.”

You laugh quietly, but your stomach twists with nerves.

Umar pauses the movie instantly. Full attention on you now.

That’s another thing about him. You never have to compete for his attention.

“What’s wrong, malyshka?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say quickly. “I just… wanted to talk to you about something.”

The concern on his face melts into something gentler. “Okay. Talk to me.”

You sit up slightly, tucking your legs beneath you. Suddenly the room feels too warm.

“It’s awkward.”

He smiles a little. “You know you can tell me anything.”

“I know.”

And you do know. That’s what makes this harder somehow.

You hesitate before finally blurting, “Do you ever feel like we always do the same things?”

Umar blinks. “Like… in general?”

“In bed.”

The silence after that isn’t uncomfortable - just surprised.

His eyebrows lift slightly, and then he’s sitting up too, giving you his full attention like this conversation matters more than anything else.

“Oh.”

You rush to explain before he can misunderstand.

“Not because it’s bad,” you say quickly. “It’s not bad at all. You’re literally amazing, Umar. I just…” You chew your lip. “I think I want to try new things. Maybe be a little less… normal?”

He watches you carefully, expression unreadable for a second before his hand slides over yours.

“You’re bored?”

The question sounds more worried than offended.

Immediately you shake your head. “No. Not bored with you.”

His shoulders relax a little.

“I just think maybe I want us to be more adventurous,” you admit quietly. “And I didn’t know how to tell you without sounding ungrateful.”

Umar stares at you for a long moment before exhaling softly through his nose.

“malyshka,” he murmurs, almost laughing. “You could never sound ungrateful.”

You feel some of the tension leave your body.

“I just didn’t want you thinking you weren’t enough.”

His expression changes instantly at that - soft and almost offended on your behalf.

“Not enough?” he repeats. “You think I’d hear my girlfriend say she wants to explore more with me and somehow take that badly?”

“Well…”

He reaches up, cupping your jaw gently.

“I worship you,” he says simply. “If there’s something you want, I want to hear it.”

The sincerity in his voice makes heat creep into your face.

“And honestly?” he adds, thumb brushing your cheek. “I’ve thought about it too.”

Your eyes widen. “You have?”

A small grin pulls at his mouth.

“Yeah.” His gaze drops briefly to your lips. “I just didn’t know if you’d be comfortable with it.”

Something electric settles between you then.

A shift.

You can feel it in the way his eyes darken slightly. In the way his hand tightens on your thigh just a little more possessively than usual.

“Stand up,” you say.

Umar blinks. A half-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, the one that usually precedes some gentle, teasing remark about you being bossy. But the smile doesn’t quite land. Something in your voice has stripped the humor from the room.

“Stand up,” you repeat, and this time you rise with the words, closing the small distance between you.

He stands, posture perfect from years of training, and yet there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his expression that you’ve never seen before. Not fear. Something closer to anticipation mixed with the vertigo of unfamiliar ground.

Your hands find the hem of your own shirt first. You pull it over your head in one fluid motion, and his gaze drops, instinct, pure reflex, to the black lace cupping your breasts. His lips part slightly. A breath escapes him that’s louder than the documentary ever was.

“Tonight,” you say, reaching behind your back to unclasp the bra, “I’m in charge.”

The straps slide down your shoulders. The lace falls away. Umar’s throat works visibly as he swallows.

“What does that mean?” His accent curls around the English words, softening their edges.

“It means you don’t touch unless I tell you to. It means you don’t speak unless I ask you something.” You step closer, close enough that the heat from his chest radiates against your bare skin. “It means you’re going to get on your knees.”

The words hang in the air between you. Umar’s jaw tightens. For a long, suspended moment, you wonder if you’ve pushed too far too quickly - if the proud fighter in him will balk at being told to kneel in his own living room.

Then his knees bend.

The carpet muffles the sound of him sinking down, but you feel it in the floorboards, a small seismic shift in the balance of power. He looks up at you from this new angle, and something has already changed in his face. The confident set of his mouth has softened. His eyes are wider, darker, full of a question he won’t voice because you haven’t given him permission.

“Good,” you murmur, and the word lands on him visibly - his shoulders drop a fraction, tension bleeding away. “Now your shirt.”

He pulls it off without hesitation. The fighter’s body emerges: shoulders carved from hours of grappling, a torso laced with lean muscle, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing below his waistband. You circle behind him slowly, letting your fingertips trail across the back of his neck, down the ridge of his spine. A shiver chases your touch.

From this angle, you can see the slight flush creeping up the back of his ears.

You retrieve your discarded bra from the floor. The fabric is still warm from your skin as you gather it in your hands, then drape it over his wrists, which hang at the small of his back. Realisation dawns in the stiffening of his posture.

“Put your hands behind your back.”

He does. The submission of it - Umar Nurmagomedov, who bends other men into pretzels for a living, offering his wrists to be bound by lingerie, sends a pulse of heat straight through your core. You wrap the bra straps around his wrists, once, twice, knotting the elastic gently but firmly. It won’t hold against real resistance. That’s not the point.

The point is that he won’t because your in control.

