A/N: in the club, we are all emotionally unstable. After such a long break, Iâm back with this. Iâm still so into UFC and am active on TikTok but donât have any inspiration to write unfortunately.
Masterlist
The air is sticky and thick in the room. You cannot breath, every attempt causing your lungs to burn. Your skin is sweaty, shining and slippery. Your hair is sticking to your forehead and neck. Your eyes are filled with tears, your cheeks wet. Thereâs a thin line of drool flowing down from the corner of your mouth, your lips apart and tongue slightly sticking out. You know you are a mess, and you love the feeling more than you should.
Islamâs large hands are holding your hips as heâs bouncing you up and down on his thick cock like youâre a doll. Heâs on his knees on the bed, his head buried in the crook of your neck, and youâre riding him with the little strength you are left with. He is so big that you feel him in your belly, his tip kissing your cervix. His thickness stretches you out, making your legs quiver and your hole cream around him. Your breaths mix, your sobs are swallowed down by his kisses, he licks your tears and sweat, his arms wrapped around your body.
âLove me.â You beg. He is silent. He always is. Instead he kisses your temples, letting you slow down and just sit on his cock for a while. Feeling of being so full of him, feeling him with all your senses drives you over the edge, making you cum around him hard. As your head falls down to his muscly shoulder, Islam lays you down on the soft pillows, his large back muscles are like wall over you, a shadow falling over your face.
âYou are mine.â He whispers when youâre fully trapped under him. Or maybe he doesnât. You are not sure what is real and what is not at this point. He is going back and forth, back and forth, back and forth... His large hands roam over your body, like a wild horse that knows the field. He eats wherever he wants, he sleeps anywhere he likes, and he runs away anytime he pleases.
Islam looks down at you, his body pressed against yours. You hope that he hears your heart beats, and decides to stay at least this time. His green, glossy eyes are the most beautiful things you have ever seen. He presses his forehead against yours, his hips snapping hard into your loins, making it hurt, making you cum around him once again, covering your joined parts with your juices. You just lay there and take his poundings, letting him have anything he wants.
When he cums, he kisses you, his eyes closed and tongue dancing with yours. You cry as he kisses you so gentle, so tender, almost like he loves you. The feeling of him releasing his load into you is familiar, yet still the strangest feeling ever. He falls asleep on top of you, his body warm and heavy. You feel full of him still, even his softening cock keeps you full and stretched.
You know he will be gone when you wake up the next morning. There will be silence from him for some time, making you suffer and promise that you wonât see him ever again. Then he will call you, text you, send you pictures and gifts. He will come back and you will welcome him with open arms and legs. But Islam Makhachev will never be yours.
So you hug him, try to savour the moment with him as you force yourself to stay awake.
Misss yourrr Islamâs fan fics girlllđđ when are you posting a new oneee
End of March, I have 2 weeks off from college. I will update Aching Sound of Silence and post few Dark!Islam fics. Thank you for your patience guys. It makes me so happy that people actually like and wait for my fanfics.
In the mean time, feel free to chat to me about anything and check out my TikTok; makhachevgirll
Summary: Islam is back home after the victory and wants to show you his belt.
Warnings: unprotected p in v sex, creampie, breeding kink, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of already an existing child?, marriage, mentions of body changing, age gap implied (he calls reader âlittle wifeâ) yearning
Word count: 1.8k
A/N: Iâm kinda back but not really. Anyways wanted to post this on Valentineâs Day but I was at workđ no proofread, sorry for any mistakes
You watched Islamâs car pull up on the driveway. Watched the way he stopped the engine, collected his keys and phone from the passenger seat, then get off the car. His green eyes instantly found your figure at the window, a devilish smile appear on his lips as he just looked at your blushing cheeks for a moment, taking your breath away. He slowly went to the backseat to collect his bags, his movements, his pace only a little faster than a turtle. He knew what he was doing, making you wait and suffer without his presence few more moments before he started to walk towards the door.
You closed the curtains with a harsh move and started to run downstairs, your kitten heeled slippers echoing through the whole house. Your messy bun was about to fall off, one of the straps of your nightgown slipping off your shoulder, your skin already covered in a sheer layer of sweat even though you showered just this morning. You couldnât wait to see Islam.
It had been too long this time.
Before he left for his camp, you knew he was going to be away for few more weeks than usual camp time. He had to prepare more for this fight with Jack Maddalena. And it was worth it, you kept telling yourself when he won the second belt that night. It was worth it when he called you to tell you he did it for you, and your baby who was asleep in his crib, unaware of the success his father had. You were proud of your husband, but God, you missed him more than anything.
âIslam!â You threw yourself onto him the moment he entered the house, his bag dropping to ground. His now bigger and stronger arms wrapped around your body tight, pulling you into him more. You were surrounded with him again, your nervous system calming down for the first time in weeks as you pressed your nose onto his neck, inhaling his manly scent that made your thighs quiver.
âMissed this.â He whispered, his whole face buried in your shoulder, pressing you hard against his muscular body. You could already feel yourself get wet, and the satisfaction of being with him finally was hitting you.
You could not even remember all those nights you went to sleep imagining him, touching yourself picturing him yet not finding any joy in it and eventually give up on your fingers, just sleeping frustrated. You didnât want to remember those times you had the great urge to just call him, tell him how bad you needed him but stopped yourself, knowing that it would make things worse for him who was already stressed. You waited patiently for Islam, for your husband. And you were deserving a prize tonight.
You left a soft, warm kiss to his neck, making his whole body go still for a moment and gasp so quietly. His fingers pressed into your skin, making your neck and face burn in need. The kisses made a trail from his neck to his cheek, until your lips were on top of his.
âI need you.â You whispered, your mouth against his, your breaths mixing. He didnât say anything as he picked you up like you weighted nothing and just walked towards the dinner table in the living room. The only light in the room was the moon, the whole house swallowed down by the darkness of the night, your child sleeping deeply in his room, silence filling the walls.
It was just you and Islam in this moment. His hands that was caressing every inch of you, his lips that made your mouth agape as he kissed your shoulder, his longer beard that framed his handsome face tickling your neck, his huge body between your legs. He pulled back slightly and looked at you, the way your eyes were half lidded and filled with tears, showing him rawly how much you need him, the way your mouth open and waiting for his kisses, the way your legs wide open to make a room for him, your hard nipples under the nightgown visible to his eyes.
You heard him growl like an animal before he captured your lips. Your soft moans were the only sound in the living room as he kissed you deep and harsh. He was hungry for your taste, for you, and you wanted him to devour you. His hands found your hips as he kissed you, his tongue already in your mouth. The fingers that beat his opponent just a week ago was now claiming your body back, reminding you how intoxicating his touch was.
Your hands went under his grey top, fingers tracing over his abs and chest, trying to take his clothes off. He chuckled lightly at your poor attempt and just threw the piece of clothing away in seconds. You looked at his body, how bigger it looked now since he moved up a weight class, your mouth watering with the sight. And when you looked up to his eyes, he was looking at you the same.
His hands went over your wider hips, your strechmarks from the pregnancy and the your belly that was still slightly there. Your body was different but the way Islam looked at you, you could see that he loved the change. His fingers went to the straps of the nightgown, pushing them down and making your breasts spill out. His hands were on them immediately, your hard nipples against his palm as he pushed you down onto the table until you supported yourself only with your elbows.
Islamâs eyes didnât leave yours as he untied his beige cargo pants and pulled his boxers down. Your gaze dropped down to his cock, seeing him hard as rock and already leaking, the tip swollen and red. You were no different when he pulled your panties to side, your folds wet and hole clenching insanely around nothing, waiting to be filled with him. He pressed himself against your entrance, leaning onto you as he was still looking into your eyes without entering you yet. He waited, the moment too overwhelming for both of you as his tip was getting covered in your wetness, his forehead pressed against yours.
âPlease.â You pleaded, tears falling down your eyes at this point. You could see the tip of his nose and cheeks turning a rosy pink colour. He didnât make you wait any longer and pushed himself in slowly.
Islam was big, stretching you nice and open every time he fucked you, making you cream and cry around his cock. Your wetness sucked him in, deeper and deeper, until he was fully seated in you. Your juices were making his dick glisten under the moonlight, some of it dripping down to the table under you. The breaths were stuck in your lungs, unable to escape just like you were trapped under him, surrendering to him in every way possible. He breathed shakily as he held onto the table, trying his best to not to crash you. You could feel him twitch within your tight walls, the feeling putting a stupid smile on your face.
Islam kissed your smile softly, his smell making you dizzy. You wanted to freeze in this moment forever. Wanted this moment to be your dream every night you went to bed, and wanted his moment to be the last thing you saw before you died. Wanted this moment to be your heaven after you were dead.
âIâm home now.â He whispered and started to thrust back and forth, sending jolts of electricity through your muscles. Your head fell back, followed by his kisses on your neck as he fucked you slow and deep. Your legs were shaking, toes curling and fingers tight around your nightgown. You could not even moan as your body slowly remembered how it felt like to be fucked by Islam.
You could not wait to orgasm and do it all over again and again, until you could not walk anymore. Islam had inhuman strenght and stamina when it came to fucking his wife, just like fighting. And what was better than winning you after he won the belt? His hips went back and forth, pulling back until his tip was barely touching your entrance and pushing back until his dark, untrimmed pubic hair touched your swollen, throbbing clit. You felt like losing your mind, mouth starting drool when his finger tips found your clit. And your walls were tightening around him before he could even properly rub you.
You came hard around him, your whole body shaking. He held your waist, hips still going strong. He pulled you against him, his bare chest pressed against yours, skin to skin, mouth to mouth as he kept fucking you trough your orgasm.
âIâm gonna put another baby into you, since you missed me so much.â He said, making you gasp. You felt yourself clench with the thought. And you didnât protest as his thrusts got sloppier, his breaths quicker and eyes half lidded now.
âYou like it, donât you? Being swollen and round with my kids?â He asked. You could not even understand his words as you nodded, your brain mushy, pussy overstimulated. âYeah, of course you do. My little wife. â
His raspy voice, moans were echoing in your mind as his lips were against your ear. The whole table was shaking when he started to go faster, his hand covering your mouth to keep you silent. If Islam wasnât holding you with one of his arms, you would be falling down the table, your bones turning liquid with his thrusts. With your hands pressed against his chest, your whole face buried in the crook of his neck, his scent and skin filling all your senses, he came.
