Hii! I love ur fics. Just saw that requests are open so.....
Could you do like a Isu fic where he's young(like 23,24) x reader. Fluff? Enemies to lovers ?
We like knew eachother since kids and we always bullied eachother but at the end we fall in love.
I acc really enjoyed writing this idea!! Enjoy xx
Islam Makhachev x reader
The inevitable -
The first time Islam Makhachev made you cry, you were seven years old and furious about it.
It had been summer in Dagestan - the kind of summer where the air held dust and sunlight until late into the evening, where every courtyard was full of voices, open gates, and children running in and out of the houses like they belonged to all of them.
Your grandmother had sent you across the lane carrying a bowl wrapped in cloth, something meant for his mother
“Walk carefully,” she’d said.
You had been doing until Islam stepped out from behind the low wall by the fig tree and scared you half to death - inevitably you dropped the bowl which shattered instantly and the silence lasted less than a second before he laughed and not a polite laugh either, a full one, head thrown back.
You stared at the broken pieces, your eyes burning.
“You did that on purpose.”
“I didn’t touch you.”
“You jumped out like an idiot.”
“You screamed like one.”
And then you cried which only made him panic because Islam Makhachev at seven could wrestle boys older than him into the dirt but had absolutely no idea what to do with a crying girl.
“Hey,” he’d muttered, suddenly awkward. “Stop.”
You only cried harder.
He glanced toward both houses like he was calculating how much trouble this would become before crouching beside the broken bowl.
“I’ll say it was me.”
You sniffed.
“You’ll get shouted at.”
He shrugged.
“You’re already crying.”
That didn’t make sense then but years later, you’d remember it perfectly…
Everyone knew the two of you not because you were friends but mostly because you were always arguing, you’d fought over who got the corner seat at dinners, over who ran faster, over whose turn it was to carry groceries, over who cheated at cards, over absolutely anything.
If your families heard raised voices outside, someone always signed and said -
“Islam and her again.”
And somehow it never became serious even when it sounded serious, you’d glare at each other over tea glasses, push shoulders passing through crowded kitchens, trades insults so casually that adults barely listened anymore.
By twelve, it had become routine.
By fifteen, everyone expected it.
By eighteen, everyone noticed something neither of you seemed willing to admit.
When you were fourteen, your cousin got married.
It was loud, crowded and warm inside the women’s side of the celebration, voices layered over music and dishes clinking - aunties calling from room to room.
You’d stepped outside for air and Islam was already there sitting on the wall by the gate, dressed properly for once, sleeves rolled to his forearms.
He looked annoyed.
“Why are you outside?”
“Why are you?”
“Too loud.”
“Same.”
You stood beside him in silence.
Rare.
Inside someone laughed so loudly it spilled through the open door.
“Your dress looks uncomfortable,” he said eventually.
You looked over.
“Your shoes look stupid.”
He nodded once, fair.
Then he shifted and handed you the cold bottle of lemonade he’d been holding like he’d been saving it and you took it without saying thank you.
He didn’t ask for one.
When Islam began traveling more for fights, everything changed in ways nobody said aloud.
At first it was small, a few days away, then a few days turned into weeks, camps in places far enough that time zones got involved and phone calls became strange and brief.
Everyone was proud of him.
How could they not be?
He’d always been disciplined in a way most people weren’t. Even as a boy there’d been something sharp in him—focused, stubborn, impossible to pull away once he’d decided on something.
He trained like breathing, like it was part of him and then suddenly he wasn’t around nearly as much.
You hated to admit it but the courtyard felt different without him - quieter.
No arguments over tea, no sarcastic comments thrown across the table, no door slamming because he’d annoyed you on purpose - you noticed it immediately and hated that you noticed.
He called his mother often, his father traveled with him, sometimes rang his brother, the odd time someone would pass the phone around but you never spoke to him directly.
Except once.
You were nineteen.
His mother was making dinner and her phone rang with his name lighting up the screen immediately she smiled and answered, talked while stirring something on the stove.
Then held the phone toward you casually.
“Talk to him.”
You nearly dropped the spoon.
“No.”
“He asked where you were.”
Your face warmed instantly.
“He did not.”
She raised a brow.
“Take it.”
You did.
Reluctantly.
“Hello?”
