Is it a crime?
Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3
pairing: Islam makhachev x reader
wc: 2.9k
sorry for the long wait, wrote the ending during my grad ceremony :P probably my fav part to write (maybe cuz it's the last one hehe)
listen to forget her by jeff buckley when reading :P
Everything is fictional and does not represent who they are IRL, nor does it intend to offend anyone, all for fun.
The dinner was pleasant to say the least. That night you slept with a smile on your face, remnants of the good times you’d spent with Islam resurfacing like a forgotten prayer answered. One dinner turned into two, and two turned into five.
Next thing you knew, you were in his apartment, with soft music playing in the background as he cooked you dinner after you told him you were exhausted from work.
The sweater he wore was rolled up at the sleeves as he mixed in the pasta. “You got a nice place.” You commented, breaking the peaceful silence between you. Though his back was turned on you, you could hear his smile as he said, “You can stay here if you want.”
“Alright buddy.” You scoffed as a joke. The tension that once was there during the first dinner, now dissipates into a tender ambience.
Islam turned his head towards you before plating the food. “Don’t call me buddy.” He frowned.
“Why not? You’re my buddy aren’t you?” You teased as a hot plate of shrimp pasta sat in front of you. Islam sat on the chair opposite to you, rolling his eyes though a smile adorned his face.
“You have other ‘buddies’ that cook like this?” Though his words sounded like a joke, you couldn’t help but glance at his face. His eyebrows knitted like the thought of you considering him “just as a friend” pains him physically.
“Maybe one… or five.” You teased, watching his face drop.
“Really?” He asked, you wanted to laugh at his clueless face.
“No. Only you.” Islam smiled at your reply, content with your answer.
It soon became a routine, him cooking for you as you chatted about your work, the new movie you were watching, or a book you were reading. The domestic scene falls into place with your schedules, a sense of normalcy that the two of you could only dream of years ago. It felt like all the pain you burdened after he left was now redeemed.
You were leaning against his chest as his arms wrapped around your shoulders, a movie playing on the TV in front of you when he called out your name. You shifted your focus towards him, humming a reply.
“I’m…going back to Dagestan in a week.” He declared softly, his fingers running up and down your shoulders. Your heart fell as he uttered those words, and you couldn’t help but to feel disappointed. Islam had memorized your expressions by now as he gave you an apologetic smile.
“It’s just for training, but I wanted you to know that I really am serious about you.” He explained.
You smiled at his confession. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. And…I don’t think we’ve had a…proper conversation about what happened.”
“Isu, it’s okay–”
“It’s not. I’m sorry that I left you all those years ago. I just—you’re the only person who makes me feel this way, my angel. I love you, and I don’t want to ever lose you again. I want to be yours.” A tear rolled down his cheek as his eyes casted downwards.
Your hands cupped his cheek as you wiped away his tears. “Oh Isu…I love you.”
“Will you forgive me?” He muttered, his eyes now meeting yours.
“I forgive you.”
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⚜༺𓆩❦︎𓆪༻⚜ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
“Declaring the winner, byyyy knock out!!!! Islam Makhachev!!”
“I want to dedicate this win to someone special to me.” His voice rang out. Khabib smiled brightly as he slid beside Islam.
“My angel has been there for me, and she deserves to be loved loudly.” Khabib’s smile dropped as he realized who Islam was talking about. As their manager was about to convey Islam’s words into English, Khabib pulled him back with a slight shake of his head.
“Спасибо тебе за веру в меня, я тебя люблю.” An homage to his angel, his reverence to your love. Now it was Islam's turn to smile brightly; the weight on his chest was lifted as his words bled of worship. There, you watched Islam — your lover — declare something so sacred proudly. His devotion deserves to be rewarded.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⚜༺𓆩❦︎𓆪༻⚜ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
The kiss was hungry and desperate as he slid a hand on your waist. “My angel.” He would whisper like a prayer between the feverish kisses; his pupils blown from the extent of pleasure he was feeling.
It was soft, pure – unholy. Yet, Islam couldn’t get enough of you and the way your touch engraved itself on his skin. Your bodies intertwined as his soul felt consumed in your divine. He embedded his kisses onto the curves of your body, his hands tender as he caressed your angelic face. A sweet innocence in his gentle sin.
A soft smile on your face as he wiped away the remainder of him with a warm towel. He pressed a soft kiss on your temple, a reassurance – perhaps an apology. Your mind is too fogged with exhaustion to decipher the look on his face.
The guilt came later. Cold water trickles down his body, washing away the faint remnant of your touch. He didn’t feel dirty – don't get him wrong – he felt the eyes of God on him. His morals collapsed the moment he felt you.
Islam, the devout.
