lele she/her nineteen 18+ blog no hate, just block and move on
masterlist requests are closed
who i write for . . . islam makhachev, khabib nurmagomedov, paddy pimblett, tom aspinall, khamzat chimaev, justin gaethje, max holloway, charles oliveira, sean o’malley, usman nurmagomedov, umar nurmagomedov, ikram aliskerov, nate diaz, nick diaz, chael sonnen, dricus du plessis
my tags . . .
#makhachevwife fanfiction, drabbles, and headcanons
#makahchevwife thoughts where i talk about UFC and whatever else rots in my brain
i literally had to unfollow ufc on instagram because of the amount of conor propaganda they were pushing out (not a crumb of max on their page leading up to the fight)… only for the fight to end up like this😭😭😭
pairing: islam makhachev x khabib nurmagomedov x reader
summary: You’re stuck in a single hotel room with two men twice your size when you realize you made a mistake booking the room just as you checked into it. Except, it wasn’t as big of a mistake as you thought.
word count: 3.4k
warnings: sexual content, MDNI eventual smut, only one bed trope (classic!), reader knows russian (mostly), pov switching, two inexperienced horny dagestani boys™, religious guilt, islam barely knows any english, half of this fic is in poorly-translated russian (i'm American forgive me), what even is a plot honestly
authors note: i’ve had this cooking up since last summer yall… im just finishing it now😭💔there will be a part two coming, i think yall can guess whos pov it’ll be in 😉😉😉😉😉
They didn’t want to be in America in the first place.
At least, Khabib didn’t. He complained about New York the whole drive from the airport: the smell, the traffic, the people. Islam, on the other hand, didn’t say much at all. It was his first time in America, and he looked like he didn’t know where to start. He barely said a word—eyes wide, glued to the windows. When it came to you, you were stuck translating, fighting jet lag, and the recent news that UFC had “accidentally” booked one less hotel room than needed.
You weren’t even supposed to be here. Not on this trip. Definitely not in this country. You were only supposed to be in Russia for a semester studying abroad for language immersion program. Your Russian wasn’t the best—you didn’t think you’d actually use it for much more than in awkward conversations in grocery store lines and ordering coffee wrong—so why not get better? You took up volunteering at some gym in Dagestan to fill your hours. Something different. Something to do.
That’s where you met Khabib—at the gym. You knew of him, of course. Everyone did. He and his father were legends in the area. The little boys you helped coach at the gym always talked about him, Khabib this and Coach Abdulmanap that. You figured you’d never actually see him, like he was some myth. He was always somewhere else—training in America, cornering fights, doing interviews in cities you couldn’t even name. When he finally came in for a visit, all the kids flocked him. They ran across the mats barefoot, yelling his name, tugging at his sleeves, begging for attention. He gave it to them too—laughing, crouching down to talk to each one. You stood back near the wall, arms folded, smiling quietly.
But when the kids finally scattered and he straightened up, you didn’t expect him to even glance your way. But his eyes landed on you almost immediately—and then he started walking. Toward you. You almost looked behind you to check if there was someone else he could possibly be aiming for. But no—he was headed directly at… you.
“You are from AKA?” was the first thing he said to you.
It took you a second too long to realize he was actually speaking to you. “American Kickboxing Academy?”
He smirked. “Yes. I know you. You help.”
Huh. Now that you remembered it, you didn’t actually meet Khabib for the first time at the gym. It was months ago, back in San Jose. Khabib had flew in to train at AKA—his first time there, you think—to train with a couple American wrestlers. At some point, someone had waved you over. Khabib had needed help explaining something in English. And that was it. A two-minute moment on a regular day. You forgot it by the next morning.
Apparently, Khabib didn’t.
From there, it just… happened. Slowly at first—Khabib asking you to translate a phrase or two, nothing special. Then a little more. Then he started bringing you along, to a local fight night, to another gym. Each time you told yourself it was just temporary, that you just happened to be at the right place at the right time. You were sure you weren’t that important. But then three months passed and you were still there.
And now, you were here. In America. Again. Khabib had to fly in for a fight. Islam came with him to help him train.
You didn’t know Islam well—only in the way you knew someone who was always by another person’s side. He was quieter, less direct than Khabib, more shy, and you’d only exchanged a handful of words with him.
And for some reason, when it came time to figure out paperwork and English and travel planning, Khabib went straight to you. As if you’d been his person all along.
“She come,” he told his manager. “She fix all.”
You hadn’t even been sure what “all” meant, but before you knew it, you were seated between them on the plane. Twelve long hours from Russia all the way to America. You used the time to find a place for the three of you to stay in. UFC said they would reimburse you, but you weren’t working with much to begin with. You booked a cheap motel a few blocks from the actual hotel the two of them were supposed to be staying at. Claimed there was air conditioning. A microwave. Free Wi-Fi.
“Again,” Khabib says from behind you, snapping you out of your thoughts just for you to find out you’re actually here—standing right in front of the room door with the keycard in your hand.
You swipe the card. It blinks red for the second time.
Islam looks over your shoulder. “Дверь не открывается?”
Something about the door not opening. You shake your head. “It’s probably just the angle. They’re–” You swipe it again. “…like this sometimes.”
Khabib steps forward. “I do,” he says, then takes the card from your hand.
He tries once. Red.
Again. Click.
He opens the door and steps in first.
You step in behind him. “Okay, let’s just-”
You freeze in the doorway.
Islam walks in last, swinging the door shut with his foot—and then all three of you are standing there, in silence, staring at the room.
In the center of it, taking up almost the entire space, is one bed.
One bed.
It’s small. Full-sized, maybe—not even a queen. There’s two pillows and a thin blanket.
And that was it. No extra mattress, no couch, not even a chair to curl into.
Just that one bed.
You walk around the bed, looking behind the bathroom door as if there’s a second room hiding there. There isn’t.
