The Education of Makkasharip Zaynukov (Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Lose Control)
(Smutty & Obsessed Series Oneshot -
Umar crossed his arms, shaking his head so hard his neck might snap. "No way. Not happening."
"It's just training," Javier Mendez said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "The UFC wants promo content. Cross-training footage. 'Breaking down barriers between men's and women's divisions' or whatever the marketing team is calling it."
"They want us to what? Wrestle with women?" Usman looked genuinely confused. "In front of cameras?"
"Khabib would say no," Islam pointed out.
"Well, he's not here right now" Javier sighed. "Look, it's a week. One week of training sessions with the Texan women's team. They're good fighters. You might actually learn something."
"We know how to fight women," Chanco said, grinning. "We have sisters. Cousins. My wife hits harder than most welterweights."
"This is professional training, not your wife beating your ass for leaving socks on the floor," Javier cut him off. "The point is, UFC is pairing one of you with one of their girls. They want to study if cross-gender training has benefits. Film it, analyze it, make a documentary thing."
The Dagestani corner of the gym—currently occupied by about twenty fighters ranging from flyweight to heavyweight—went completely silent.
Then everyone started talking at once.
"Can't they ask the Americans?"
"What if someone gets hurt?"
"What if someone gets aroused?"
That last one was Chanco, of course, and it earned him a towel to the face from Umar.
"Guys." Javier's voice cut through the chaos. "One of you. One week. That's it. The women's team already picked their fighter—Gianna Martinez. She's a flyweight, tough as hell, trains out of a gym in Austin. Now you need to pick someone from your side."
"Not me," Umar said immediately. "I'm married. My wife would kill me."
"I'm married too," Usman added.
"I'm engaged," someone else said.
"I'm actively pursuing someone."
"I think I might be getting engaged soon—"
Javier looked around the room in disbelief. "Are you all serious right now?"
"Very serious," Umar said solemnly. "This is a matter of honor."
"With a woman. Alone. Rolling on mats. In America." Umar gestured like this explained everything. "Do you know what our mothers would say?"
"Your mothers are in Dagestan!"
Javier rubbed his temples. This was going to be a long day.
"Okay. Fine. Who here is single? Completely, totally, no-complications single?"
A few hands went up. Reluctantly.
"Great. Now who here has the most self-control? Won't do anything stupid?"
Most of the hands went down.
Javier looked at the three remaining fighters. One was twenty years old and looked terrified. One was a heavyweight who probably outweighed the girl by a hundred pounds. And one—
"Artur," Javier said, pointing at Makkasharip. "You're doing it."
Artur, who'd been quietly stretching in the corner this whole time, looked up. "Me?"
"Yes, you. You're single, you're professional, you never lose your cool, and most importantly, you haven't tried to escape this conversation like everyone else."
"I, uh, hm." No wonder he never made the debate club.
Artur blinked slowly. Then shrugged. "Okay."
The entire gym stared at him.
"Okay?" Umar repeated. "Just like that? No argument?"
"Why would I argue? Coach says train, I train. Doesn't matter who with."
"I know what a woman is, Umar."
Chanco started laughing. "Oh, this is going to be good. Artur does Texas Tornado. Can't wait."
"I'm not doing anything. Just training," Artur said mildly, going back to his stretching.
"You're perfect for this," Usman said. "You win fights and don't even smile. You get punched in the face and look bored. "
"You're welcome. Try not to accidentally fall in love or whatever."
Artur didn't respond. Just kept stretching, expression calm and neutral as always.
Javier made a note to warn the girl. Not about Artur being dangerous—quite the opposite.
He just hoped she wouldn't get frustrated by training with someone who had the emotional range of a monk.
Gianna Martinez was five-foot-three, a hundred and twenty-five pounds of muscle and attitude, with her dark hair in a tight braid and an expression that said she wasn't here to make friends.
"So you're the guy," she said, looking Artur up and down.
"They picked you because...?"