He shut the water off abruptly before getting dressed. “Fuck.” He whispered, his hands gripping the sink tightly as his head hung low. You were outside, sleeping peacefully, and yet here he is, the pleasure moments ago being clouded by a guilt that he couldn’t shake off. He couldn’t tell why his eyes started watering, tears blurring his vision as he slid down the wall.
He wasn’t just afraid of God’s judgment. He was afraid of yours.
All the promises he made to you were erroneous. He had muddled them with his faith. Islam’s addiction ruined him as a prospect, or rather, made him into one. He is addicted to you, the way you made him feel whole, you lingering in his mind made him want to prove something. But a small part of him knows that loving you is wrong. It wasn’t lust that clouded his mind, it was greed.
Islam is a liar.
He wants to have you without sacrifice, but even heaven demands death.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⚜༺𓆩❦︎𓆪༻⚜ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
The sun softly caressed your cheeks as you blinked awake. His arms were wrapped around your waist, a sense of security washing over your skin.
“Good morning, angel.” His voice laced with sleep greeted you as he peppers kisses along your shoulder.
“Morning, Isu.” You mumbled, turning over to face him. Your hands found his cheeks as you traced his features. The scar above his eyebrow, down to the crease beside his eyes, and finally the valley of his lips. He looked so peaceful beside you, an image only you were blessed to witness.
“Don’t you have training today?” You whispered. Hope bloomed in your chest, perhaps this domesticity could prolong for the day.
“No. I won yesterday, remember?” He answered as a smile stretched across your face.
“So… I have you for the day?”
“I’m all yours for today darling.” Islam answered, sealing his words with a kiss upon your lips.
The day felt perfect, the two of you enjoyed each other's presence—it was everything you had dreamt of. You started to wonder, perhaps you could live like this…with him.
“Why don’t you ever celebrate like the other fighters?” Your voice rang out — vibrating in your chest, making Islam look at you.
“Yes I do?” He responded questioningly, putting down the book he was reading.
“Well no, I mean other fighters do backflips and stuff.” You rambled, your hands making their way to his head.
“Because I’m humble, my angel. All those guys are posers.” He mumbled, closing his eyes in relaxation. You huffed a laugh at his reply.
“You know…I’ve been thinking…”
“Mhmm?”
“You’re serious about me right?”
“Of course I am.”
“Would you want to introduce us to our parents?” You asked timidly. Islam took a deep breath at your question, his eyes opening to look at you.
“If you’re not ready, it’s totally fine. It’s just—we’ve been together for so long now and…nevermind, forget it.”
Islam sat up abruptly. “What? No—I do. I do want to.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. My angel.” He pressed a kiss on the crown of your head. For the first time in a while, everything felt in place.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⚜༺𓆩❦︎𓆪༻⚜ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
You turned off the engine in your car before applying your lip gloss.
“Is he here yet?” Your mother questioned.
“I'm not sure. I'll text him.” You opened your phone and shot him a text.
19:00 🪽: Isu, me and my mom are already here. Are you on the way? Isu 🤍: I’m sorry my angel, I have something to take care of. The reservation is under Makhachev. 🪽: Okay, be safe. Let me know when you’re here.
“Hi, we have a reservation under the name Makhachev?” You smiled at the hostess as she tapped her tablet.
“Yes, right this way.” She smiled, guiding you and your mother to the table.
19:10 🪽: Love, we already ordered. Are you on the way yet? Isu 🤍: This might take a while. Enjoy your food first ❤️ 🪽: We’re eating without you and your parents? (( Isu 🤍: I’ll try to be there before 8. 🪽: You told your parents right? Isu 🤍: They can’t make it tonight, I’m sorry love. Maybe another time. 🪽: I thought the whole point of this dinner was to introduce us to your parents? Deleted! 🪽: Text me when you’re on the way. Isu 🤍: I will. I love you 😄❤️ 🪽: I love you back ❤️
19:30 🪽: Islam are you okay? Text me please. Read!
20:40 🪽: Where are you? We finished our food already.
Missed call from 🪽
21:00 🪽: Islam are you going here or not? We’re leaving if you’re not here in 30 minutes.
Half an hour passed, and your food was long gone; meanwhile, the message you sent stayed on delivered. The waiter passed by your table and gave you a pitying smile as she refilled your water.
“Are you…still waiting?” The question unravelled an ache so profound it turned into a ringing silence.
“Oh…um… I’d like the bill please.” You answered quickly, and a small smile settled on your lips. Your mother squeezed your hand with a concerned look on her face.
“Mama it’s fine.”
“No, it’s not fine. I don’t like that he keeps you waiting. He hasn’t even told his parents.” Her voice full of disdain, unable to see her daughter being treated as such.