“Где находится другая комната?” Islam asks. Where is the other room?
“There, uh…” you say, too quietly. Then louder: “This is the only room.”
Khabib turns to you slowly, “Одна кровать?” He points. One bed? “This mistake?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
He stares at it for a second. Then: “I call UFC,” he says. “They fix?”
“No, no–” Because you know exactly what he means—you’ll be on the phone, trying to explain the situation to them, and the last thing you want is to be put on hold with a UFC coordinator with Khabib and Islam listening to every awkward word exchanged.
You drag your suitcase into the corner and unzip it. The bed creaks under your arm as you lean against it to plug in your charger. “They must’ve messed up the listing. Or I clicked the wrong thing. I don’t know. It’s whatever. We can find another place tomorrow.”
You dig for your phone in your pocket, swiping it open with a sigh and clicking into the app like it might magically clear everything up. Maybe they got it wrong. Maybe the front desk made a mistake. Maybe someone switched the rooms after check-in. Maybe—
Oh.
There it is. Right there on the screen. 1 Double Bed. Non-Smoking.
You scroll down. Then back up. Then you just stare.
But it just stares back at you. One double bed. Booked by… you.
You don’t say a word. Not to Khabib. Not to Islam. You just quietly shut the screen off. Like maybe, if no one sees you looking at it, it didn’t happen. Then you slide it into your pocket.
And that’s it. You’re going to hell. You swear, you’re going straight to hell. Or worse—having to share a bed with two men who think you’re just their translator and not a complete fucking idiot.
Islam bends to unzip his bag. “Я могу спать на полу.” I can sleep on the floor.
“What? No–” You open your mouth to answer, but then–
“Вы с ума сошли?” Are you crazy? You hear Khabib say.
Islam blinks up at the two of you.
You press your palm to your forehead. “Okay, no. No one’s sleeping on the floor.”
It’s 98 degrees outside. Hot. You’re frustrated. And this is not the argument you want to be having right now. “Just–” You start, trying to talk in a way that’s easily digestible for them to understand, “Why don’t you guys go check out the gym? Walk around. Explore the city a little. I’ll get some food, maybe call the front desk. Try to fix all this.”
Neither of them looks convinced.
“Now?” Khabib asks.
“Yeah,” You nod, a little too quickly. “You shouldn’t have to worry about this. I’ll figure something out.”
Islam doesn’t move. He’s still standing by his bag, hand curled loosely around the strap like he’s not sure whether he’s staying or going. Then he looks at Khabib, and Khabib sighs.
Finally, he nods. Not really like he agrees—more like he’s choosing to let it go, for now.
You don’t move for a while after they leave. Just stare at the door. Then down at your phone. Then at the bed.
What the fuck were you going to do?
It’s almost 5 p.m. when they come back.
You’re in bed with a bottle of water in one hand and your phone in the other, watching YouTube videos on low volume. You gave up trying to fix the room situation around 2 p.m. You talked to the front desk. They offered an apology and a shrug. No other rooms available. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. You even tried the hotel the two we’re initially supposed to go to. When you asked if they had a room “for tonight, three people, please anything,” they laughed in your face.
You walked two blocks down and bought food from a little takeout spot that smells like grilled meat and burnt garlic. You stood there waiting for the bag, shirt sticking to your back, scrolling through your phone and wondering if it’d be crazy to call Dana White personally and demand a room at the fucking Four Seasons. You didn’t. Instead, you bought shawarma, fries, a can of Coke, two bottles of water, and a sad little pack of cookies from the gas station on the way back.
When you got to the room, it was still empty. You unlocked the door slowly as if something inside might’ve changed while you were gone. It hadn’t. Same room. Same bed.
You set the bag of food on the small table by the window, pulled open the mini fridge, and slid the water bottles inside. The takeout stayed on the counter—you figured they’d be back soon enough.
The shower you took felt like a reset after everything that happened today. When you stepped out and changed into your clothes, though, you instantly regretted what you’d chosen: tiny shorts and an old tank top that should’ve been left at home. You didn’t dress for this. You didn’t expect to be sharing a room—let alone one bed with two fighters who both make a point of not looking at you too long.
The door opens quietly when they come back. You see Khabib first, then Islam behind him. They moved in silence, gym bags slung over their shoulders, shirts damp with sweat and clinging to them in places you tried not to notice.
None of them speak at first.
You watch from your place on the far side of the bed, legs tucked underneath you. You didn’t mean to look so small, so curled up, but the room suddenly feels too full now with the two of them inside again.
Khabib’s eyes slowly move across the room. Still only one bed. His jaw clenched for a second but he doesn’t look at you. Islam shifts awkwardly near the wall, like he forgot where to stand.
You clear your throat and sit up straighter, trying to anchor yourself even though your pulse kicked up. “I talked to the front desk.”
Islam raises his brows. The smallest flicker of acknowledgment. Waiting.
“They said maybe tomorrow,” you say quietly. “No other rooms tonight.”
Silence. Again.
“I got food,” you add after a few seconds, gesturing toward the table. “Fries and shawarma. Water’s in the fridge.”
Islam drops his bag with a thud and walks over to the table. He crouches down and opens one of the takeout containers, steam curling up into his face. He looks back at Khabib, who watches him for a second before finally setting his bag down as well. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t eat. Just grabs his bottle of water and disappears into the bathroom without a word. The door shuts behind him with a click.
You stare at Islam. Islam stares at you. Neither of you say anything. Finally, you roll onto your side, pressing your cheek into the pillow, trying to ignore the way his eyes still feel like they’re on you.
This has to be a punishment. Some karmic retribution you don’t even remember signing up for because of course this is how your night ends: trapped in a motel room with Khabib, Islam, and exactly one bed.