"That's it? You're calm?"
She raised an eyebrow. "That was a requirement?"
"You're not in Dagestan."
"Wherever I am, is Dagestan," he explained patiently.
"Ok, weird." She dropped her gym bag and started wrapping her hands. "Well, I picked myself because I'm not scared of you guys. My coach wanted to send someone else, but fuck that. I train with men all the time."
"I'm not going easy on you just because you're pretty."
"Yeah. You've got that whole broody, mysterious, sad-eyes thing going on. Very hero-of-a-Russian-novel. But I don't care. I'm here to learn, not flirt."
"Great." She finished her wraps and looked at him expectantly. "Well? Are we training or what?"
The first session was awkward as hell.
Not because of them—because of everyone else.
Half the gym was watching. Cameras were set up in three corners. A UFC media person was narrating into a microphone like they were filming a nature documentary.
"Here we see the male Dagestani fighter in his natural habitat, preparing to engage with a female counterpart for the first time in recorded history—"
"Can you not?" Gianna called over.
Artur stood across from her on the mat, trying to figure out where to put his hands.
"So," Gianna said. "What do you want to work on?"
She rolled her eyes. "God, you really are something. Okay, fine. Let's do positional sparring. You start in my guard."
That was... fine. Safe. He could do that.
Except the moment he moved into position—hands on either side of her hips, his weight carefully distributed so he wasn't crushing her—he became hyperaware of every point of contact.
Her legs were strong. Locked around his waist.
Her hands gripped his collar.
She smelled like mint and something womanly. Who knows what woman put on themselves. There are creams, maybe powders? Women are mysterious.
"You gonna do something or just hover there?" she asked.
He tried to pass her guard. She swept him. He recovered. She tried to take his back. He defended. It was—
Incredibly difficult to focus.
Not because she wasn't good. She was very good. But because he was terrified of hurting her. Of gripping too hard. Of putting his hand somewhere inappropriate. Of—
"Dude," Gianna said, pausing mid-roll. "Are you okay? You're like... vibrating."
"You're not fine. You're barely moving. Are you scared to hurt me?"
She sat up, crossing her arms. "Okay, let me be super clear about something. I'm not made of glass. I've been training for eight years. I can take a hit. If you're going to train with me, you need to actually train with me. Not treat me like a delicate flower."
"I don't want to be disrespectful."
"Training isn't disrespectful. Holding back is disrespectful. Now come at me for real or I'm walking out and telling everyone you were too scared."
Something in his chest tightened. "I'm not scared."
And she was right—she could take it. She was fast, technical, and had a pain tolerance that honestly impressed him.
By the end of the session, they were both sweating, breathing hard, and grinning.
Well, she was grinning. Artur was just... slightly less neutral than usual.
"See?" she said, bumping his shoulder as they walked off the mat. "That wasn't so bad."
"No," he agreed quietly. "It wasn't."
By day four, they'd found their rhythm.
The cameras were mostly gone now—just one in the corner for documentation. The rest of the gym had gotten bored of watching. It was just them, drilling techniques, rolling, troubleshooting positions.
Gianna was a talker. She filled the silences with running commentary, jokes, complaints about her coach, stories about her gym back home.
Artur mostly listened. Occasionally responded. It was... nice.
"Okay," she said, lying on her back. "Try to pass again. And this time don't let me sweep you."
He moved into her guard, controlling her hips, starting to work the pass.
She fought back, shifting her weight, trying to off-balance him.
He pressed forward, pinning her shoulders, settling his weight over her.
And then she went completely still.
Not tense. Not resisting.
"Mhmm." Her voice was softer. "Just... taking a breath."
She was close enough that he could see the freckles on her nose. The way her braid had come slightly loose. The flush on her cheeks from exertion.
And then—so subtle he almost thought he'd imagined it—she lifted her head and sniffed.
Right at the curve of his neck.
She lowered her head back to the mat like nothing had happened. "Okay, I'm good. Keep going."