He pressed himself so deep into you that you felt the tip of his cock kissing your cervix, the sharp sensation making your vision go dark and squirt around him with a silent scream. He gasped, feeling your walls clench tight enough to cut blood flow to his dick as he was emptying himself into you. Thick, warm ropes of cum filled your insides, some of it spilling out as he thrusted lazily few more times.
And when both of you came back down to earth, Islam could not dare to pull out, his dick still twitching painfully in you. Yet both of you were so overstimulated that even moving slightly was making you wince. You felt him kiss your hairline and temple softly, inhaling the sweet scent of your shampoo.
âDo you wanna see my belt?â Islam asked, his usual, playful behaviour back. With your eyes closed, small drops of sweat flowing down your neck, and a stupidly wide smile on your face, you nodded against his chest.
Yes, you wanted to see the belt that kept him away from you so long and made him miss you so much that he fucked you like an animal in heat.
Summary: Khabib made a mistake years ago, leaving you and his love behind. He was sure that he was going to live in misery for the rest of his life until he happened to find you again. As his bestfriend, brother, Islam Makhachevâs fiancĂŠ, mother of his child.
Warnings: angst, hurt no comfort, mentions of sex, descriptions of sex, yearning, self-hate, non-con kissing, violent behaviour (slapping), religious guilt, panic attacks
A/N; hellooo, this is going to be last episode for some time. I have some exams and a mind fucking situationship :( hope you guys like it tho
âMaybe the blue tie was better.â Islam murmured under his breath as he fixed his tie again. Khabib looked at him from his seat. Looked at his black, ironed suit that fit him perfectly. His fresh haircut and trimmed beard, looking like every inch of a real man. He got up and walked towards Islam, taking the tie from him and fixing it properly.
âNo, black one is good.â Khabib said as he stood behind Islam, looking at him trough the reflection. Islam took a big, nervous breath, his eyebrows tight. It was his wedding day. It was your wedding day. Khabib hadnât see you since the day he handed Murad back you in Islamâs farmhouse and realised once again that he had lost you forever. He helped Islam with wedding preparations, went to choose his wedding suit and decorated his car. But he made sure to stay away from anything and anywhere that you mightâve been.
But of course, he could not run away from your wedding. Now, there he was, helping his friend to get ready to say âI doâ and watch you officially be his.
âAre you happy, brother?â Khabib couldnât help but ask. Maybe this was his own way of torturing himself, making things worse, as if they werenât the at their worst. Islam looked away from his eyes for a moment before he smiled widely.
âI never thought I would fall in love. But I did. And now I am marrying the woman I fell in love with.â He said, the joy and excitement in his voice, turning around, facing Khabib now.
âI am so happy.â He whispered, as if saying it out loud was going to ruin everything. Khabib looked at Islamâs dark green eyes for a moment, seeing his own reflection, seeing a man so low and prisoner to his own desires. How could he be this selfish kissing you like that? No matter what happened with you in the past, he had no right to betray Islam like this.
âThen I am also happy.â Khabib said, pulling Islam into a tight hug, their arms wrapping around one another. He thought he heard Islam sniff for a short moment, but did not dare to pull away, as Khabibâs own eyes were also filled with tears. The guilt was too much. He could not tell if this was the guilt of leaving you or betraying his brother with the feelings he still had in his heart. Or if this was the guilt of not being a good husband and loving someone that wasnât his wife. Khabib was torn apart, not even able to place his guilt into one thing when he was full of mistakes.
âCan you check if sheâs ready? We have to go soon.â Islam finally pulled away and said, turning the other way to hide his tears from Khabib. He just nodded, even though Islam wasnât looking and left the small grooms room.
Brideâs room wasnât far away. As he walked down the hallway of the wedding venue, he saw Abubakar and his father Aldulmanap walking out of the main area, their faces clearly troubled. Before Khabib could call them, they were already outside. He decided to talk to them after seeing you.
He knocked on the door when he was in front of the brideâs room, waiting for an answer for a while. As he was about to knock again, you answered, breathless and looking nervous than ever. He looked inside expecting to see many women there with you only to see nobody. His eyes found your dress that was down to the ground with a large tail behind, long-sleeved and high neck-lined dress was covered in lace. Your veil was dropping down from the crown of your head, your hair tied in a bun at the back. You looked like a fresh drop of rain on a drought day, a blossoming flower in spring, the sunshine he remembered from his childhood. He felt his breathing stop as he looked at you. You were truly breathtaking.
âWhat?â You asked as you walked back, leaving him there standing. He wondered if he shouldâve stayed at the entrance as he stepped inside, closing the door behind. He watched as you sat down on the vanity chair, trying to control your breathing.
He wondered what you wouldâve looked like if it was him that you were marrying today. Would you have choose another wedding dress, something more extravagant perhaps? Surely, as it wouldâve been a bigger ceremony. He remembered his own wedding, all the guests, people he didnât even know, hours long celebration, the music, the noise, a woman he didnât know beside him, you on his mind.
âIs this what you really wanted?â He asked, suddenly, without even thinking, making you look at him. He took a step foward yet stopping himself immediately. He knew you didnât want him anywhere near you anymore, making him understand very clearly last time.
âIf it wasnât, why would I be here?â You responded with a question, making him sigh.
âDo you love Islam?â Khabib asked another question. This was something he thought about from the moment he saw you at the airport. He wondered if you really loved him, truly cared about him. Because if he knew that you did, he would fall silent for the rest of his life. Even if it hurt him deeply, even if it killed him slowly watching you love another man, he would do it for his friend, for you.
âIslam is rich, young and handsome. Any womanâs dream.â You said, not looking at his eyes anymore. Your gaze remained on the carpet floor of the room. Khabibâs heart sizzled, remembering Islamâs face from minutes ago, his joy and the way he was in love with you. You did not love him, no. Then why were you here?
âBut do you love him?â He asked again, his voice louder and angrier this time. You chuckled, shaking your head. He watched you get up slowly and walked towards him. You stopped few steps away and looked into his eyes, disgust clear in your gaze.
âYou left me unable to love anyone.â You hissed, making him unable to look anywhere but your eyes. âYou made me think that I found the love of my life, only to realise that it was the mistake of my life.â
Your voice was low, almost like a whisper. The weight of your words though, heavier than anything Khabib ever lifted. He felt like all the world was on his shoulders, crashing him down. He was not just your heartbreak anymore, he was your mistake. His jaw clenched, anger and sorrow filling his heart every moment he looked into your eyes.
âSo thatâs why you are here. To take revenge from me. And you are using Islam to do this.â He hissed back, his voice raspy and coming from the back of his throat. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe you werenât so innocent after all. You clearly were not the girl he left behind years ago. Your love had faded away, long gone. Your heart was filled with rage and hatred towards him.
âMaybe not just Islam, but you are using all of us.â He said, making your eyes widen. He took a step forward, his nose touching yours. The closeness was making him dizzy again, making him remember the feeling of your lips. There wasnât a moment he didnât remember it in the last three months.
âIs it money or fame? What is it that made you come all this way here? If you hated me so much, why did you accept to see me for a life?â You just looked at him as he spoke, his face turning red with anger and desperateness. Then a small, fragile smile appeared on your lips.
âIslam is worth seeing you for the rest of our lives. He is a better man in every way.â You whispered, your smile widening as you walked passed him.
Khabib felt his blood pressure coming up, his heart hurt within his chest. His brain froze, unable to think or understand what you had said. Your sweet scent filled his nose as you walked passed him, your words pouring down his head like boiling water, burning him. He felt cold, as if his whole body just stopped functioning, his heart not pumping blood anymore, or his bones hold him up.
Before you could leave the room, he found himself pressing you against the door, his face inches away from yours, his veins on neck and temples visible with his quick breaths. His eyes were wide, no emotion peaking out, just pure terror.
âWhat did you just say?â He held your arms tight enough to make you whimper in pain. No matter how much you tried to push him away, it was like his brain was shut down. It wasnât him looking at you in this moment, it was an animal looking at its prey.
âYou heard me clear. Do you want me to explain in what ways heâs better?â You said, still smiling and keeping your voice down. Khabibâs face went blank, his hold softening. He didnât say anything as you looked at him one last time and just left the room, leaving him there.
He didnât know how long he stood in front of the door like that, his chest heavy, his tears just flowing down his face. He wanted to throw up. This wasnât you that said those words, no. This wasnât the girl that would cry just looking at his eyes, blush with his simple touch. His head was filled with questions. Did you sleep with Islam and got pregnant right after he left? Or you knew him even before Khabib left? He felt the little food he ate come up to his mouth, burning his throat.
When he was walking again, not knowing the time, he heard it.
âI do.â Your sweet, gentle voice coming to his ears through the walls. Then the cheers and clapping. He leaned against the wall, his whole body breaking down. His head was buzzing, ears ringing as music started to play. He felt hot, his body burning but his feet and hands freezing. His eyes were burning, his throat dry as a desert. Khabib was sure he was going to die.
âKhabib!â His fatherâs voice came from somewhere far away, his head not staying up as he sank down to the floor. His body was shaking, not able to control his limbs anymore.
He felt hands on him, multiple, pulling him up, holding his arms and upper body to keep him on his feet. They walked him somewhere, holding him tight, not letting go. He felt himself lay down, a pillow under his head, his fatherâs voice echoing in his head as people were just walking around in the small room he was in.
Then the voices came to an end. He only heard his fatherâs breathing. His hands on his head, caressing his hair and face with love. And for the first time in years, he cried out loud. Sobs and cries left his mouth, mumbling things, clenching his hands and eyes.
âTell me what happened.â He heard his father speak, his body hugging him, his head pressed against his chest.
âI am a horrible man!â He sobbed, his tears not stopping. âHorrible son, father, husband, friend.â
âI made a big mistake, father. I sinned.â He confessed, not even knowing what he said. His dad stayed silent until his crying was over.