When Islam finally steps out of the bathroom, he stands there for a second—blinking, like he forgot how small the room actually is. Khabib’s already sitting at the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched forward, face blank. He changed into a fresh shirt and another pair of shorts, the black waistband twisted slightly like he didn’t bother to fix it. One big hand slowly drags down his face. You’re still on your side of the bed.
Islam’s standing at the foot of the bed now, holding his folded hoodie in one hand like he’s debating whether to throw it on the floor and sleep there.
Khabib doesn’t even look at him. He just shifts slightly to the side and mutters, “Идём.”
It’s flat. Final. Letting him know there’s no point avoiding it anymore. Islam doesn’t argue. He circles around the other side and climbs in carefully. He keeps to his edge, arms still folded over his chest, eyes on the ceiling.
Khabib exhales, long and heavy, before lying back beside you.
Fuck.
Now it’s real.
You’re in the middle and everything’s impossible to ignore. Islam’s knee shifting slightly under the sheets, brushing the mattress near your calf. Khabib’s shoulder close behind you, broad and warm through the thin layer of air between your skin and his shirt. Your own body feels like it’s too loud—the heat of your body, the rise and fall of your breathing, your own blinking.
Your tank top rides up slightly when you shift. You tug it back down instinctively, even though no one’s looking.
No one speaks.
Khabib moves just slightly—not toward you, but not away—just enough for the bed to dip beneath his weight. You try not to let your body react. Islam moves a second later, like he was waiting for Khabib to do it first. His forearm brushes the sheet between you for just a second before he turns slightly onto his side, facing away.
You’re caught between them now. Sandwiched. You stare at the ceiling and wish you’d packed something else to sleep in. Something looser. Longer. Less… whatever you’re wearing. But it’s too late now. You close your eyes and breathe, slow and careful, like that will trick your body into relaxing. It doesn’t. Your body knows it’s lying.
You don’t know if either of them is asleep. You don’t know if they’re thinking the same thing you are—that this is ridiculous, that this is weird, that the heat in this room isn’t just from the barely-working air conditioning and weak fan.
You bite the inside of your cheek and wished your brain would be capable of shutting the fuck up for two seconds.
The space between the three of you isn’t big enough. The air isn’t cool enough. The bed isn’t wide enough.
You close your eyes anyway.
It’s fine.
You’ll sleep.
Eventually.
Khabib couldn’t sleep after the fan died.
It was 2:43 a.m.. He could tell by the red glow of the microwave clock across the room. It stutters, clicks twice, then goes quiet.
It’s been hours since the three of you got in bed. No one has said a word. Not since Islam turned and kicked the sheets off the corner of the bed in his sleep, letting out a small “Жарко” under his breath.
He’s right. It’s hot. The heat was worse than those afternoons back home when the gym’s air conditioning would sputter out mid-session. Worse than the time his father made him run hill sprints on the hottest day of the month. He didn’t even know it could get this hot. He’s already turned his pillow over twice. Nothing helps.
And worst of all, the bed was small. Too small for three.
You’re between them—him and Islam. You’re lying on your side, facing him, back arched the slightest bit, your knees curled toward your stomach. You’d fallen asleep hours ago in nothing but that tank top and those thin cotton shorts. No bra. He noticed that the second you walked out of the bathroom. He didn’t mean to look. Didn’t mean to watch the small top cling to the curve of your breasts. Your nipples. Didn’t mean to think about the way you stretched, the little sigh you made as you moved slightly, your knee bumping his leg. The way it made his dick twitch.
Didn’t mean to remember it now, either. His head has been pounding for hours. His stomach growls. He didn’t eat after training. He never does this close to a fight. Water, a little salt—that’s all. But even his mouth feels dry now. His body’s sore from training and the dehydration made it worse. He hasn’t had real carbs in three days.
But somehow, none of that compared to this—having to lie so close to you.
He wasn’t supposed to see you like this. Wasn’t supposed to think of you like this.
He closes his eyes.
This was a test. The heat, the headache, the starvation—all of it. It had to be. The kind of test his father always warned him about—“Jahannam is hotter,” He could practically hear him saying that right now.
Astaghfirullah, he thinks to himself. Just try to make it to the morning.
Then, Khabib feels the bed move and hears a creak.
He opens his eyes again.
It’s Islam.
He didn’t say anything, but Khabib could tell. He’s awake.
Then, finally, a whisper, “…Хабиб.”
He didn’t answer at first.
Islam tries again, a little clearer. “Вентилятор умер?” The fan died?
Khabib huffs. “Да.”
Islam shifts. “Можно ли открыть окно?” Can we open the window?
“Он застрял.” It’s stuck. Khabib whispers. “Я уже пробовал.” I tried earlier.
Islam sighs.
Khabib turns his head slightly, still staring at the ceiling. “Спи. Делать нечего.” Sleep. There’s nothing to do.
A few seconds of silence pass.
“Она… спит?” She’s… asleep? Islam asks.
Khabib looks at Islam. His eyes are barely visible in the dark, but he can tell he’s looking—not at him. At you.
His stomach starts to twist. He knows that look. That foolish, hungry kind of look men get when they think no one notices. A boy’s gaze. It makes Khabib’s jaw clench. He should know better. Why doesn’t he know better?
“Хватит.” Khabib’s voice cuts sharply. Stop it.
Islam blinks, startled. “Я не…” I wasn’t–
But Khabib cuts him off before he could even defend himself. He doesn’t want excuses. Doesn’t want to hear Islam try to make it sound innocent. It never is. You give your eyes permission first, then your thoughts, and soon enough, the body follows. Then you lose yourself completely.
“Смотри на потолок. Не на неё.” Look at the ceiling. Not at her.
Islam mumbles something under his breath.
“Что?” Khabib asks. What?
Islam doesn’t respond. The bed creaks again. He hears Islam roll onto his back. Khabib turns his head, ready to tell him off again when-
Khabib sees it.