He pulled back, creating space, trying to remember how to breathe.
They were working rear-naked choke escapes.
Which meant he was behind her, arm around her throat (not squeezing, just positioning), her back pressed against his chest, his legs hooked over her hips.
It was possibly the worst position for his sanity.
Because Gianna was warm. And her skin had that scent of vanilla or orange or whatever makes women smell nice. And her body, unlike his team mates' bodies, was soft in some places, hard in others.
And every time she tried to escape, her body moved against his in ways that were...hard to ignore.
"You're not breathing," she said.
"No, you're not. I can tell." She settled back against him more firmly, like she was getting comfortable. "Relax. We've done this position before."
But then she shifted her hips—subtle, barely noticeable—and pressed back.
He tried to adjust, to move back slightly, create space.
But she. She pushed back again.
His hand tightened on her arm.
"Yeah?" Her voice was innocent. Too innocent.
They stayed like that for three seconds. Five. Ten.
Then she tapped the mat, and they separated.
She was flushed. Pupils dilated. Breathing slightly too fast.
He probably looked exactly the same.
"So," she said. "Same time tomorrow?"
He stayed on the mat for another five minutes, trying to convince his body to calm the fuck down.
They didn't talk about it.
They warmed up in silence. Started drilling. Everything was normal.
It was late, the gym was empty.
The camera was off already. They had no reason to continue. But they both chose to ignore such details.
Because now, every touch felt heavier. Every position more intimate.
They were working mount transitions—her on top of him, trying to maintain position while he tried to escape.
She had one leg on either side of his chest, hands controlling his collar, weight distributed perfectly.
Professional. Technical. Exactly how it was supposed to be.
He bucked his hips, trying to create space.
She countered, settling her weight more firmly.
She followed the movement, adjusting her position.
And then, without warning, he gripped her waist with both hands and ground her down against him.
They stared at each other.
"Yeah," he said, voice rough.
And then there was no more pretending.
She leaned down and kissed him—hard, desperate, frustrated—and he kissed her back like he'd been dying to for five straight days.
His hands were in her hair, on her waist, everywhere.
She was pressed against him, grinding down, making small sounds into his mouth.
"We can't," she gasped. "Not here."
He flipped them in one smooth motion, pinning her beneath him, hovering over her with his arms caging her in.
"Locker room," he said. "Now."
She grinned, breathless and wild. "Prove it."
They barely made it inside before he had her against the wall, mouth on her neck, hands pulling at her sports bra.
"Off," he muttered. "Get it off."
She helped him, stripping out of her top while he kissed every inch of newly exposed skin.
"Fuck," she gasped as his mouth closed over her nipple. "You're not—you're not as calm as you look, are you?"
"No." He bit down gently, making her arch. "I'm very good at control. But you've been testing it for days."
He lifted his head to look at her. "Good?"
"I wanted to see if I could break you." She pulled him down for another kiss, biting his lip. "Wanted to see what you'd be like when you finally snapped."
"So far? Not disappointed."
He smiled—actually smiled, rare and dangerous—and dropped to his knees.
"Wait, what are you—oh fuck—"
He'd pulled her shorts and underwear down in one motion and buried his face between her thighs before she could finish the sentence.
"Artur—Jesus—you don't have to—"
He looked up at her, dark eyes intense. "I want to."
And then he went back to work.
He was methodical about it. Focused. Learning what made her gasp, what made her thighs shake, what made her grab his hair and pull.
"More," she panted. "Please, more!"
He added his fingers, curling them just right, and she came with a sharp cry, legs barely holding her up.
He caught her as she sagged, lifting her and carrying her to the bench.
"We should—someone might—"
"Oh." She laughed breathlessly. She pulled him down for another kiss, working his shorts open, wrapping her hand around him.
He groaned into her mouth.
"Clean. Tested last month."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He lined himself up and pushed in slowly—so slowly—watching her face, making sure she was okay.
"More," she demanded. "Don't you dare go gentle on me now..!"
