helloooo im leo n im a gal 💁🏻♀️ , i like ufc, she her
masterlist coming soon . . .
i write ufc—i'll mostly be doing khabibbbb cause he's sooooo my mannnnn but i'll also do isu and umar, but reqs are open loves
— 📫 mailbox status: closed
fun factsss!!!!
— i like when ppl write dagestani fighter fics with accurate 'broken english' dialogue bcs i feel like thats crucial to include, so yes i will be writing their dialogue accordingly to how they usually speak bcs its soso important to me!!!
— i dont train but im an mma nerd sooo i might post my fight analyses if anyone would even read them cause ufcblr is mostly fics 🤔
college roommates and I just has a wine night and I can’t not thinking about Islam and how much I love him and the mans around him like Khabib lkme he’s so man and son hot like usman need that
im currently cooking up some slowburn angsty umar smut in a sauna!!! IN A SAUNA!!!! yes i saw that sauna selfie of him and my brain started getting to work so yes you are all getting fed emotional sauna sex with umar!!!!
i'll be working on reqs after i'm done with this fic so please be patient lovesss 🫶
a/n (pls readdd): hiii my first ufc fic, appreciating khabib’s coaching side in this 🤤 i wrote the dialogue similar to how he actually speaks because its so crucial to me, so yes there will be some purposeful grammar mistakes in khabib’s dialogue and i tried adjusting it so it sounds natural within the narrative
summary: khabib fucks like it’s a strategy, whether he’s retired or not
word count: 2k
glossary: malyshka – baby, printsessa – princess
sweat is already starting to crowd the back of your neck, you elevate your hand, albeit needing to exert yourself, simply to mop the beads of both heat and exhaustion pooling under your hairline. it’s not humid—but the friction of bare skin on one another in addition to the intense atmosphere, undoubtedly results in a scalding ambience in the confinement of your shared bedroom. your chest heaves in audible pants, almost embarrassing considering the presence of your retired fighter of a husband, not to mention his possession of inhumane stamina, and yours pales in comparison to his—as if you could compare it in the first place at all.
he was once choked for 30 seconds straight and didn't tap, for god’s sake. so your desperate little inhales for air that you try to quiet to no avail definitely amuses him. he doesn't express it outright, not with a toothy grin or with a huffed out chuckle, but you know he is.
khabib’s propping you up by one thick forearm, snaking around your waist from behind as support—he doesn't need to hold you by two. he’d rather use his other limb so he has a hand free to rub your clit, or engulf the column of your throat, or grab your face with his fingers digging into your cheeks— god, there’s just so many things khabib wants to do to you at once just to hear and see you erupting in pleasure. because he knows your body and he knows how easy it is to get you to a point of writhing limbs and spilled whines from your throat.
the man already holds immense power in one calloused palm, honed from decades of training. it’d be odd if he couldn't do the simple task of leveraging your figure. frankly, he could hold you up by just his palm, but he only chooses not to because the forearm would be a more comfortable mount for you.
but this leverage isn't by choice, but he has to, or else you’d topple over and melt into the sheets mid-fuck. he’s commented on your stamina before, mentally taking apart your anatomy to deduce the reason of your lack of energy during your sessions, as if he’s coaching you in his wrestling camp. he takes you apart both literally and figuratively, as if he mentally pinpoints all the sensitive spots across your body and in what order he should touch of you to push, or maybe, pull you from orgasm, as fast or as slow as he likes.
because in all honesty, khabib’s only pushed his cock halfway in, short thrusts that don't skirt past midway his length, almost calculating, technical—mirroring his behaviour while in the ring or on the mats. it’s almost annoying how ingrained it is in all aspects of his life, hell, he might aswell fuck using strategy. but for all you know, maybe he already does. maybe that’s why it just feels so good.
he’s getting you used to the stretch of his girthy circumference, because he can observe how your hole is spread taut. his deep, hooded eyes watch intently as he gently swipes with a calloused thumb at the raw ring of muscle being opened up, enjoying how you clench around him at the slightest touch. he lightly hisses at the squeeze, biting his lip to avoid a sudden groan ripped out of his throat. his adam’s apple bobbing with as if restraining the very sound he wishes to keep, because he himself knows that he can get way too vocal when he lets himself go, and combined with the headboard slamming against the wall when he opts for a faster pace? not a good repute with the neighbours.
khabib’s hands travels your curves starting from the flesh of your hips where he kept a tight grip as if to keep the flesh for himself, then spanning across the planes of your back, thoroughly feeling every shudder that jolts from the bottom of your spine upwards, as you try to just keep your breathing in check. he’s stopped thrusting at this point, his back curving forward for his head to lay between your shoulderblades, kissing there gently to soothe you of your overwhelm.
“malyshka,” his tone is firm, and no-nonsense, accentuated by that russian accent of his, so you tense slightly as if bracing for the next syllables to be enunciated by those lips of his.
“your stamina is no good.” of all times, you really can't believe that he's saying this now, even if it holds some semblance of truth to it.
“not now, khabib.”
your protest cues the sound of khabib kissing his teeth, making you turn your head to deduce whether or not that was a noise produced out of annoyance or more so amusement—and you can decide that it's the latter from where you suppose of his features in view. his eyebrows are raised, but still, his dark eyes stay lidded, peering at you, and a slight curve to his mouth almost forms a grin, but not exactly yet.