The small tent straining beneath the thin fabric of Islam’s shorts.
Khabib exhales hard through his nose.
“Ислам…”
No response.
It didn’t matter. Khabib saw everything. He always did. And what he saw burned hot in his chest, his face, his body—not just anger at Islam, but something uglier. Recognition. Because he knew exactly what ran through Islam’s head in the silence of a dark room. Knew it because the same shameful thoughts pressed at the back of his own mind, clawing for space.
“Контролируйте себя.” He said finally. Control yourself.
hey it’s lanalovebabe. miss your posts and hope you’re doing well x
OMG!!!!!!! HI MY HEART I HAVENT SEEN U IN MY INBOX IN SO LONGGGG 💕💕💕 thank you so much ml, life has been chaotic recently to say the least but it’s been on my mind lately to pump something new out… the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak 💔
hi my loveeee!!!! i keep forgetting about tumblr unfortunately bsjejdjdjdmfkdnd if i do post it will probably be spontaneous i still love my ufc boys this writer’s block is just insane :((((
chika's mouthpiece: can you guys tell i write these during my period? i want that welterweight bitch so bad (this was a request from a few months ago, isu was suppose to be "dominant" but im lowk ass at that but i did my best)
summary: isu being a munch this time
warnings: super unedited, vaguely tried to describe what a penis looks like and probably didn't succeed fuck you hope you guys like EDGING
wc: 4k
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Islam has gained weight recently.
You think of Khabib, for example, the weight gain came naturally—retirement was no joke, especially after a lifetime of training. Everything about him had filled in softly, and of course, Khabib embraced it without much argument, like a man. As for Islam, however, his weight gain was an entirely new change. A necessary one, in your opinion.
You think Islam is in a bad mood. It’s not a difficult thing to spot when irritation was etched across his face, the grinding clench of his jaw. Islam just leans forward, invading your space as much as he liked as his unoccupied hand came up to wrap around the nape of your neck, and you can’t believe how strong he really was now, not when he yanks you backwards and eases you onto the bed with perfect control that stops you from slamming your head back. If only your heart didn’t feel like it was going to slam right into your ribcage and, sounding a desperate, frazzled noise, you make a last ditch effort to twist away. No use, again, Islam just holds you in place, keeping you pinned by the neck, while he bullies your thighs apart with the other hand.
He doesn’t wait, doesn’t even so much as pause, and you try very hard not to yelp when he rather boldly swipes his hand straight down to the soft cradle of your thighs. Eyes widening in mute embarrassment, you rock back and try to squeeze your legs shut to no avail. It proves in the way his hand was curling around your cunt, cradling it in the palm of his hand, and you can’t think straight, much less form a coherent sentence.
A heedy sigh slips out of you, and you find yourself pressing your hips into the touch of his rough palm—you were such a perfect fit in his hand. Since Islam’s arrival back home from after what he claims was a ‘hard training’ session, he looked more than just a bit disgruntled, kneeling on the bed between your naked legs. Yet the very obvious bead of glistening moisture that runs down the underside of his erection catches in the low lamp light, its steady descent was a testament to show how invested he was at the moment. Islam was doing a very good job at not portraying how affected he was at the moment.
“Islam.” You say, more quietly than you realize.
“Be quiet.” Islam softly breathes, practically hissing the words. Pushing up to kneel on his knees beside you, he lets go of your nape, instead, he grabs your ankles and uses them to pull you closer to him.
You quickly bite down on your lower lip to stifle any other sounds you could make, and you vaguely wonder if you might draw blood, because Islam firmly pressed the heel of his palm into the apex of your mound, purposefully applying pressure. His dark lashes hold no light in any of the tiny fractures, he alternates between squeezing you and grinding over your clit with sure, even twists of his wrists. Islam presses down harder and you resist the choke in your throat that was threatening to make itself known—your eyes take on a dazed, far off quality. Then, he adjusts his hand.
Your opening is almost obscenely slick with the vicious amount of fluid he caused, Islam groaned quietly as he slowly glided the length of his fingers down your slit smoothly, slowly spreading you apart. You nearly start to protest—but you don’t speak a word, and instead, he cuts you off with a shaky inhale. Islam brings his other hand close to press against your hip, holding you down, while the other tentatively dips inside the softness of your opening. You blindly reach for something to grab onto, but all your fingers could find was the bedsheet and the pillows, which didn’t do much to settle the torturous feeling Islam was putting you through. You jerked and writhed, but he knew what he was doing when he pressed down harder onto your hip, the bruising hold was practically telling you not to move anywhere.
Islam’s fingers skirt across your inner crease until he finds what he was looking for, the nerves in his hand give a tiny jolt, sending shockwaves of unexpected pleasure shooting through you as he retraces the sensitive area through his touch alone—he’s mumbling something that you can’t quite make out, but it wasn’t really much of your concern. Not at this moment, at least.
The indelicate friction has you twitching, pointless though it may be, and Islam swats his hand to the curve of your upper thigh. He doesn’t miss the way your thighs flex around his wrist and minutely can’t up to the pressure.
Islam uses his index finger to keep your clit exposed, and relies on his middle finger to flick the bundle of nerves back and forth. You’re stiff as a rod at this point, and Islam was the sole cause of it. He draws blood beneath the surface of your clit, before grinding it back down in tight circles. You’ve been overwhelmed, but not like this, not when you were shaking straight down to the very innards of your soul—you rock back into Islam with a loud, heavy exhale that you couldn’t control even if you tried.
“I told you to be quiet.” Islam says aloud, not slowing down his ministries for even a second. Still his chest tightens at the sight you were, the way your soft lashes flutter and twitch. You’re drowning in pleasure and it’s such a perfect color on you. Islam pushes down on you with even more fervor to make your delicate thighs twitch and splay further apart for him. You screw your eyes shut and bite down on your tongue to silence yourself even as you jut your hips up into the building pressure of his hand—it’s hard to breathe, and your chest is starting to heave as if you had just gone running for miles on end.