âTurn to Allah, my son. Allah is the only way. Your pain will go away if you give it to him.â His fatherâs voice soothed him, allowing him to take deep breaths finally. âI donât want to know your sin, keep it to yourself. Itâs between you and him.â He said, his finger pointing up.
Khabib slowly sat up on the couch they laid him on. He was in a small room with only few chairs and a wardrobe. For a moment, he just sat there, his tears drying on his cheeks and his body turning to normal. What even was that? Did he just have his first panic attack or got possessed by a jinn?
âThereâs a problem.â His father spoke once he was fixing his clothes. âAmir took the money you gave him.â
âI gave it to him so he can take it, yes.â He said as he got up, walking to the old mirror on the wardrobe. He looked like he just got out of a car accident. Abdulmanap ignored his sonâs mocking tone as he continued speaking.
âHe left the country. No payment was done to debt collectors.â
You hate Khabib Nurmagomedov. And you want nothing more than him.
People call him the legend, undefeated, undisputed, the GOAT, The Eagle. He is all these names when he is in front of the cameras. A humble, hardworking man of God. The way he presents himself, the way he knows how to sell himself in private rooms where all the rich men surround him and shower him with attention. He is the most clever and sneaky man you have ever met with. He is so clever that it scares you and makes you wet.
When he talks, you feel like dying inside and wanting to taste his blood. There is something about his confidence that interests you. And when he looks at you, you feel naked under his intense gaze. He looks at you and sees all your flaws and imperfections. He sees everything you hide well from others. And the way he doesnât even need to try vexes you.
The first time you speak, under dim lights of the restaurant terrace, the summer winds makes your hair flow around, carrying your scent to his nose. He smiles like he already knows what you are about to say every single time you open your mouth. His eyes are fixated on your lips, your eyes are on his fingers. You both seek one thing from one another, everything the other one possesses.
For months, he is everywhere you go and you are in his eye view all the time. The teasing is very much there, almost like a flame that burns everything in between two of you. But none of you is willing to give in first. He is too prideful and cocky, you are too stubborn and annoying. He watches you dance with someone your age in one of the events, you had too much to drink and too much bravery that night. He watches the way the younger manâs hands are going down you waist and the way you are looking at him and him only. Khabib is the only one you see in the room.
After a moment, you push your dance partner away, stumbling your way out of the venue. Your heels are killing you, your dress is sticking to your damp skin, your hair makes you suffocate at this point. Your mind is full of him. So when he finds you in the corridor, holding onto the walls, he doesnât waste time to drag you away from the eyes of all those hungry men. He doesnât touch you that night, no he is not that kind of a man. He is an asshole but not in that way. Still, he makes it obvious that you are his now.
Being his doesnât automatically mean being happy in Khabibâs world. He doesnât stay long, he doesnât call or text. He disappears for weeks, leaving you alone to watch his instagram stories. He doesnât notify you when he comes back. But when he is back, God, you think, itâs worth it.
The way he fucks you, makes you understand how strong these fighter men are. His grip is tight, bruising your skin and makes you cry. Nothing is sweeter than the pain Khabib gives you. His kisses are intense, doesnât allow you to breath as his mouth conquers you. When he is on top of you, your legs pressed against your ears at this point, he pounds you like itâs nothing. He fucks you for hours like itâs a warmup for him, just driving his thick cock into you.
The way he streches you out makes your eyes tear up every single time. No matter how many times Khabib fucks you, you never get use to his size. His tip is enough to make you come but he doesnât leave it there. As your head is buried in the pillows, his nose against your hair, inhaling your scent, and his arm is locked around your neck, his thick, bulky bicep is restricting your airflow, he pushes deeper into you. He doesnât stop until his large, heavy balls are pressed against your wet folds, barely touching your clit and driving you mad.
âThis bodyâŚâ he whispers as you are laying on the bed after he decides to give you some rest, his fingers are tracing over your curves. You feel like crying as he leaves soft kisses down your chest, his warm breath makes your nipples sore with need. When he burries his face between your legs, his whole face on your pussy, sucking and licking you as if itâs his last day on earth. He suffocates himself with you until your thighs are shaking around his head.
You wake up in the middle of the night, he is not beside you. You see him at the balcony of your small room, on the phone with someone you will never know. It could be his manager Ali, one of the business partners from Dubai, his wife, or someone you couldnât even guess. You watch him as he ends the phone call and walks back to the bed, his eyes never leaving yours as he lays behind you. His hands are on you instantly, finding their way back to where they belong. He kisses your neck, his lips cold and one of his hands hold your leg to raise it up. He stretches your hamstring until your knee is pressed against your boob, making you wince with sudden move. He is pressed against you, hard as before. And before you even know, he is slipping into your warmth. You are so sensitive that your pussy is puffy and cries around him. You take him in until his balls are resting against your inner legs, skin slapping filling the room again. He is gentle, and so painfully slow that you cry into the pillows. He is just warming his cock with your pretty, poor pussy and fucks you back into the sleep.
Then you donât hear from him for few more weeks.
Next time he is back, you are hungry, starving for him. Touching yourself while watching his old fights isnât enough. You need him to fight with you in that bed and knock you out. So the moment he is in your bedroom, in your sacred place, you get on top of him. He watches you sit down on his cock like you were born for it. His eyes never leaves the way your pussy swallows his thickness until youâre fully seated on his leaking dick. You think he might have a heart attack as you start to bounce. It would be funny to see headlines, âKhabib Nurmagomedov died in his secret girlfriendâs bed!â
When you are on top, he reaches places deeper in you, making your body burn. Your legs grow tired but you cannot stop bouncing on top of him. Your juices are covering his inner legs and balls. All you want is him, forever and ever. You hate missing him, hate not having him all to yourself. You hate the fact that you have to share him with everyone in the world. With his wife and children, his gym and training, the competitions, the media, fuck sake even his best friend Islam who is always with him. You feel yourself go mad when he reaches and start to play with your puffy, throbbing clit.
You hate the fact you are addicted to Khabib. When heâs not here, and youâre out with your friends, making out with some random men, pretending theyâre him makes you wanna throw up. You sleep thinking about him, waking up with him on your mind. You hate him for making you feel insane.
âHave all of me.â You say breathlessly, still bouncing on him. Tears flow down your cheeks, making him sit up and wrap his arms around you. He tells you something about slowing down but youâre not hearing him. His face is pressed against yours, his beard tickles, his warm breath is on your skin.
âI already have all of you.â He says and your world collapses. Your body shakes and you cry out his name like a prayer. He knows he has you, everything about you. In return, you must also get something. Itâs only fair this way.
âGive me a baby.â You say as you keep bouncing on his cock. Your words makes him twitch in your tight, wet walls. âMake me the mother of your child.â
His eyes go half-lidded, dark with desire and the danger of your proposal. He knows he shouldnât do it. He should never leave a piece of himself behind after a mess. But God, the way you are asking, the way your tits are bouncing in front of his face leaves him breathless, the way your walls clench around him, your pussy speaking to him with every single thrust, the way you are so beautiful and open for him, from your heart to your legs. He looks at your teary eyes, your lips pursed, and your cheeks red. You look like you are dying for him to get you pregnant.
So he gives you what you want. He cums inside you, his strong hands hold your hips and press you down on his cock until his pubic hair tingles your clit, his tip kissing your cervix, shooting thick ropes of his come inside. He is a healthy man, you know his seed will take. In few weeks, you will take a pregnancy test, and it will be two lines. His child will grow in you. You hope that despite the gender, he or she looks like him, proving that he put a baby in you, showing everyone that he belongs to you and you to him.
Next morning, he is still in your bed when you wake up, his load leaking out of you, making a mess between your legs. You feel the pride of having Khabib Nurmagomedov, making him surrender as sun rises and warms your bruised, sticky skin.
Summary: Khabib made a mistake years ago, leaving you and his love behind. He was sure that he was going to live in misery for the rest of his life until he happened to find you again. As his bestfriend, brother, Islam Makhachevâs fiancĂŠ, mother of his child.
Warnings: angst, hurt no comfort, mentions of sex, descriptions of sex, yearning, self-hate, non-con kissing, violent behaviour (slapping), religious guilt
A/N: a filler episode honestly, not much going on. But next few chapters are gonna be fireeee
A week later Islam announced your wedding date, Khabib found himself at Islamâs farm at the countryside. His children, every close friend from gym, his dad, Islamâs whole family were there.
The day started early. He picked up Zubaira and Abubakar, his children at the back seat as he drove to the farm he knew like the back of his hand. When they had arrived, his eyes found the unfamiliar car that was parked at the front. It was Amirâs. Khabib couldnât help but frown as he walked inside.
Women were in the kitchen, preparing for lunch. As he sent his kids to the kitchen, next to other children, he looked around. You were not there. He shook his head, trying to focus on anything other than you. But his mind was keep going back to the moment he kissed in the forest, the feeling of your lips on his own, the warmth, the aching of his heartâŚ
Islam, his father Abdulmanap and Islamâs father were sitting with Amir in front of them, listening as the man spoke. When he entered with Zubaira and Abubakar behind him, all eyes were turned to them. Amir got up, seeing Khabib approach.
âAs-salamu alaykum.â Khabib said as Amir shook his hand tight, an unusual smile on the manâs face.
âWa-alaykumu s-salam.â Khabib sat down, other guys finding themselves somehwhere to sit. Amir was looking at him with a nervous face, as if he had something to say, but could not find the voice to do so.
âWe are not use to see you here.â Khabib spoke, earning nods and noises of approval from all the men in the room. He made eye contact with his father for a moment, where a knowing look was exchanged. Amir was here to ask for a favour.
âNo, no. I just cannot find time to be around.â Amir said, his dark eyebrows up with an exaggerated expression. He was playing with his hands, picking his nails and looking around all the time.
âIs there a problem that made you come all this way?â Khabib finally asked, not wanting to waste anymore time. Amir looked up, his face troubled. He nodded slowly, trying to find the right words to tell his issue.
âI need to borrow some money.â His voice was low, uncertain. He looked ashamed, almost making Khabib smile. The great businessman who looked down at all of them once upon a time was now asking for money from them. God, you know how to turn someoneâs life upside down, Khabib thought. You did it with me.
âHow much?â
â2 million dolars.â A noise of shock and disapproval was raised in the room. Each men started to talk about how much money he was asking for and why they should give it in the first place. Khabib bit the inside of his cheek, looking away from Amir.