He snapped his hips forward, filling her completely, and they both gasped.
"Like that," she panted. "Exactly like that, please, move!"
He found his rhythm, one hand braced on the bench beside her head, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, nails scraping down his back.
"Harder," she gasped. "Please, Artur, harder!"
He obliged, pounding into her with controlled intensity, hitting that perfect spot that made her see stars.
"I'm gonna—fuck, I'm gonna come! So hard!"
"Do it," he growled. "Come on my cock."
She shattered, clenching around him, and he followed seconds later, burying himself deep and spilling inside her with a broken groan.
They stayed like that for a moment, breathing hard, tangled together.
Then Gianna started laughing.
"Nothing. Just... so much for being calm and professional."
He smiled against her shoulder. "I'm very professional. I completed the assignment."
"No." He pulled back to look at her. "This was me losing control. For you."
Her expression softened. "Yeah?"
She kissed him—slower this time, sweeter. "Good. Because we have one more day of this partnership, and I have plans."
"Mhmm. And they all involve you losing control again. And again. And again."
He laughed—a real laugh, rare and genuine—and kissed her back.
The documentary came out three months later. "Breaking Barriers: Cross-Training in Modern MMA."
Gianna and Artur both did interviews about the experience, talking professionally about technique, mutual respect, learning opportunities.
What they didn't mention was that Gianna had flown to Dagestan twice already. That Artur had visited Texas three times. That they were together at every possible opportunity, racking up frequent flyer miles like it was a competition.
What they definitely didn't mention was the furious phone calls Khabib made to UFC headquarters, demanding to know which idiot official had approved including his fighter in "haram activities."
"It was just training!" the poor marketing coordinator had squeaked.
"JUST TRAINING?!" Khabib's voice had been loud enough that half the office heard it through the phone. "You put man and woman alone in room! For WEEK! What you think happens?!"
"They... learned from each other?"
"YES. THEY LEARNED. I SEE EXACTLY WHAT THEY LEARNED."
The coordinator had quietly updated his resume that night.
But Khabib didn't find out the full extent of what happened until two weeks after the documentary aired.
He'd gathered the team at the gym for a "meeting"—which everyone knew meant a lecture about maintaining their image and representing Dagestan with honor.
"The documentary is good," Khabib said, pacing. "Professional. Clean. This is how we do things. No drama. No—"
He stopped, staring at Amru.
Amru, who was sitting in the back corner, looking like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
"Amru," Khabib said slowly. "Why do you look guilty?"
"You look very guilty. Like man who stole something."
"I didn't steal anything—"
"Then why you can't look at me?"
The entire gym went silent.
Khabib's eyes narrowed. "You saw nothing... where?"
"So you saw nothing at nowhere. Very interesting." Khabib crossed his arms. "This nothing you saw at nowhere... was it in gym? During training week with Texas team?"
Amru's face went white. Then red. Then white again.
"Brother," he said weakly. "Can we not—"
"I WAS SLEEPING!" Amru blurted out. "I was taking nap in back room! I didn't mean to see anything! I didn't even see much! Just—just enough to know they were—that they weren't—"
He made a vague gesture that could have meant anything but definitely meant exactly what Khabib thought it meant.
"ARTUR?!" Usman looked delighted. "Our Artur?!"
"He actually did it?" Chanco was cackling. "I'm so proud!"
"With the Texas girl?!" Big Ank added. "The tiny one who looks like she could kill you?!"
"I KNEW IT!" Umar was grinning. "I knew something was happening! Did you see how he looked at her during that armbar sequence—"
"ENOUGH!" Khabib's voice cut through the chaos, "Where is Artur?!"
You could hear a pin drop. And then Amru offered, miserably:
"No." Khabib shook his head.
"He's going to see her. I think he like her, coach. Like really, really likes her."
And then Khabib inhaled. Exhaled. Run the palms of his hands over his face. And decided, for once in his life, to let it go.