In your eyes, Islam remained as nonchalant and even disinterested about what he was doing as he seemed to expect you to be, and you can’t help but wonder how he as a man can be so unaffected by it even as your aching cunt continues to grow stickier. It almost seems to border on obscene.
But he maintains his implacable facade.
A violent shudder suddenly assaults you in a rush, and you bite back a whimper that was low in your throat, deliriously trying to reign your control back in. The involuntary throbbing deep within you starts up again, mirroring the frantic pounding of your heart while your hips weakly twitch with the onset of an orgasm you hopelessly try to stop. Islam leans over you, against your front. Your face feels like it's on fire but you don’t say anything, only sighing softly when he at last has you situated how he wants you to be. Islam quietly tuts at you, turning his head to press his mouth against your hair, a violent tremor slices through you when you feel his lips pursed against the side of your head in a brief kiss—you don’t get the chance to fully process it.
Dizzy with the surge of arousal that crashed into you with all the force of a ram, you give a weak, twitchy roll of your hips against Islam. “Look at what you did. You soaked the bedsheets.” He spoke against your temple, displacing some of your baby hairs to send them dancing at your peripheral. With a quiet click of his tongue, Islam slides his hand over your mound once again, cupping your cunt with an almost aggravated squeeze, and you quickly turn your head away in embarrassment. Islam is back to his motions from before, you can feel the drag of your clit underneath the petting of his thumb, almost idly drawing it back and forth with a total lack of urgency that was making your head spin. More so than the sharp stabs of pleasure do.
It was clear that Islam was not going to give you what you wanted.
“Please. Islam—!”
There’s a soft hum that comes from his throat, it’s a soft sounding thing, a striking contrast to his person, judging simply by the way he presses his thumb down a bit more firmly. You tip your head back against the pillows, panting up at the ceiling while the waves of yet unrealized ecstasy washed over you, each somehow more powerful than the last. Islam forces his hips inwards a little more, inching your legs further apart even as they trembled fiercely for him, and you think, idly, how lucky you are. To be laid underneath a man like Islam. You’re helpless to do anything except sensitively tremble, and you do so with fervor.
“Already?” Islam muses, his voice is soft, but it still carries that subtle hint of an edge underneath the surface. Sometimes you can’t believe it, why he would sound like that—softspoken and sweet—when he was so tormenting.
The firm, weighty pressure of Islam’s thumb petting over your cunt, his other fingers idly tracing along your slit where they were still spreading you. The cresting pleasure was making you writhe on his lap, and your eyelids flutter shut. The size of him, all of him, the weight pressing against you, it was all too much, and it felt like you were drowning in him. “I’ve barely touched you.” Islam continues, unconcerned with the way you twist against him and choke on sputtering gasps. He leans in once again, his nose tracing along that soft, satiny part of your throat that drove him crazy, before pressing his mouth to your hammering pulse. It’s not so much as a kiss.
“Maybe I should stop. You want to catch your breath?” Islam’s words cut across you, practically slicing across your jugular. A small, boyish laugh leaves his lips. “You’re breathing like you just fought five championship rounds.”
Just like that, the hand on your cunt retreats, and Islam sits up, pulling away altogether to leave you shamelessly askew, he instead resorts in favor of latching both palms onto the soft give of your inner thighs and keeping them spread while you frantically twitch. Islam watches, soft eyes moderately hidden beneath sharp, dark brows. No longer teetering right on the precipice, he finds it funny to watch you be forced back a pace or two. All you can do is look at him, longingly, in the promise of oblivion beyond with yearning and desperation. You want something, but you’re not allowed to have it. Islam was the kind of lover who—like a tide receding and swelling—fed into the momentum.
You had underestimated just how foul of a mood Islam truly was in.
After he had silently studied you for a long moment, eyes swiveling up to regard your face when you shuddered against him, drinking your expression. He finally dragged his gaze away from your face to regard the state he had left you in.
“Islam.” You murmur in disappointment, frowning at him imploringly. He pulls his hands away to rest them at your waist.
Islam kept his pelvis slotted comfortably tight in the cradle of your body, muscles slightly twitching whenever he moved, the outline of toned abdominals shifting just under the skin. He briefly leans down once again, a shudder racing through your spinal strut once he pressed his new weight atop of you, bare chests pressing into one another. The feeling of a heartbeat is something precious—Islam’s heartbeat was your sanctuary—but you find it hard to focus on his rhythm when he claims your mouth in a much more demanding kiss. He rolled his pelvis against your cunt, and you huff as those curling tendrils of pleasure thread through your abdomen, winding your sensitized nerves into something even tighter.
Islam pulls away to shift his attention away from your lips, the soft buzz of his hair tickles against the nape of your neck just so, seconds before he places a brief, lingering kiss to the jut of your shoulder. Following the gentle slope, he gradually makes his way up to the base of your neck one lingering kiss at a time, as if measuring the length of your throat with his lips only. 4 kisses in length, then 5, then 6. Still, he ghosts over your quickened pulse. It felt like you were going mad over having him in such terribly close proximity like this, it wasn’t helping your resolve in the slightest. Through Islam’s affection, his hands remain stationary around your waist, as if to keep you from demanding reciprocatory attention from him. These hands do not roam about to explore your body any further than what Islam could touch with his mouth, he’s just holding you in place, cradling you there against him.
It’s exactly what you expect from him when he was in a bad mood, a lover who seemed perfectly content to just take whatever he wanted without remorse; and you have to suck in a slow, faltering breath to steady yourself when he works his way back, a hot path up the curve of your jaw now.
Then, Islam’s hands start to move again.