This was in fact so much money. And giving it to someone like Amir who was known to be the a money hungry man made him feel uneasy. But they had to remember, if others didnât, Khabib himself had to remember how much Amir helped them when no one knew who he was. He had to remember the times he paid for their plane tickets and hotels in America, or when he paid for the acedemy building, became their sponsor. He could not forget all these things now.
âWe have been paying for all the bills, food, transportation and all those other things of the camp from our pocket for last few months. And you are still asking for money from Khabib?â His father Abdulmanap spoke, his calm voice silencing everybody.
âIf I didnât need it so much, I wouldnât be here.â Amir said, his voice and shield finally breaking. âItâs a matter of life and death.â
Everyone fell silent after his words. Khabib could remember Islam talking about Amir being in debt to dangerous men. Cleary he was threatened with his life. What choice did he have? He knew what kind of things those men could do to one. Khabib just could not let them kill him. Plus, they would cause problem to them after they were done with Amir. They were not after death, they were after their money.
âI will give the money.â Khabib said, making everyone look at him. There was a clear relief and gratitude on Amirâs face. Khabib had to feel like a better person somehow, in one way or another. So helping someone with debt might work, he thought.
After Amir had left, they sat down for lunch. The men were eating in the big dining hall that was facing the open field where the horses were roaming free. As the lunch was served by women, his eyes looked for you helplessly. Clearly you were avoiding any place that he could be. How could he blame you? His sons and Murad were playing together, alongside Umarâs eldest son. The children, unaware of the tension between the adults, were having fun. He wished to go back to his childhood, where there was no bad blood, no sins or betrayal.
Islam was first to leave the lunch table and grab the kids to ride horses outside. Khabib was behind them, following them unwillingly. Even though horse riding was a passion of Islam since some time now, Khabib could never bring himself to like it as much as his friend. He loved the silence, the loneliness of his mountain cabinet. He loved having no concept of time or responsibility up on the mountains. No one to explain himself or no one to return. It was just him, and you on his mind. A sacred time.
As he took his horse out of the farmhouse, his sons Magomed and Huseyn behind him as his daughter chose to stay inside. All the children were amazed by the great size of the beautiful animals, running around and caressing their fur with shaky hands.
âBe careful, love.â Your voice echoed in the empty field where wind blowing around was the only sound. His head turned around fast enought to break his neck, his hazel eyes finding you standing next to Islam who was holding Murad in his arms.
âI got him a foal, even before I got the plane tickets.â Islam said, half laughing as he spoke. A big, pretty smile was on your face, eyes locked with Islamâs, listening to his words just like the way you used to listen to Khabib. He turned back to his horse, his children now playing with each other.
You and Islam were in love with each other, in front of his eyes.
âWould you like to see him Murad?â Islam asked, as he started to walk towards the farmhouse with the boy in his arms, leading his own horse back. You were left outside alone.
Zubaira and Abubakar were with his and Islamâs father, checking Islamâs gun collection in the house. Umar and Usman were far away in the field, riding their own horses. He looked at you, your hair wild in the sharp winter wind, your eyes glossy from the cold, tip of your nose and cheeks flushed, arms wrapped around yourself to keep your body warm.
âYou will catch a cold.â He whispered as he wrapped the blanket around your shivering body, his arms wrapping around you alongside the thin fabric.
âYou will keep me warm.â You said, making him smile against you. Khabibâs lips traced over the skin of your neck, breathing in your scent that made him feel tingly all over. Life with you was peaceful. Life with you was full of love. Life with you made him feel like his real self. He looked at the view of your balcony, city lights in the alive Friday night and the chaos. With you, he was on another world.
âAlways.â He whispered, a hint of sadness in his voice that you chose to ignore. The moment wasnât of sadness, nor the upcoming days. Every moment with Khabib was to be savoured.
Khabib felt his eyes get blurry as the sweet memory of you faded away, only you standing by yourself in the harsh wind remaining in front of him. He had broken his promise. You were out in the cold and he wasnât keeping you warm. As if you felt his sadness, heard him cursing at himself, you turned around, making eye contact with him.
He didnât dare to take a step towards you, you didnât want to walk to him again. Two human beings with so much history just stood there, eyes never leaving one another. Khabib was lost in your eyes, drowning and suffocating. Oh but how sweet the taste of death was with you. Could he imagine a better way to go than looking into your eyes as the last breath left his body?
âMurad!â Islamâs scream filled the whole field suddenly, making both of you look towards the farmhouse door where the young foal was running with your son on his back. Islam was behind them, trying to reach the baby horse but the pace of the animal was too fast for him.
You started to run, alongside Khabib who made his way to Murad. But the foal and the little boy left his sight in short moments, getting far away from all of you and running fast into the forest.
âIslam!â You were crying as you reached Islam, causing him to try to assure you that Murad was going to be alright. Khabib looked around to see his sons, standing not so far away. The noises had made Umar and Usman come back, and everyone in the house look out of the windows and balcony.
âUmar, take them inside.â He said loudly, pointing at his sons as he got on his horse. The fierce animal started to run with his command, not letting anyone say anything further. He passed you and Islam who just had seen what he was doing. When he looked back over his shoulder, he felt his heart ache with the sight of your scared but hopeless eyes.
As he was going deeper into the forest, he called out Muradâs name. There was no way the foal was going to go too far before it got tired. The important thing was if Murad got hurt.
âMama!â He heard the weak, scared voice of your son, making him stop at his spot. As he followed the low cries of Murad, he found the child on the ground, sitting and holding his right ankle, the baby horse no where to be seen.
âDida!â He was crying for Islam, for his dad. Khabib felt a lump in his throat as he got off his horse and approached the little kid. Even though his presence startled Murad at first, the boy melted into his arms instantly, his cries getting louder. His glossy hazel eyes looking just like Khabibâs childhood pictures.
âDida!â He cried out again, making Khabib tear up with the thought of the pain Murad mustâve been feeling, the fear he felt as he fell of the horse.
âHere, my boy.â He whispered, caressing his hair that was just like yours. Maybe that was the reason his heart was soft towards this child; Murad was a part of you, part of the only woman he ever loved. âI am here.â
He wrapped his arms tight around Muradâs little body, carrying him to the horse. And on the way back, as Murad fell asleep on his chest, his little hands wrapped around Khabibâs arm, he mourned the fact that he would never be the father of your children. The mourned the years he had without you and the years he was to have without you. He mourned the moments he felt joy that didnât come from you. He mourned his love for you.
And the mourned the fact that the grateful look you gave him as he handed your son to you was the only moment you didnât feel hatred and disgust towards him.
You're an amazing writer!!! I love this khabib/islam series
THANK YOU SO MUCH𼺠Aching Sound of Silence is actually so important for me. Itâs the first time Iâm writing multiple chapters for a story and seeing people actually liking it motives me a lotđŠđ
Summary: Islam has a secret of his own. A secret that he cannot let go or fully give himself to.
Warnings: DARK!Islam, cheating, unprotected sex, creampie, non-con!creampie?, pregnancy, guilt, religious guilt, age gap, power dynamics, kinda breeding kink?
Word count: 935
A/N: I canât lie, I loved writing dark!Islam :(let me know your thoughts plsss.
Masterlist
His sin. His shame. His desire.
Thatâs what you were. Someone younger than him, naive and innocent. Someone that didnât know what love was, and have come to learn it in his dark green eyes.
From the first eye contact to first touch or the first âI love youâs, you were smitten by Islam Makhachev. You fell in love with him in the first sight, your heart skipping a beat, your knees going weak. And for Islam, it was much more different.
He loved the way you looked at him with those beautiful eyes, under your eyelashes. He loved the way you clinged onto his arm, hands always reaching out to him as if he was your salvation. He loved the way you sent pictures in the lingerie sets he got you. He loved the way you were willing to do anything for him, and did so. You became his little secret, keeping your mouth shut just to please him.
When he was in Dagestan, at home with his kids and wife, you were at the back of his mind. You truly never left his thoughts, always haunting him down, awake or asleep. His heart ached when he looked at his wife, wondering why he was such a piece of shit to do something like this to both of you. But it didnât stop him from leaving his marital bed in the middle of the night and stroke himself in the toilet with a picture of you on his phone until his legs were shaking, his thick load spilling on his thighs.
You traveled with him when he went to different countries for his fights. Those 45 days where he had you waiting in the hotel room at the end of the day were maybe the only time he felt free. Only few people knowing your existence gave him relief, allowing him to relax in your arms. And his mind was only full of you when he entered your tight pussy, your eyes filled with tears, heart beating fast against his chest.
He would fuck you so hard that next day you wouldnât be able to walk. He didnât know why he was so harsh with you. A part of him loved the way you melted in his hands, offering your body and soul to him, allowing him to fold you in ways that stretched you beyond limits, letting him fuck you again and again. And another part of him wanted to take his anger out of you. Every time he kissed you, his tongue tasted you, he felt guilt and shame creep into his heart. He hated himself for being so weak against you. Physically, he could squeeze the life out of you, but when it came to his heart, he was conquered by your smile.
He hated the fact that he could not stop thinking about you, even when you lay beside him, sleeping soundly. He could not sleep a wink, just watching your chest rise and fall slowly, wondering if he could live without you. And the answer being ânoâ made him wanna beat himself to death. He wanted to go to Khabib, tell him everything, knowing that Khabib would be glad to beat some sense into him.
But the shame was so big that he could not even pray anymore. He was too ashamed to come into Godâs presence, ask for forgiveness and a way out. It was just you and you only.
He was selfish to do this to you as well. You were so helplessly in love with him that you didnât even care about your own reputation or honour. He could see you happily married with kids, a dream that could never be true as long as he was in your life. And Islam was too possessive to actually let you go. He wondered if he could stop doing this when you finally came to your senses at some point and decided to leave this fucked up situation. The idea of you being with another man made his blood boil instantly.