You come around to face him again. His bound hands force his shoulders back, thrusting his chest forward. The posture is almost ceremonial - a man presented for judgment. His breathing has gone shallow, each inhale sharp and quick.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband of your jeans and push them down slowly, watching his face the whole time. The denim pools at your ankles. You step out, leaving only the black lace of your panties between you and the cool air of the apartment.

Umar makes a sound. It’s small, entirely involuntary - a whimper caught somewhere in the back of his throat. His lips press together immediately, as if he could call the noise back.

“Did you just whimper?” You tilt your head, feigning curiosity.

The flush that crawls up his neck is answer enough.

You hook a finger under the elastic of your panties, pulling the fabric down inch by excruciating inch. The dampness that clings to the lace as it peels away tells its own story. Umar watches, transfixed, as you step free and gather the delicate fabric in your palm.

“Open your mouth.”

His eyes snap up to yours. For one heartbeat, two, the old Umar flickers there - the one who leads, who decides, who dictates the pace. Then it gutters and goes out.

His jaw drops.

You fold the panties into a neat square of black lace and press it past his lips. The fabric fills his mouth, and you can see the exact moment the taste registers, the slight widening of his eyes, the flare of his nostrils as your scent hits him. A muffled groan vibrates through the gag.

“Quiet now,” you say, stepping back to admire your work.

He’s a vision. Hands bound behind his back, mouth stuffed with your panties, kneeling on the living room carpet with his arousal straining obscenely against his sweatpants. The great fighter reduced to a pleading, whimpering supplicant.

You settle onto the couch in front of him, spreading your legs wide. The leather is cool against your bare skin. Umar’s gaze drops immediately to the exposed wetness between your thighs, and another sound escapes him - higher this time, needier, a whine that the gag can’t fully contain.

“You want to taste?”

A frantic nod. His bound hands flex uselessly behind him.

“You want to make me cum?”

Another nod, more desperate. His hips shift forward unconsciously, seeking friction that isn’t there.

You lean back against the cushions, letting your thighs fall open another inch. “Then show me.”

He shuffles forward on his knees, awkward with his hands tied, still magnificent in his desperation. The first touch of his mouth is the heat of his breath ghosting across your inner thigh.

You slide the soaked lace panties from his mouth just long enough for Umar to drag his tongue through your folds.

When his tongue finally finds your sweet spot, flat and broad and achingly warm, lapping at your clit with desperate strokes. - your head falls back against the couch.

His groans vibrate against you, but you don't let him linger. You stuff the panties back between his lips, muffling him completely, and order him up. "Couch. Now."

He obeys, chest heaving as you guide him onto the sofa.

“Good boy,” you breathe, and the sound Umar makes in response is something between a sob and a prayer.

Still restrained, he sits back, thick cock standing rigid and leaking in his joggers. Slowly you make your way down his body, kissing his neck, abs, and V line before hooking your finger into the waistband and setting him free.

You straddle him without hesitation, sinking down onto his hard length in one fluid motion. Your pussy stretches around him, walls clenching tight as you start to ride - hard, relentless rolls of your hips that grind your clit against his base with every movement.

Biting into the side of his neck, you leave marks while your hand wraps lightly around his throat, squeezing just enough to make his eyes flutter. “Such a good boyfriend for me.” you murmur, bouncing faster, pussy creaming down his shaft. The intensity builds quick; your orgasm hits sharp and sudden, body shuddering as you pulse and gush around his cock, riding through the waves without slowing.

It's too much. Umar bucks wildly, the bra restraint snapping under his strength. His hands break free, one cracking across your ass in a sharp smack that echoes.

In a blur he flips you onto your back on the cushions, pinning your wrists this time as he drives back inside with brutal force.

He fucks you like he's lost control, hips snapping deep and fast, cock pounding your soaked pussy.

One hand closes around your throat, squeezing firmer while the other pinches and twists your nipples, rolling the sensitive peaks until you cry out. "Fuck" he growls around the panties still in his mouth, voice muffled but filthy.

He spits them out, unable to contain himself. "Gripping me so tight, creaming all over my cock. You love using me don’t you"

Your legs lock around his waist as he rails harder, choking you just right, the mix of pain and pleasure sending sparks through your core. He releases one nipple to rub your clit in rough circles, dirty praise spilling out nonstop. The pressure snaps - you come again, pussy spasming and squirting around him. Umar follows with a guttural moan, burying deep as his cock throbs, flooding you with hot cum that leaks out around his sloppy thrusts.

He collapses over you, both of you panting, the air heavy with sweat and sex.

Neither of you speak for a long moment.

Then he lets out a breathless laugh against your neck.

“What on earth just happened to us?”

You smile weakly into his skin, too exhausted to answer properly.

Because whatever tonight was, it changed something.

The carefulness between you is gone now, replaced with something hotter, deeper - a new kind of trust. And judging by the way Umar keeps pulling you closer like he physically can’t stand having space between you, he feels it too.

His lips press softly to your forehead.

“malyshka,” he murmurs, voice rough and completely wrecked, “you have no idea what you started tonight.”

You can’t wait to do it again.