First, they slide upwards from your waist to tauntly rake down your front, leaving the faintest of warmth across your flesh before they drag back down to paw over the curve of your hips. Islam pauses there to give you another tight squeeze, fingers pressing into the flesh but not in a manner that could bruise you. The threat of it is there though, that silent fact that he could easily hurt you if he really wanted to—but he doesn’t do it. Instead, Islam just eases his hold on you enough to palm over your thighs, down and then straight back up the back of them, until his splayed fingers finally press into the underside of you.
The heat that rushes to your face is a familiar one, Islam doesn’t grant you enough time to protest before he is sitting back up again.
Large hands smooth their way back to the dip of your navel, thumbs tracing the outskirts of your slit, before shamelessly spreading you open. You suddenly feel extremely lightheaded, and it wasn’t just because of the waft of cool air against your most intimate of areas—but the knowledge that Islam was looking at you with this expression of complete uninterruption. The picture Islam paints kneeling between your legs is lurid and provocative, shameless and yet tantalizing in the worst possible way.
“Turn around.” Islam says this to encourage you, but it's fruitless to move in your current state. So the solution is to manhandle you, just as easily as any other opponent in the octagon.
It’s unmistakable, from the distinct sound of the mattress softly creaking. The suddenness of him shifting you onto your knees makes your heart lodge itself into your throat, and you can’t hold back the small sound of surprise as you make an effort to half twist around to look back at him. Islam only meets your look with those brilliant, soft eyes he only ever seems to make at you. This tender look only lasts for a moment, and there's no protest when Islam roughly pushes you forward to elevate your lower half, angling your cunt right up at him.
There’s no real use trying to angle away from him, it does little to deter Islam from his goal. He pinches your hips into a tighter hold, letting out a small, frustrated huff as he slowly spreads your slit open once more.
All is laid bare when he is holding you open like that, his warm breathing fans across your skin—except this time it tickles over. You do your best to keep your thighs pressed together, hoping to preserve at least some of your supposed modest dignity.
“Hey, be nice.” Islam warns, his hand swatting against the give of your hip. You gasp sharply, the evidence of his bad mood leaving you swaying almost dizzily, even as you reach back to blindly swat at his head. It’s a little unfortunate that your heart wasn't really in it, though, plus, being spread and admired like this—there isn’t much you can do when your body is most certainly responding in kind to him. All you succeed in doing is fruitlessly smacking at the side of Islam’s head, yet all he does is let out a humored sound of encouragement in response, you usually have much more intent behind it whenever he chooses to mess with you.
“I said be nice, why are you so mean? Say sorry to me.” Islam begins once more, but his words hold an inkling of a smile, skimming over your flesh.
You can’t help the small curve of your lips digging into one side of your face, and you fumble slightly to get your hand up again, mercilessly shoving it into Islam’s head and using as much of your force to push his head back, putting at least some space between you and him. He merely returns, keeping his head beneath your palm. Twisting around at the same time as your swat of the hand, you pin him a flustered look. “You hit me.” Islam noises a brief, unbothered sound, and instead blows against you, forcing a warm pulse to resume between your legs with a slow, anticipatory clench.
“There. I blew on it, so now it won’t hurt anymore.”
Oh, he was so—!
“Islam!”
He imploringly tips his head to the side and half dragged your palm along with it where you had kept it pressed against him. Islam presses a kiss to your inner wrist before pulling your hips back, his attention drawing back down to the shameful spread of you. Islam’s hands adjust, loosening and then tightening in a better grip around the curve of your hips so he can give you a taunting jostle. You tip forward onto your elbows, trying to curdle down the urge to start squirming again—it’s hard not to, when there were only a few short inches separating his nose from your slit.
Islam presses a fleeting peck to the end of your spine, and your jittery nerves only grow when he kisses his way down to the seam of you once more. You suck in a sharp breath as Islam’s lips press into the naturally formed line of your slit, the startled goosebumps erupting all over your skin seem to be partnered with the soft moan you involuntarily let out. Rocking unsteadily on your elbows, Islam does you a favor by not paying it any mind. The sensation of more slick forming at the entrance of you prompts him to inch your thighs apart. There’s a soft hiss that leaves you when Islam purses his lips—kissing at your cunt—before opening his mouth wide and then sealing it over your entrance.
You jolt, trembling from your head straight down to your toes and so you bury your head into your arms to silence any real embarrassing sounds that were trying to crawl their way out of your constricting throat. The wet swipe of Islam’s tongue, to be looked at so closely was one thing, but being licked was somehow even worse. It feels like he doesn’t even have any shame, or remorse, highlighting the fact that whatever happened during training must have been bad.
Shifting to the side, you make an effort to dissuade him, and Islam just follows you, pressing his face more firmly into the space between your legs. He pulls back a fraction of an inch, letting out a heady sound that falters towards the end before he quickly shoves his mouth against you again and he’s right back at it. Islam’s supple lips eagerly locate that bundle of nerves so he can swipe at it deeply, forcing your body to respond.
Your knees trembled, your cunt had already been weeping with sympathetic pleasure, but now it was even more softer than before. Even more sticky. A strangled noise is choked out of you, you weakly try and twist your upper body around to see if you could swat at his head again, but you’re torn. Shove Islam away? Or pull him further in against you?
The answer is lost, because Islam makes a half-smothered sound before he tips his head and seals his lips over you more securely than before, tongue lashing out to lap across the dip in the center to coat you in an obscene amount of drool that slowly drips down and off of his beard. It doesn’t seem like he’s all that concerned about how nasty he’s being, he certainly doesn’t show it. You choke on a sharp inhale when Islam directs his tongue to the middle of your cunt, poking, prodding—he takes a moment to just taunt you with the suggestion, before, at last, pressing the warm muscle of his tongue into you.