His voice came through rough with bad connection and background noise from a gym.
“You sound annoyed.”
“I am annoyed.”
“Good.”
You rolled your eyes and suddenly you felt twelve again.
“When are you back?”
A pause.
“Miss me?”
“No.”
Another pause.
Then “Two weeks.”
And quietly, before the line crackled “Maybe less.”
You thought about that call for three days.
By twenty-three, Islam had changed not completely he was still sharp-tongued with you, still impossible when he wanted to be, still stubborn enough to argue with a wall, but he carried himself differently now.
More confidence, more control, people knew his name outside your town now- he came home broader through the shoulders, with deeper lines around his eyes, worn by training, travel and responsibility.
But around you - somehow he was still just Islam.
The boy who broke your bowl.
The teenager who stole food off your plate.
The man who looked at you too long when he forgot himself.
It happened at a gathering at his family’s house.
Everyone packed into the courtyard after dinner, tea being passed around, conversations overlapping.
You were standing beside the table speaking to one of your cousin’s friends—someone visiting from Makhachkala, easy-going and loud enough to make everyone laugh.
Islam had arrived late from training.
You were that engrossed in the conversation you barely noticed at first until his mother greeted him, until voices shifted, until you looked up and saw him standing by the gate.
Watching.
Not the group.
You.
The cousin’s friend said something funny and you laughed and instantly Islam’s jaw tightened, subtle but there.
He came over eventually.
Calm. Too calm.
Greeted everyone and then stood beside you, close enough for your shoulder to brush his arm.
“Who’s that?”
You looked sideways.
“Who?”
“The one trying too hard.”
You nearly smiled.
“He’s talking.”
“He performing.”
You bit back a laugh.
“Are you jealous?”
His eyes flicked to yours.
Dark and steady.
“No.”
Liar.
You took your tea slowly.
“He’s nice.”
Islam leaned slightly closer.
“Then why you looking at me?”
And for once- you had no answer.
That night his younger cousin grinned while clearing cups and muttered—
“Finally.”
“Finally what?” you asked.
He just laughed and walked off.
The thing about falling in love slowly is that everyone else gets there before you, your grandmother noticed when Islam started arriving at your house without needing a reason, his mother noticed he asked where you were before sitting down, your cousins noticed how he always seemed to end up next to you at dinners without trying, how he watched doors when you stepped outside, how his mood improved the second you entered a room.
How yours did too.
People stopped teasing loudly about the arguments and started exchanging knowing looks instead.
One evening not long after he returned from another fight camp, you found him sitting on the low rooftop terrace behind the house while the sky faded orange into blue.
You climbed up beside him.
“Everyone’s looking for you.”
“They’ll survive.”
He handed you tea while you slowly sat beside him, it wasn’t quiet in an awkward way but in a comfortable silence.
Then - “You were gone a long time.”
His expression shifted.
“Camp ran longer.”
“I know.”
He looked at you then.
“And?”
You stared out over the rooftops.
“And I didn’t like it.”
The words surprised even you, and honestly you didn’t realise you’d said them out loud but you had.
He stayed still.
You exhaled.
“It’s strange when you’re not here.”
His voice was softer when he answered.
“It’s strange for me when I’m not here too.”
You turned.
His eyes held yours.
“I miss home.”
A beat.
Then quieter—
“I miss you.”
Everything in you stopped moving.
The evening sounds below carried on like normal—plates, laughter, distant voices—but up there the world felt paused.
Like it was waiting.
You swallowed.
“You pick terrible timing.”
He smiled slightly.
“You’ve known me too long to expect better.”
And then you laughed, small and breathless, he did too and before either of you could thing too hard, his hand found yours where it rested between you on the warm stone, it wasn’t dramatic or rushed, just fingers brushing first and then holding, like something that had been reaching for years finally stopped pretending it wasn’t.
And later, when your families inevitably found out, nobody was surprised, his mother smiled like she’d been waiting a decade.
Your grandmother said, “About time.”
Your cousins were unbearable.
And Islam—
Islam only looked at you across the room with that quiet expression he only ever had when nobody else was paying attention.
Like after all the years of arguing, teasing, leaving, returning - he’d somehow ended up exactly where he was supposed to be.
Right beside you.
Where, maybe, he always had been.