“i can't fuck you if you’re not awake.”
and before you could fuss, khabib’s limbs were arranging yours, your elbows that served as support were distanced shoulder-wide, as if to have you in a more stable posture for you to prop yourself up. his knees push your thighs apart to serve the same earlier purpose, and instead, your hole clenches down on him, khabib inhales a sharp breath and grips your thigh.
“calm. down.” his tone is firm but somehow doesn't hold a hint of aggression to it. just precise. he doesn't hit hard, he hits right. and that's how everything he touches can come undone.
“don’t come too fast,” a pause,
“please.” it comes out as such a surprise to you that you almost think it’s only out of obligation, but the breathy quality of his voice convinces you that really, it’s pure need.
“now,” khabib raises his hands up, now the hot, searing touch of his callouses freed from your waist, yet still lingering near your curves, observing how you hold up your body on your own, while his hands reside in the air to catch you if you fall.
“try.” and his hands finally drop to each of his sides. “by yourself, malyshka.” in an almost painfully slow pace that sears hot between your folds, khabib bottoms out the rest of his cock with a muffled groan by a bite to his own bottom lip. without any distraction to resort to, not a hand by your neck or a finger to the mouth, all you can feel is him with every ridge and every vein there is. but at this point where you're deluded in a stinging yet pleasurable sensation, maybe—you felt more than there should be.
you let out the slightest of whines, breathy and pitched, all that you have left of yourself. you’re holding up your weight on your own with a heavy fullness between your legs that somehow only continues to grind deeper. luckily for you, khabib attends to your discomfort, though only slightly. he lightly places a hand, but more so only a ghost of his fingertips against the small of your back as his palm doesn't even dare lay upon the curve.
his fingertips only retract and return to soothe you, the slightest of relief he can give if he wants you to continue to do this on your own. you can only cling to the pathetic sparks of relief, evident in how your back arches for more ease, even though he can't satiate that need.
“no,”
“by yourself, i said.” he reminds you once more, but far from last. his fingers settle on the spinal curve before torturously pulling out, almost all the way with just his thick head snug inside, catching on your entrance. it’s deliberate though, watching you stretched out on only the first few inches of him. but he dives back in, all of him with a wet squelch as your warmth engulfs him—and your knees buckle. of course they do.
“come onnn,” he croons as he feels the collapse, “you can't do it?” he tilts his head, almost concerned, but not quite—mostly observing if you’re going to get back up or not. you shake your head weakly, before you feel his limbs hooking under your arms to lift you up, and his fists clasp together behind your neck in a lock, fingers intertwined, securing the position he's trapped you in. this way, you wouldn't collapse under him no matter how fast or how hard he wants to go. your hands feel at his fists locked behind your neck, fingers prying at them only to realize that they’re not going to budge.
“this is what happen,” his words are accentuated with every deep thrust that travels from base to tip, that eventually grow faster by every beat, by every harsh, stinging slap of his hips against yours, “you can’t hold your body,” his biceps bulge as his fists clasp tighter behind you, wrecking you with every stroke that caresses your walls and every nudge of his tip to your cervix, your throat crying out in broken whines every time he splits you apart, over, and over, again and again. wetness starts to paint the sheets, from your gleaming eyes with tears that well, and from your sopping cunt that can only take more and more.
“so someone else will hold it,” the breathy lectures that roll from his tongue and mingle in your ear keeps you grounded from the battering pace of his cock practically punishing your pussy, even if he doesn't mean to. “trap it,” he angles his hips so he drives his cock from above you, putting pressure on your lower back as he keeps you locked by just a clasp of his hands. your plump folds stretch and close every time he drags himself in and out, your muscles trying to resist the delicious stretch because sometimes, even he’s too much. his mentor-like rants during sex is an example, as it reminds you of how much strength and experience he holds over you. mentally and physically.
you wail, your voice wrung out when you feel the near-painful pressure on your back combined with his girth pounding into your wetness, your knees buckle again—but you don't collapse. he holds you up and focuses his hips on an angle that he knows will hit the spot that ruins you. he feels it when you choke out on a moan and your head falls forward, wanting to fall onto the pillows and just scream into the soft silk pile, but you can't. not when he’s suspending you in a position where all you can do is take, your clit throbbing for ease and puffy folds rubbed raw, keening for release.
“and they finish you.” khabib emphasizes with a deep, brutal thrust that sends you over, wailing with your eyes squeezed shut, pussy uncontrollably pulsing and squeezing around his shaft, drawing out a rumbling groan from him as he throws his head back, thick spurts of his cum shooting deep while he pushes his hips flush against your trembling pair, desperate to bury himself inside as far as he can. each of your own gasps synchronizes with each other, filling the room with hot and heavy air as khabib slowly separates of his clasped fists, his hands now clammy from the prolonged grip that’s now freed, laying you down on the bed with a contrasting gentleness from his earlier ravaging of you.
“next time, printsessa,” he heaves while lowering upon you, tracing a finger along your jawline that was still gaped to gasp tor air, indicating that he wants you to pay attention to whatever he has to state, “you come with me,” he pinches your chin between his thumb and pointer to rear your head to face his, “we do training,”