So when you were so lost in pleasure, head buried in the pillows as his thick cock stretched you out, his mind was filled with the most vile thought ever. After convincing you to fuck without a condom, telling a lie about it giving him a rash, promising to pull out, he held your hips with his strong hands, fingertips leaving marks on your skin. He pushed deep into you, making you scream out his name and clench around him. And when you realised he was close but still not pulling out, you tried to push him away, hands arching back to hold his arms. He ignored your pleas, holding you tighter, hips snapping back and forth, and finally burying himself deep enough, reaching your cervix. He felt tears fill his eyes when he came inside, hearing your moans and pleas slow down, your pussy clenching around his cock, milking him to the very last drop and drying his balls.
When he lay beside you, he could only imagine the way his load would be dripping out of you in that moment, your poor, pretty, beaten pussy clenching hard to keep every drop inside. Every moment in your heaven was bringing him closer to hell. He thought of it the most when he was looking at your text messages, telling him you took a pregnancy test and it was positive. A sense of pride filled him as well as terror. He didnât know what to do, only wanting to be with you again and fuck you until he forgot his name.
He locked his phone as his children climbed onto his lap, showing him the drawings they made, unaware of their half sibling growing inside their fatherâs secret.
Summary: Khabib made a mistake years ago, leaving you and his love behind. He was sure that he was going to live in misery for the rest of his life until he happened to find you again. As his bestfriend, brother, Islam Makhachevâs fiancĂŠ, mother of his child.
Warnings: angst, hurt no comfort, mentions of sex, descriptions of sex, yearning, self-hate, non-con kissing, violent behaviour (slapping), religious guilt
A/N: phew this is a long chapter. Let me know your guys opinions in the comments pleaseeeeee ;3 and what a week for ufc fandomđ How would you guys feel about Dark!Islam smut btw?
In three months you and Islam were getting married.
It was going to be a small ceremony, you nor Islamâs parents wanted to get so much attention from the public after everyone already learned about the situation. People talked, a lot in fact. When Khabib was out in Makhachkala, he heard whispers about you and Islam, as if they were testing his patience and his self control. He wanted to shut all of them up, his palms itching to put his hands on their faces the moment they opened their mouth to say something bad about you. But it wasnât his place. Nothing about you was his place anymore.
Even though it was going to be a simple ceremony, you still needed to get ready and prepare for it. So you, Islamâs mother, Umarâs wife and his own wife went onto shopping for the wedding. You left your son with Islam as you joined the women in the other car. Khabib wondered what you thought when you learned his wife was going to be there today? Were you jealous like he was? Did you have questions like he did? Or you did not care about anything that was related to him in any shape or form?
Khabibâs eyes were on the road as Zubaira and Usman were making Murad laugh at the backseat, showing him the city outside as Khabib drove to a cafe that wasnât so far away from the shopping mall. Islam was at the front seat, his sonâs laughs making him smile and look back constantly. Everyone was happy, feeling joy, excitement for the new beginning. The man he loved more than himself, his brother was getting married. And God knows, Islam was happy. Happier than Khabib ever saw him.
But why Khabib could not share his joy? He felt low, not deserving Islamâs respect nor love which he knew Islam had plenty for his older brother. It was a fact that he saw Islam more than his own family, growing up together, being together at school and the gym, traveling together. Islamâs happiness had always been his happiness, except this time.
When they sat down at a corner table in the cafe, Zubaira was already playing with Murad, showing him funny videos in his phone, keeping the boy entertained. Khabib looked at the littlle child, every inch of his face a copy of you, to an extent that Usman joked about how Islamâs genes didnât even try. It was only his eyes that no one spoke of. The eyes that were carved onto Khabibâs mind at this point. The eyes that he saw in the mirror for the last 30 years of his life.
âHave you spoke to Amir lately?â Khabib was pulled out of his though bubble with Islamâs voice. He turned to look at him, seeing him still watching Murad.
âNo. Why?â He asked, confused about the question. Amir Gazimagomedov was the financier of their mixed martial arts academy where Khabib and all his friends were trained by his father Aldulmanap. Amir wasnât around most of the time, only appearing when there was a victory or a loss, to congratulate or to scold, something Khabib personally never experienced.
âApparently he is in trouble.â Islam said, his eyes finally finding Khabib once Muradâs chocolate cake arrived and the boy started to eat with excitement.
âWhat kind?â He couldnât help but ask. He was usually first one to hear such a things, seen as the second leader in the gym after his dad. He realised how occupied his mind was with you lately, to an extent that he hadnât heard about the troubles in their business.
âHe is messing with wrong people I heard. In debt to very dangerous men.â Islam whispered, knowing that the walls had ears in Makhachkala. Khabib wondered if this dirty business was going to touch them at some point. That would be bad, considering the fact that their academy had a reputation, not just in Russia but around the whole world. Their motto was producing strong, undefeated fighters with clean backgrounds. So having someone as their financier who was in debt to mafia wouldnât look so good when it came to professional ranks.
âIâll talk to him.â Khabib responded, his eyes finding Murad again.
âDida!â The boy shouted, trying to reach Islam. âI want mama.â He continued when Islam sat him on his knee.
âI know, my boy. Mama is busy but she will come soon.â Islam assured Murad who was getting fussy without you. Khabib couldnât help but feel jealousy blossom within his heart again. It was supposed to be him in Islamâs place, holding your son, being his father. He looked at Murad, making eye contact with him for a moment. The boy smiled at him, melting his heart within a second, his youthful smile reminding the first time you smiled at Khabib, making a lump appear on his throat.
Even though chocolate cake seemed to work for a while, Murad got fussier, not wanting to eat or sit still anymore. Islam decided to take him home, guessing that he needed a nap. After they finished their teas, Murad said his goodbye to his new favourite uncle Zubaira who was equally smitten by the boy. Usman and Zubaira were off to a training session. Usman had said that Umar already picked up his own wife before joining them two at the gym. So it was up to Khabib to pick up you, his wife and Islamâs mother.
He sent a message to his wife, asking whether they were ready to leave, only for her to say that she was already at home, not wanted to leave their children with their grandparents any longer. He took a deep, troubled breath as he drove to the shopping mall, trying hard to not let his thoughts take over him. When he had arrived, he saw you and Islamâs mother sitting at the balcony of one of the cafes with dozens of shopping bags surrounding both of you.
âAh, Khabib.â Islamâs mother said as she got up from her seat and picked up some of the bags, making her way towards him. You followed her shortly behind, keeping your head low, not giving him a chance to see your eyes. As three of you got seated in the car, Islamâs mother at the front and you at the back, Khabib drove off.
âKhabib, I need you to drop me off at Aishaâs fabric shop first. You remember where it is, donât you?â Islamâs mother said, making both you and him look at her suddenly. âAfter take her home.â She said, looking back at you.
âI can come with you.â You argued, your voice sounding colder than ever. Islamâs mother shook her head, protesting.
âNo, no. Islam said Murad wanted you. You go home and take care of him. I will be fine.â She ended the conversation as Khabib kept his eyes on the road. He could already feel his palms get sweaty with anxiety.
Shortly after, they were in front of the fabric shop. Islamâs mother said a quick goodbye and got out of the car, disappearing into the shop within moments.
For a moment you and him just sat there, in silence that was making his throat dry. Before he even opened his mouth, you switched seats, sitting at the front. Khabib just looked at you, putting on your seat belt, and keeping your eyes forward, not even paying attention to his clear gaze on you. He looked away with failure, just starting the engine and driving away.
It was half an hour from city centre to Islamâs house. That was all he got. Half an hour with you where you were stripped off from the names and roles you had. For that half an hour he could just pretend to be in a dream, where it was just you and him. As the tall buildings of the city faded away into forests and mountains, the silence was still there. He had hundreds, maybe thousands of questions to ask but he could not ruin this moment. Even your silence was something he missed, his mind drifting back to the days where he would wake up in your bed, in your room, just peace and you in his arms, cheeks still flushed and hair is a mess from the previous night. The memories of you whispering to him that you loved him as he was deep inside you, his bones crashing against yours, his forehead pressed against your clavicle and the mix of his tears and sweat dropping down to your skin, to the exact places he already kissed countless times. He could still feel your fingers running trough his short hair, massaging his skull, fingers tingling from the spikiness of his beard, your tongue tracing over his chest and abs, his happy trail, stopping right on his heart. Every moment he had with you was like a foretaste of heaven.
âYou cannot forget, can you?â Your voice pulled him out of the sea he was drowning himself in. His eyes found you instantly. You were already looking at him, a knowing, sinister smile on your lips that made him tremble. You looked the same, but the way you looked at him was not familiar. There wasnât any love in your eyes anymore, it was just resentment and disgust.
âYou wonât be able to.â You said, your voice sending jolts of electricity to each muscle in his body, making him clench his thighs and grab the wheel tighter.
âYou will never forget me, even if you tried.â The calmness of your voice and the truth of your words were scarier than every opponent he had ever faced in the ring. Fighting was something that comforted him, knowing the fact that it was all up to God. Every victory was already planned out. But with you, nothing was clear. He could not see how things were gonna go, and the uncertainty was eating him alive.
He looked at the road ahead. If he kept driving, you would be in front of Islamâs house in maximum 10 minutes. Khabib knew he had to keep driving, and pretend that nothing ever happened, that you were a nobody. He suddenly turned the wheel, leaving the main road and entering the dirt road that lead to mountains.
âWhat are you doing?â You asked, looking outside the window as he ignored your question and kept driving deeper into the forest where the last traces of human structures were not seen anymore. When the car stoped, you were surrounded by tall trees that were naked without their leafs as it was the beginning of a harsh winter.
âTake me back.â You demanded, your anger visible on your face as.
âDonât you think we need to talk?â Khabib asked, the strange feeling of having a proper conversation with you filling him. You refused to look at him as a dry chuckle left your mouth.
âTalk about what?â Your mocking, cold tone was making his blood boil. The way you spoke, the way you looked, the way you existed was affecting his whole nervous system.
âHow is this happening? How can you be here? How can you be with Islam?â He couldnât help but ask, his voice loud and anger evident in it. You laughed, as if he was asking something so funny.
âYou will ask these questions for the rest of your life and will never get an answer.â Khabib took a deep breath, his neck and face burning with this indescribable feeling. Being so close to you was enough for his body to malfunction. But hearing you speak like this was just changing his brain chemistry. He was already on the verge of going insane. His life was upside down, not being able to take care of his family, his job, training until his body gave up, and watching the love of his life happy with another man, who happened to be his bestest friend.