Your body can’t help but reject it at first, clenching tight to keep Islam out, but the softened state of you quickly gives way when he presses his tongue right into the vulnerable center to just dip inside. It startles a squeal out of you, not realizing how much you’re already sweating, rocking forward with such a strong jolt that you almost tip yourself off balance on your elbows and land on your face. Islam is quick, though, and he unlatches one grip on your hip to instead settle it to anchor around your waist. What could you assume? Is Islam keeping you steady? Or is he stopping you from trying to escape?
To your mute horror, Islam only yanks you back against him.
You moan weakly, blindly reaching back to latch onto his thick wrists in an effort to anchor yourself even further, but he doesn’t even seem to notice, continuously tugging at your hips until he’s got you practically straddling his face, all but smothering. “Isu, you can’t–” A trembling breath spills past your lips. “Islam—!”
His response is completely muffled to the point of being unintelligible, lost upon you on his mouth. At your practically upside down angle, your attention is drawn to the demanding erection laid at the flat of his stomach. Although, the muddy moisture in your eyes conceals him for the most part, much to your disappointment. A soft nude color gathers on the delicate tip, much like the hue of Islam’s eyelids. He had been hard before, but he was downright galvanized now, you almost couldn’t believe it. Your mouth runs dry at the glimmer of a beading drop of pre-cum, well, at least before it softly dribbles down onto the bedsheets.
To think that Islam had blamed you for the mess on the sheets. He held as much blame.
Islam shifts underneath you then, pulling you away from your disbelief thoughts when he rolls his tongue up against your cunt and begins to prod at its center again. You seethe through your teeth, giving a weak little jerk of your hips in an attempt to loosen yourself from his grasp, but it's no use. Islam, as always, is horribly sturdy, even with the majority of your weight practically balanced in his hold, there’s no real chance of getting yourself free at this point. You wonder, briefly, if it felt the same for his opponents.
“Islam, relax.” You groan, your elbow growing tired from keeping you balanced against the mattress. Impatiently sucking on your teeth, you add: “I’m not used to this.”
Islam doesn’t seem to particularly like your suggestion, and he manhandles you further forwards until your spine bows enough to arch, until you can feel his coarse lips brushing over the seam of your cunt. You gasp at the sensation of sticky slick smearing across his beard and mouth, and still, it doesn’t seem to bother him any more than the spit had. Finding a pocket of empty space between your thighs, Islam hums, low and soft, the sound of it sending a reverb of tremors racing through your system. It’s almost starting to hurt now, and when you try to dismount from him in earnest this time, he merely tightens his hold around your hip.
Heart hammering out a wild rhythm against your ribcage, you viciously dig your nails into his wrist in a desperate bid to keep yourself upright, but you ultimately let go to prop your elbow back onto the mattress, head hanging weakly. Islam is pressed so deeply into you, it’s a fleeting concern, you’re not sure how he isn’t suffocating himself like this.
Islam is not phased. Not at all.
He finds himself much more preoccupied with working his mouth further up your cunt so he can press the delicate bundle of nerves within, his tongue aggressively spearing through soft, satiny creases and folds until he, once again, knocks against your clit to make you involuntarily jolt. You try to kick your ankle, rightfully startled over the sensation that tears through you all at once—Islam huffs out a breath against your cunt. He wants to laugh.
There was so much accumulated slick and spit coating you, when Islam is pressing into you, a soft, wet click rings out through the air. Tongue curling out and up, Islam presses it flat over the apex of your slit and leisurely undulates the muscle to drag at that sensitive spot. Islam’s tongue swirls your clit with tight, narrow circles to knock it from all sides, before once again flattening. You think a breath was punched out of you, breath snagging enough to make your mind sway, lightheaded. There’s intense, shuddering shockwaves ripping through you, and the pressure is firm to make your thighs tremble around his head, the heat pooling in your guts abruptly heightens, drooling even more arousal to coat Islam’s face.
Gravity is forcing you down and the need for stability is keeping you still, and it's not a struggle for Islam to keep you centered in the middle. No use for squirming even if you wanted to, your hips giving a tiny, restless nudge that only results in grinding against his face. There’s stars erupting in your vision when Islam works messy folds and creases apart so he can find that trimming bundle again, and you whine when he knocks it, clenching and unclenching around nothing.
Islam seals his lips over your clit and gently worries it between his teeth. At this, you seethe sharply, and desperately try to lower your front closer to the mattress so you can nudge your cunt away from his mouth. Islam refuses to create any space between, and he licks you with broad, steady strokes of his tongue for a moment—before switching gears and flicking it back and forth. You give a violent jerk, nails gouging into the sheets. It’s suddenly harder to draw in a full breath than it was only a moment ago, and with your hips juddering, you unintentionally press back onto Islam’s face with a wounded gasp of pleasure.
The series of half-stifled, frantic gasps aren’t enough to show how much you were feeling, and Islam keeps you pressed right up against him no matter how much you buck or twist—his hold on you was painful now. His fingertips dig into your skin hard enough to know that there will certainly be bruises, and it serves as a reminder of just how strong he was now.
The back of your eyes are stinging with tears, you can feel that building coil inside of you, pulsating. Your cunt clenches uncontrollably against Islam’s face, practically drowning him in arousal—but he keeps lapping at you.
Suddenly, though.
Shaking his head, Islam presses further into you and settles somehow even deeper into your cunt, he opens his mouth wide, the drag of his lips against you makes you sob out in frustration as he drags his tongue straight up through you.
Then, it stops, and Islam leans back.
You whimper at the rush of cool air that runs through you internally, as when as the waft over your cunt, only emphasizing just how much of a sticky mess Islam had made of you, he loosens his grip, allowing you to slowly sink down to kneel on the bed and settle between his spread thighs. The muscles in your arms are grateful for the break, but why would he stop? Why—?