âThen we are not going anywhere until you answer them. I can wait for the rest of my life if that what it takes.â Khabib said, his voice firm and serious, same tone he used with all the youngsters in the gym. You finally looked at him, seeing that he was being for real. There was no way you could tell him everything. And there wasnât any way you could stay here with him. Khabib was being himself again. Being selfish and unconsidered of others. He liked it when things benefited him, and when they didnât, he reshaped everything.
You sighed and got out of the car, starting to walk towards the main road, leaving Khabib dumbfounded. Before you could get any far away from the car, he was right behind you, his strong hands capturing your arm. He pulled you back, making you face him. It was getting dark, quicker in the deep points of the forest where you were.
âLet go.â You hissed, your anger making him swallow his words down. He didnât let you go when you tried to shake his hold off, instead he held you tighter. The feeling of your flesh under his touch, even over your clothes was enough to make him dizzy. He could feel flames burn within himself, his loins tingling as he looked into your eyes.
âWhat are you doing here? Why are you tormenting me?â He asked, leaning in closer. His breath washed over your face, making you look down at his lips for a moment. How many times you had kissed him without fear or regret creeping in you? The feeling of Khabibâs mouth on yours was all you knew once. The feeling of being full of him was all you needed years ago. Your heart used to beat for this man in front of you, until he decided to throw you aside like you were a piece of trash.
âYou are the one who knows how to torment. You did it better than I could ever do.â You spat out, your words stabbing his heart like poisoned daggers. He looked at your eyes that were getting filled with tears. Your breaths were quick, your chest rising and falling faster than ever as his fingers were still wrapped around your wrist. He knew he shouldnât have done it, he knew it was wrong and sinful, bringing his doomsday closer, but he did it anyway.
He leaned in and pressed his lips against yours. It felt so wrong to kiss you and like the best thing he ever did. His mind was empty of Islam, your wedding, your son, his own family, his reputation and the decision he made three years ago. None of it mattered when your warm, soft lips were against his own. He felt you open your mouth slightly, letting him in, sending blood right down to his dick. And before he could taste you, you broke the kiss, slapping him right on his cheek.
The sound of your hand hitting against his flesh echoed in the empty forest, making some birds get scared and fly away. Then the eerie silence came back, only your quick breaths and his heart beat. He felt you take a step towards him. Khabib could not look at you, shame and regret already taking over him. He was not only betraying his brother and wife, but also God. How was he going to get on his knees and pray tonight?
âI will marry Islam and you will watch it. He will have all of me and you will have nothing. Nothing at all.â You whispered. But God knows, Khabib heard you loud and clear. Your voice, your words carved onto his brain like a prayer. As the feeling of your lips faded away and his tears flowed down his cheeks, your words stayed, never leaving his mind for a moment. Because he knew, this was his fate, that he brought to himself.
Summary: Khabib made a mistake years ago, leaving you and his love behind. He was sure that he was going to live in misery for the rest of his life until he happened to find you again. As his bestfriend, brother, Islam Makhachevâs fiancĂŠ, mother of his child.
Warnings: angst, hurt no comfort, mentions of sex, YEARNING, self-hate
A/N: I donât even know what Iâm doing with this fanfic. And do you guys think Khabibâs eyes are hazel? I genuinely couldnât decide as I was writing. Let me know your thoughts in the comments :3
The days were long, nights longer. Every breath felt like a task, forcing things to work and continue. People lived their everyday lives, waking up, going to work, going back to sleep. Khabib was just there, not fully present, never fully present. He forced smiles and conversations out, pretending. That was all he did for last few years of his life. He was just pretending.
He could not remember what happened after all of you got into his car. He could recall Islam talking about his last few months, his training, his life with you. He would look at the rear mirror, checking the traffic, only to catch your eyes, looking directly at him. It was difficult to breathe, difficult to understand and accept. Your gaze would drift off to your son soon later, freeing Khabib from his misery. It was almost impossible for him to look at your son. How could he just be fine with you and Islam having a child? How could this be even happening?
A week later seeing you in flesh and blood in front of him, his life was upside down. He could not eat, or sleep. He just trained. He trained for days and nights, as if there was no way out of the hell he brought to himself, as if there was no tomorrow where you were someone elseâs woman. His knuckles bled, his legs got bruised, his whole body went sore. Physical pain wasnât enough to cover up the wounds on his soul. He needed to carve his heart out and place it on your hands.
His mind was filled with questions. He did not find an explanation of you being with Islam, meeting him, having a child with him. No one knew about you. Not even a single soul. Was the world small enough to let you and Islam meet after he left? Out of all the people? Was God testing him like this?
His wife had asked about you, curious about Islamâs new bride. He spoke nothing of it, nothing of the day he saw you, your child in your arms, Islamâs dark green eyes glued on your beautiful face, your name on his lips. He brushed it off, telling his wife that he didnât pay attention to you. He wondered if he could avoid you for the rest of his life, pretend that you didnât exist. Was it possible for him to do such a thing when you had left your marks on every inch of his existence?
But the truth followed him. Islam wanted him to be there when his parents met you and their grandchild. Khabib said it wouldnât be appropriate for him to be in the family gathering, trying to escape from the possibility of seeing you, in your new life. But Islam insisted, telling him how much his father loved Khabib, that his support would soften their hearts towards you. Islam trusted him, wanted him there, expected him to show up as his best friend, as his brother.
So he did show up. Late but still there. After sitting in the car for almost half an hour to gather his courage, he finally knocked the front door. Islam welcomed him with a big smile on his face, hugging him tight.
âThey liked her.â Islam said quietly as they walked to the living room, not mentioning Khabib being late. He could see the excitement on Islamâs face, a big smile never leaving his lips and his eyes full of love. That was all because of you. He could not blame his brother. You were like a source of life, a sunshine that brightened the room, a song that brought peace. And without you, Khabib was lifeless, in the dark, suffering.
He saw you first as he entered the living room. You were sitting next to Islamâs mother, chatting with her. Everyone seemed to be in good mood surprisingly, making him confused for a moment as he shook hands with Islamâs father and sitting down. You spared him a look, a short one that sent shivers down his spine before you turned back to your mother in law.
As Khabib was listening to Islam and his father's conversation, trying to keep his eyes low, away from you, Islamâs older brother Kurban entered the living room, carrying your son in his arms. He was already laughing and talking before he saw his parents.
âMurad!â Islam sat your son on his knee, tickling his stomach and making his laughs echo within the walls. Khabib couldnât take his eyes off of the little boy, looking at his face that was an exact copy of you. The name was keep repeating in his mind. He could remember the exact moment you were laying in his arms years ago, him whispering to you that he wanted to name his first son âMuradâ. Did he know by then that this dream could never come true with you? Is that why you were punishing him in this way? Living the life he imagined with you but never got to have? He could not bring himself to name his firstborn son âMuradâ after his wife gave birth, the memories of the name causing too much pain. Clearly it wasnât as painful to you as it was to him.
Muradâs joy was spreading to everybody, making everyone smile the moment he came in. He was just like you. Khabib felt like he was being foolish when he thought Muradâs eyes looked like his own, trying to make himself feel somehow better in that moment. This was Islamâs and your son, a human being with your shared blood in him, the fruit of your love. Was it just Khabibâs brain telling him that the boy had the same shade of hazel eyes like his own?
The dinner was tasteless and dull, despite the fact that Islamâs mother prepared the most delicious dishes for all of her guests. He barely ate as your smile never disappeared from your face, your gaze never finding him, not even once. After dinner, all the men found themselves in the living room again, sipping on their tea and eating the dessert Islam bought. You and Islamâs mother were in the kitchen, Murad with you.
There was a conversation about cars amongst the men, which Khabib didnât pay attention to. He thought about the time he had with you years ago, your first meeting, the first moment he yielded to you⌠it felt like a lifetime ago. While no one knew about you, you surely knew about Islam even though you never met with him in person. Khabib could remember telling you about his life, his family, his friends on those countless nights he spent in your bed, sheets tangled with our bodies, his strong hands hovering over your curves again and again, breathing in your scent and kissing your face so gently. After he left, how come you got to meet with Islam? How come things came to this point without him learning anything? Did you and him get close during all those times Islam traveled for his fights? Could Khabib ask these to Islam explicitly?
He took a deep breath, questions hurting his brain at this point. He left the living room to get some fresh air at the balcony, passing by the kitchen on the way. He caught a glimpse of you standing by the kitchen counter, drying some plates. You were alone. Islamâs mother nor Murad were there with you. He looked at you for a moment, taking in your existence. Your figure, your hair, your shoulders, your waist, your hips⌠all those times he had to live with the dream of you was over now, you were right in front of him. Yet still too far away to reach out and touch. Khabib felt his face burn in shame, cold sweat drops flowing down his spine. He felt his palms get itchy, his whole body aching for you.
Without him even realising, he took a step foward, entering the kitchen. Even though he didnât make any sound, your movements stopped. It felt like you knew he was here, that Khabib was standing right behind you. He heard you take a deep breath, placing the porcelain plate on the counter gently. He could see your shoulders tense, your hands gripping the piece of drying cloth so tight that your knuckles turned white. You looked back over your shoulder, making eye contact with him. He remembered the first time he undressed you, your body shaking and begging for his touch, your eyes never leaving his own. He was ashamed of himself, for thinking of you in that way, for thinking of his brotherâs woman in that way.
You turned to face him properly, sending jolts of excitement through his body. His muscles were so tense that he knew he was going to be sore tomorrow. Two of you just stood there for a moment, without talking or moving. The years of silence was continuing, making Khabib think that he imprisoned himself with this aching sound of silence forever. If anyone walked in right now, he would be fucked. He knew it was inappropriate, even forbidden to be alone with someoneâs woman like this. But it was worth it, he thought. It was worth being shamed by not just his friends and family but the whole world. Being in your presence was worth his life.
âThe eagle.â You said, words spilling out of your lips, making his chest tight. Your tone was mocking, almost like you were making fun of his title, his victories, his power, him. He felt like falling when you took a step foward, closing the distance between two of you. His face was expressionless, despite the storm in his heart.
âA coward.â You whispered, your breath hitting his face. The first words you uttered to him in years. The warmth that was spreading from your body and the sharpness of your words went into his heart like daggers, making him bleed more and more. Before he could even say something, you walked passed him, your shoulder brushing against his arm on the way as you left the kitchen. Your scent filled his senses, making him close his eyes and just take it in as much as he could.
Khabib knew one thing for sure in that moment, the image of you repeating in his mind for hundred times already. He had missed you, more than he allowed himself in those three years, more than he could even imagine, more than he ever thought possible.
Summary: Khabib made a mistake years ago, leaving you and his love behind. He was sure that he was going to live in misery for the rest of his life until he happened to find you again. As his bestfriend, brother, Islam Makhachevâs fiancĂŠ, mother of his child.
Warnings: angst, hurt no comfort, mentions of sex
A/n: i dont even know if this is good. I just wanted to write something for Khabib and it happened to be angst. Pls let me know your thoughts ;3
When Khabib was all by himself in his small mountain cabinet where the freezing wind crashed against the windows, the creaking sound of the fireplace filled his ears and the warmth hugged him, where he was away from the whole world, away from struggles of his life and people, he would always think of you.
The image of you that night, in that beautiful summer dress, when he laid his eyes on you for the first time ever, came back to him again and again. You were like a princess straight out of a fairy tale, with your elegance and grace, smiling at him so gently. It was the first time Khabib felt his heart beat within his chest. It wasn't like winning a fight against a strong opponent, or the happiness of making his father proud, or being in his home, surrounded by his loved ones. The feeling you made him feel was lighter than feather, stronger than metal, more painful than the hardest punches he took and more gentle than his motherâs hands caressing his hair.
He would think of your eyes, the eyes that were full of awe of him, the eyes that could not look at him more than few minutes before getting shy. God, how much he thought of your eyes, the way they looked up to him when he first kissed you, or when he first whispered âI love youâ in the dark of your bedroom. Everything about you was haunting him, but your eyes⌠it was an entirely different story.
He would wake up from nightmares sweat drops flowing down his temples. Nightmares where you would look at him the way you did on his last night with you. It was almost like you knew he was going to leave, even though he said nothing about it. You looked at him broken, disappointed but still in love, still holding onto the little bit of hope that you had. Your eyes were teary when he laid in your arms that night, none of you uttering a word in the loud silence, just holding each other, skin to skin, carving the moment onto your souls. You would sob so quietly as he made love to you throughout the night, leaving marks on your skin with his strong hands, whispering sweet nothings to you as your tears just kept flowing.
How could Khabib forget the way you slept peacefully, as he slipped out of the bed in the middle of the night? He traced his fingertips over your cheeks, tip of your nose that he used to kiss, your lips that he could never get enough of, your baby hairs that framed your face, every detail of you that made his heart skip a beat. He could watch you for hours, for days, for a lifetime. But when his gaze found the clock on the nightstand, all the peace and comfort disappeared. It was time to go home.
Three years after leaving you without a goodbye, his whole being was still tied to the memories of you, mind and heart never being able to erase you away. He hid you from everything and everyone, like a sin, like something shameful, like a mistake. He pretended as if he hadnât left his heart in some foreign country when his mother told him about the girl he was going to marry, only nodding and keeping his head low. He acted happy when it was his wedding day, sitting next to his new wife, smiling and chatting as if his soul was not bleeding with the thought of you. He felt like suffocating with the tie around his neck, white shirt clinging onto his sweaty skin when it was time to go home with his wife.
Things were somehow better when he had his first child. The innocent life in his arms made him feel less guilty. His daughter was beautiful, looking at him with the eyes of her mother, so full of life and joy, only wanting her fatherâs affection and nothing else. He felt happy when she first laughed, or said her first words. The world seemed like a place worth living when she started to walk, running to him with her still unbalanced pace. A year and a half later, he had his son. The joy of being a father was overshadowing the guilt of breaking you apart.
But still his thoughts drifted back to you when he rocked his child to sleep, or when he slept beside his wife. He tried to forget you, but not being able to forgive himself was the problem. He was helpless, too ashamed to tell his friends, his brothers, too scared to tell his father. The weight of your existence and the love he had for you was crushing. So heavy that no amount of training, pushing his bodyâs limits was able to snatch you out of him. His misery kept going, he fought and won, he trained, he left and came back. He lived like a robot.
âDid you know about Islamâs wrongdoings?â His father asked on a dinner table one night. He took a deep breath, not knowing how to answer. Every single eyes on the table were on him, waiting with curiosity. He shook his head, taking a sip of his cold water.
âNo. He never told me.â He said with honesty. He was amongst the first to learn that Islam was getting married, to a foreigner woman that he had a child with outside of marriage. He was truly shocked, always thinking Islam as someone fully bonded with their traditions. But how could he judge his bestfriend for doing a mistake and hiding it from everyone after it was exactly what Khabib did years ago?
âWhat a shame to his family!â His father spat out, showing his clear disapproval. Khabib knew how much his father loved Islam and how he expected better from him. Even though Khabib was his son, Islam was always his favourite, earning his fatherâs respect more than everybody in the gym. His father would tell him âIslam has a lot of will to do great things.â He would tell Khabib that he lost his will, his anger after he came back, thinking he was just lost in the bliss of victories he had. Khabib was lost in the suffering of being without you.
Few weeks after, Islam called him, asking if he could pick him and his âfianceâ from airport, not wanting to face his dad yet. He agreed, like he always did and grabbed his car keys. He wondered why he did not have the courage to do what Islam did? Why was he too scared to actually hold your hand and bring you to his family, tell them you were to be his wife? Maybe his father was right. Islam had more will than Khabib ever did. His friend was brave enough to go after his love, unlike Khabib.
He first saw Islam at the front, dragging two large suitcases with a big smile on his face. He felt his heart sizzle when he saw his friendâs happiness. He could imagine himself in his place, coming to his home with the woman he loved, not being afraid of anything as long as you were with him. Even the dream of it was enough to make him fall apart.
âBrother!â Islam shouted, walking faster towards him. They embraced in a warm hug, hands pressing onto each otherâs backs and bodies swinging so slightly. His closed eyes opened for a moment and he looked over Islamâs shoulder.
The world stopped spinning. The wind of cold Dagestan winter wasnât burning his skin anymore. Islam wasnât there, the people who were rushing around the airport were not there. In fact nothing was there in that moment. It was only Khabib and your eyes. He looked and looked at you, standing in front of him. He could only see your eyes and nothing else. Islam had broken away from his hug moments ago, talking next to him, looking back and forth between you and Khabib, introducing you.
How could this be? Was he going insane and imagining you at this point? He could not breath, his hands going numb. You were right in front of him, next to his bestfriend as his fiance. He wanted to shake his head, not believing in his own eyes. This was supposed to be another nightmare, surely. He was going to wake up in his bed again and everything was going to be normal.
But no, you were just looking at him, smiling and Khabib wasnât waking up.This smile was a stranger to him, not the one he was used to get from you. You were not uttering a single word, not even attempting to open your mouth. He wondered if he looked like a mess in front of you. Strongest man in Russia, undefeated, undisputed Khabib Nurmagomedov was about to fall to his knees and cry for your forgiveness.
âOur son.â Islam said. Khabib finally looked at the child in your arms. A beautiful boy, almost 3 years old, looking just like you. Except for his eyes. His eyes reminded Khabib too much of himself.
A/n: sorry if there are any mistakes guys. I cannot stop writing for Islam at the moment :3
Masterlist
The warm water poured down his head, dripping down to his chest to his waist to his legs. He felt his muscles relax, his heart rate slowing down with the silence in the bathroom. Islamâs eyes were on the shiny tiles as the steam in the place increased, making it foggy and hot.
He could start to feel pain now. During his fights, pain was never there, his mind too occupied with the possible outcome. But the soreness and bruises would always come after he would enter his hotel room, leaving the world outside the door. His arms that held his opponent on the ground, his legs that received several kicks, his chest that was punched multiple times, the sweet pain of his victory was here finally.
He was too lost under the warm water that he didnât even hear you enter the bathroom. He didnât notice you undressing yourself quickly and enter the shower cabin. He was facing the wall, his large back in front of your eyes, making you lose your breath. You carefully touched his skin with your fingertips, making him flinch. But your familiar touch made his tense muscles soften, a sigh leaving his lips. And when you pressed your naked body against his back, he left like entering heaven. Your body was already warm, as if you were burning for him and him only. He let you wrap your arms around him, fingers not being able to touch over his massive chest.
Your lips left a soft kiss over his spinal cord, sending shivers down his back, causing a tingling sensation between his legs, down his abdomen. Your hands caressed over his wet skin, tongue catching every drop of water that was flowing down. God, Islam loved your mouth. He loved every sound that came from your mouth. He loved when you kissed him with hunger, your passion pouring down his throat. He loved when you used that mouth on him, the warmth surrounding his very existence.
He turned around, his hands grabbing your hips and pressing you against him. Your bare bodies crashed into each other, not even water being able to go through between two of you. He captured your lips, his tongue tasting you. You welcomed him just like you always did. You, who had open arms for him to crawl into, open legs for him to get in between, open mouth for him use however he wanted.
With your eyes never leaving his handsome face, you dropped down to your knees, the hard tiles hurting your skin. Your hands rested on his muscular thighs, the steam of the bathroom blurring your vision and making it difficult to breathe. He was already hard when you took his tip into your mouth, earning you a loud moan from him. You looked up under your lashes, seeing his eyebrows lifted up like a puppy, his mouth slightly open, trying to suck in raggedy breaths.
Your tongue rested flat against his dick, taking him deep as possible. And when your bottom lip reached his trimmed pubic hair, you started to suck him hard. He leaned back against the wall to keep himself up on his feet, the coldness of the tiles making his body tremble. He could not look away from you. The way his thick cock was stretching your lips and the way you still managed to take all of him down your throat, making him proud. He knew he trained you well, almost like shaping your mouth for his own pleasure.