“You look tired.” He says, the sound of his rough hewn voice tearing you out of your reverie.
18 + Dustin poirer x reader - morning sex drabble⋆˚࿔
Morning sex with him was sweet and lazy. He was spooning you, with his chest pressed against your back, his head resting on your shoulder blade as he slid his hand underneath your thigh. Holding your thigh up, your hand slipped between to slide your panties to the side and pull down his boxers enough to let his cock spring free.
His lips gently pressed against your neck, a groan slipping as his cock rubbed in between your folds, gathering your slick so he could easily slip into you. It started with slow, lazy thrusts, but eventually turned fast and sloppy. The hand holding your thigh up slid down to circle your clit, giving you just enough pressure to reach that high sensation sooner rather than later, while his arm hooked underneath your thigh to keep it up.
"Y'feel so good in the mornin'.. y'know that?"
He murmured, his lips brushing your earlobe. His hand rubbing your clit trailed up along your body until he grabbed your chin, forcefully, yet still gently turning your head to face him. He leaned in to press his lips against your own, while his thrusts slowed ever so slightly. He wouldn't exactly be able to kiss you if you were already busy moaning so sweetly for him.
"Feels good, yeah?"
He spoke softly against your lips, the corners of his own curling up into a knowing smirk before he kissed you more deeply, taking advantage of the moans that slipped out for him to slip his tongue in. He knew exactly what to do and what to say to make you fall over the edge. With his thrusts once again becoming faster, yet still sloppy as his lips stayed pressed against your own. With a groan from his lips, you could feel him slam his hips harder against your own, before a warm, wet sensation filled you to the brim.
What else could you want on a warm sunday morning? >ᴗ<
i have sm asks in my inbox for khamzat and after 319 i wrote two separate fics for khamzat AND ddp but now i feel like its poorly timed considering i was supposed to finish them up a little after 319😭😭😭would you guys still read????
Usman gets back to the apartment at 12:38 a.m., keys scraping the lock a little louder than he means to in the quiet hallway. Training ran long again. It always does when he’s not satisfied. The place is dark except for the kitchen light you left on.
He pushes the bedroom door open slowly, trying not to make noise, already knowing you’d be asleep.
As he expected, the room’s dim—just that warm lamp glow on your side. You’re curled under the blankets, half-awake, phone still loose in your hand like you tried to wait up and lost the fight.
You’d kicked the blanket off sometime in your sleep. He can see the curve of your thighs, the soft dip of your waist. Your lips are parted. Chest rising slow. That little outline of your nipple under the thin fabric.
Usman exhales shakily, kneels beside the bed. Doesn’t even realize his hand is reaching out until he’s already dragging his knuckles up your thigh. Just barely.
You don’t stir. You trust him so much. His sweet, innocent girl. You're laid on your stomach, shirt riding up your back, soft little panties hugging your ass. Your legs are spread slightly from sleep.
And he can see the damp spot between your thighs.
Usman swears under his breath. He should wake you up. He should.
But, instead, he locks the door.
Then he slowly peels his hoodie off. Breathes hard through his nose, eyes fixed on your sleeping body. You’re so warm when he presses up beside you. So soft. You don’t stir when he pushes your hair back, kisses the side of your neck. Doesn’t move when he runs his fingers down your spine. Not even when he grips the waistband of your panties and starts dragging them down, slow… slow… Your pussy’s glistening. You must’ve had a dream.
“ебать…” he whispers. His cock is already so hard it hurts. He fists it right there, breathing heavy, the head swollen and leaking. And he watches, eyes dark, as his fingers slide between your folds, parting you gently—testing.
And you’re wet. So fucking wet.
He touches you so gently at first. Just two fingers. Then more. Rubbing lazy little circles over your clit, watching your hips shift like your body knows him already, even in your sleep.
You shift a little, sighing in your sleep.
"Shh… хорошая девочка," he breathes, face close to your ear. "You sleep… I take care of you."
He starts rubbing you soft, slow. He needs this. His fingers dip lower, finding your entrance, and he sinks two inside, groaning under his breath at how tight and warm you are.
You’re staring to feel it—he can see it. The way your hips arch slightly, your thighs twitch, like your body recognizes him. Like your pussy wants this, even if you don’t know it yet. Even if you’re dreaming.
He grips your hips, breath hitching as he lines himself up. The head of his cock presses against your soaked entrance, and for a moment, he hesitates—forehead against your shoulder. He shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t be doing this. Come on, Usman. Wake her up.
Then he pushes in.
You let out the softest little moan, back arching, still asleep.
That’s it—that’s what breaks him.
He starts fucking you slow. Deep. Like he’s scared he’ll wake you. Like he wants to wake you, just to see the look on your face when you realize it’s him inside you. But you stay asleep, face buried in the pillow, breathing sweet and slow.
"Так хорошо… так тесно…" So good, so tight. he whispers, eyes rolling back. He’s gripping your hips, fucking you deeper now, his thighs smacking against the backs of yours. He leans down, hand sliding under you to rub your clit, and you let out another soft moan. Sweet, sweet girl. He kisses your cheek, your ear, your lips.
It doesn’t take long for him to start getting sloppier—his thrusts getting rougher, faster, careless—filthy sounds echoing in the room. His cock’s so deep in your pussy, he can feel you squeeze around him with every stroke.
He slams into you one last time and cums so hard he sees stars—moaning into your warm skin, hips grinding against your ass as he spills inside you. Hot and thick. A full load flooding your cunt. Fuck, he’s sure you’ll feel it. "Прости…" he pants, pressing his forehead to your back. I’m sorry.
And he stays there, cock still buried deep, breathing in your scent, feeling your warmth. Wondering if you’ll wake up sticky in the morning, confused and sore and full of him. Wondering if you’ll ever forgive him for what he did to you in your sleep. Wondering what’d he do if you didn’t.