He could see tears falling down your eyes, but he chose to ignore it. You were so selfless and so full of love for Islam that you were enduring pain for his pleasure. He felt himself twitch between your lips. His fingers entered your hair, wrapping the strands around his fingers and pulling them with some pressure. He knew how much you loved when he took control, using his strength over you, doing whatever he wanted without paying any attention to your cries and whimpers.
You felt yourself drip down to ground when he pushed your head down to his dick, making you take him deeper. Your whole body was burning, knees hurting against the ground, your pussy clenching around nothing. Your spit was flowing down your chin, eyes watery and head foggy. You could barely see Islamâs face as he was pushing your head up and down on his length.
His free hand caressed your cheek that was full of his dick before he gently grabbed your nose, blocking air from entering your lungs. You opened your mouth wider as a reflex, trying to find a way to breathe. But he used it to his advantage, pushing himself in until your lips were wrapped around his base, his heavy balls resting against your chin. You felt his thighs clench against your tits, and soon after he was coming down your throat. His thick, sticky load spilled down your throat, burning and making you gag. He kept his fingers on your nose, making your eyes roll back into your skull as your lungs were hurting now.
And when he spilled the last drop of his load, he took a deep breath, his body relaxing for real finally. Your head was spinning, body shaking as he pulled you up easily. His body caged you against the cold tiles, pressing himself against you as if he wanted your bodies to mix into one another. No matter how close he was to you, Islam always craved for more.
He kissed you once more, tasting himself on your tongue. The taste of his load and your tongue was enough to make him finish again. Your arms were around his neck, holding onto him as if your life depended on it. He was breathing in your air, water splashing against his skin, your hair sticking onto his forehead, your legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him in. Islam knew, if he died in this moment, he would die yours and die happy.
A/n: sorry if there are any mistakes. Wrote this very quick and just wanted to post it. Donât forget to check out my other Islam fanfic ;3
Masterlist
Islam always loved children and wanted to be a father himself, as it was a part of his culture after all. He wanted a big family with the woman he loved. So when two of you got married, he didnât want to wait to have kids. You on the other hand, wanted to enjoy your marriage with him first. Wanted to travel, wanted to get to know each other better than ever. But it wasnât possible when Islam was fucking you raw every chance he got.
When you woke up early in the morning, bed still warm with his huge body, he would pull your panties to side and slide himself into you, making you wince since you were already sore from last night. He would shower you with kisses as his thick cock was beating your poor pussy, the wet sounds filling the room. You were all pretty, spread out on his bed, under him, reminding him how you were his and only his. He would fold you in half with his strong arms, your knees nearly touching your ears as he pushed his hips deep as possible, his tip kissing your cervix. And when he came inside you, his balls clenching painfully against your wet folds, his abs stretching in front of your eyes, it would spill out of you, forcing your walls to tighten to keep his load in you.
Before he left to go to gym, he would fuck you right by the door, your comfy home clothes on the floor, down to your ankles and his arms wrapped around your waist, his fingers lost between your hair, manhandling you as he pleased. His eyes would be fixated on his dick going in and out of you, your pussy creaming around his length. His phone would blowing up with the messages and phone calls from Khabib and rest of the team, asking why he was late as he was making your eyes roll back into your skull. He loved when you went stupid with his dick in you, drooling and could not even remember your own name as he fucked you like some feral animal. He made sure to put your panties back up after he came in you, painting your walls white.
âKeep it in.â He would whisper and leave a soft kiss to your temple. You would be still shaking as he grabbed his bag and left the house.
But the real obsession started when you casually explained him what ovulation was. He was mesmerised that he could get you pregnant in those few days. And to his luck, ovulation made you horny as well.
You saw him playing with one of his nephews or nieces, he would get ridden into the mattress the same night. He couldnât understand how your legs were so strong, just bouncing up and down on his dick as if you were a professional athlete. His hands would be on your tits, massaging them and imagining how they would look like once they were filled with milk. The image of you, round and full with his child, your whole body changing and creating a new life would make this dick twitch inside you.
You heard him talk to his friends, saying he wanted at least 7 kids, he would be fucking you on your fours, just holding your ass and sliding himself in and out of you. It felt primal to fuck you like this, proper mating and breeding. He would grab your hair, pulling you up to his chest, kissing and biting your neck as his other hand worked in your clit. God, he loved how wet you always were, just taking him right in without any problem, legs always open for your lovely husband.
And when you were finally pregnant after 2 months of marriage, it was a no surprise to you. You and Islam were fucking like rabbits, using every chance you had. The news of your pregnancy changed him completely, making his demeanour softer, making him more careful around you. It was true that your pregnant form made him hornier than ever, making his dick leak into his underwear every time you were wearing your cute shorts around the house. Still he kept it silent as he was too afraid to hurt you or the baby.
But how could he say no to you when you wanted him to fuck you, telling him how wet you were after seeing him train with his friends? He was about to enter shower when you stopped him, asking him to come to bedroom really quick. And next thing he knew, he was bottoming out of you and making your tears of pleasure flow down your cheeks. Your pussy felt heavenly, better, wetter and tighter than ever. Your walls were sucking him in, making his legs shake as he was inside you. He could swear you smelled better once you got pregnant, your sweet scent getting even sweeter, making his mouth water.
His brain was foggy as he came inside, hips still going back and forth slightly, overstimulating both of you. He couldnât wait to get you pregnant again and again until there was nothing left in his balls.
Summary: when Dae-ho loses his purpose in life, he turns to you for solution. Warnings: breeding kink, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, unconsensual condom removal, loser!Dae-ho, forced?pregnancy, no games au, dark!Dae-ho. A/n: hope you guys like it. No proofread, sorry for mistakes.
Word count: 1.1k.
Masterlist
Dae-ho doesnât feel important. He feels like he doesnât matter. His father thinks him a disgrace to the family name. His sisters and mother stay silent with his fatherâs treatment to him. Every family dinner starts with bitter comments, ends with his fatherâs hands on his collar, calling him a ânobodyâ and his mother and sisters watching them from the dinner table with pitying looks.
When heâs out there in the world, he lies. He lies about his military service and about being a marine with this guy from work, Jung-bae. They work in the same pizza shop, Jung-bae washes dishes, Dae-ho delivers the pizza. And when Jung-bae starts to talk about marines too much, Dae-ho finds an excuse and escapes his questions.
He lies to people at his therapy group. When everyone shares stories about their traumatic experiences in the military, he makes up few things in the spot and sheds few tears in the hope of looking convincing. He makes eye contact with Hyun-ju whoâs offering him a comforting smile. Dae-ho feels horrible for lying to her but knows, this is the only way he feels important.
He lies to your best friend Jun-hee about taking care of her sisters and their babies when she comes over with her idiot of a boyfriend Myung-gi who keeps talking about crypto. In truth he wasnât even informed of her nephew and nieces birth until much later. They didnât know they had an uncle much thanks to his sisters who were embarrassed of him.
Dae-ho only feels important when heâs with you, when heâs in you. You look up to him with those beautiful eyes of yours and he feels like heâs worth something. When you smile at him as you leave to go to your college lessons, he feels loved and cherished. You tell him that you love him, but it doesnât sound fake like when his mother says it. It feels real to him.
You wrap your arms around his shoulders, eyes rolling into the back of your head, your lips parted and tongue sticking out as he pounds into you with his large member, Dae-ho feels important for making you feel good. When he feels his cock twitch within your tight, wet walls, he feels dizzy and honest. He loves you because he knows he doesât have to lie around you, you love him as he is. You love the goofy, sometimes embarrassing side of him. You love him even tho he didnât go to college or got a proper job. He doesnât think about all those things he hadnât tell you yet when he pulls out and spills on your stomach, your pussy still clenching around nothing as heâs a shaking mess on top of you.
If he doesnât tell extra lies, keeping few secrets from you is alright, Dae-ho tells himself all the time. He showers you with compliments when you ride him into the dirty mattress in his small apartment. Everything in his place smells like him, musky, sweaty and full of love. You feel like fainting as you ride him, tip of cock kissing your cervix and stretching you out. When Dae-ho plays with your nipples, you fall apart and cum on his cock, squiring juices onto his thighs and chest.
He feels himself get close as he flips you over, pushing your knees to your chest, folding you like a paper with his strong arms. You watch his biceps and abs flex as he keeps you trapped underneath him, his hips crashing against yours. He knows he promised to put on a condom this time, just like all those times before. You tell him that you are not on birth control and donât want to take morning pill anymore, you mention something about it messing up with your hormones. But Dae-ho cannot help but slip the condom off when you are still in euphoria from your orgasm. When he feels you bare against him, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, intoxicated with your scent.
Dae-ho promises to himself that he will be a better father than his own dad. He promises himself that he will love his child no matter what, no matter who they are or what they do. He promises himself that he wonât lie to his child, going to raise them with honesty. But he knows you donât want to have kids yet, you still didnât graduate college, cannot get a job without your degree. He earns barely enough for himself, yet alone you and your child.
But Dae-ho feels himself getting more impatient. It gets difficult to live with himself after all those lies. He cannot recognise himself anymore. A child from his own flesh and blood, born from the girl he loves with all his being lightens his heart. He thinks of you round and heavy with his child as his thrusts gets sloppier. He imagines you rubbing your belly as you go out, showing everyone that he put a child in you. He can almost see you riding him with your belly huge, breasts heavy with milk.
He looks down and the view sends him over the edge. Your pussy creaming around his length, forming a ring of cream on the base of his cock as he pounded into you. His cock twitches and the thick ropes of cum paints your walls. You are so lost in your pleasure that you canât even feel as his cum leaks out of you when he pulls himself out. He collects all of his leaked cum with his fingers and pushes it back as his thumb rubs your clit, sending you over the edge one more time, his lips sealed around your nipple, tongue playing with your perked buds.
Dae-ho knows you will cry and go mad when you come out of his toilet with a positive pregnancy test, cling onto him like he is your saviour. You will question how it happened, and Dae-ho will do the best thing he does; he will lie. He will lie about how unreliable condoms are most of the time and it was probably ripped. He will convince you to keep the baby and give birth to it. He will assure you that everything will be fine and he will find a way to make more money. He will tell you that he will look after you and you will be a happy family.
And you will believe your boyfriend Dae-ho, because you know how honest he is and he would never lie to you
origamiaround
ellievsbear
tangentwithtanner