“Ma–”
“I’ll always support you, but waiting for a man? My dear, you’re better than this.” You didn’t have the energy to argue with her, and deep down — even if you didn’t want to admit it — you were slowly getting left behind. Waiting for him.
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⚜༺𓆩❦︎𓆪༻⚜ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺
The knock on your door was frantic, and you could tell it was from Islam. You didn’t want to open the door, anger leeching in your heart. Islam was calling out your name on the other end, no doubt making noise. You reluctantly opened the door, his face twisted into remorse and worry.
“My angel I’m so sorry, I just—”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses.”
“It’s not an excuse! Khabib—” You laugh bitterly at the mention of that name. A presence that indirectly loomed over your relationship. A name that Islam had used as an excuse countless times. Even now, his phone in the pocket of his jeans was buzzing, undoubtedly angry calls from Khabib after he left their training in a hurry.
“You made me wait there like an idiot!” Your words carried a heavy weight that you had burdened over the years. The agonizing years of being kept a secret, years of swallowing your self respect and the years you have lost waiting for a man that couldn’t make up his mind.
“I know, I'm sorry. Let me make it up to you, I can–” Islam rushed out, his hand reaching for you as you inhaled a shaky breath.
“It’s over.”
His hand hung in the air, the two words striking his nerves. “What?”
“I’m done. I’m sick of this Islam.” Tears brimmed your eyes, your words prickled against his skin.
“No– what–” “I told you this was going to happen.” “My angel. You’re not thinking clearly. Let’s talk about this inside, okay?” He muttered softly, the conversation felt like a deja vu. “I’m done embarrassing myself. I’m done waiting—staying for a… a fleeting romance.” “Fleeting? I love you genuinely— Is…is that what you think this is?”
There was a beat of silence as his question hung in the air. You couldn’t bear to tell him the truth, or rather, the fact that your heart was still wrapped around his hands. Because in all honesty, you just wanted to be loved by Islam. Yet, he carries the pressure of tradition and duty. You were never meant to be intertwined.
“Yes.” Islam saw the hesitation in your eyes, the slight tremble in your voice as you straightened your posture.
“So what? Everything we had… was that just fleeting too?”
“Yeah, because you were too much of a coward. I love you Islam, but not like this. Not when I feel like you only love me in the dark.”
“I do love you!”
“Can you stop raising your voice? The neighbours are going to hear.” You hissed, annoyance bubbling under your skin towards the hard-headed man in front of you.
Your name never sounded so sweet in his mouth, though it had only left you with a ringing sound.
“If you truly do love me, Islam. Leave.”
“Baby you know I can’t do that… I can’t… I can’t live without you.”
“Try. I’m sorry, Islam. I can’t do this anymore.”
“No, Ple–” He didn’t finish his sentence before you slammed the door on his face.
Islam could barely write when he was told God is the Most Gracious. Most Giving, Nourishing, and Merciful. The phrase repeated itself when he had won his first sambo competition, then again when he was offered a contract with the UFC, and again every time he had won in the octagon. God has given Islam everything that made him who he is.
God blessed Islam.
That's what everyone around him says. He is blessed with his ability to thrive in a sport that demands his blood. But blessings require sacrifice. His brother, Kurban, sacrificed his love for the sport to work two jobs to support him. An action deemed honourable. And he, Islam, sacrificed his love for you to keep his own honour. An action wrapped in shame.
“Allah granted you this win, Islam.” The words were familiar in his ear as he honed the two belts that rested on his shoulders. Islam forced a smile. As much as he was grateful for the support, the win, the crowd, he wanted nothing more than to collapse in his bed and sleep.
“Alhamdulillah, I am happy with this fate.” He cracks a smile as a hand pats his back. A picture was taken, and Islam had stopped counting at the cameras pointed at him. He excused himself as he pushed around the crowd, occasional pats making their way to his shoulder whilst he walked towards the exit.
The outside wind was refreshing compared to the crowded hall he was in. Fancy cars and small crowds of people littered the gravel, a reflection of the types of people in the building he was in moments before. He had made it. He finally lived in the world of glamour that, as a child, he could only see on television. As he recollected his composure, he saw something that made his heart drop. You. Laughing and chatting with people he recognized as family friends. How could he be so stupid? Of course you were there. You are an established journalist now, staying true to everything you had dreamed of.
You hadn’t changed since the last time he saw you six years ago. Although there was a glow in your face, a lightness in the way you moved. Something he hadn’t seen in a long time, but you were still the same angel he loves. Your eyes caught his as surprise flickered in your face. Melancholy seeped into your bones as his eyes bore into yours. Islam wanted to reach out — call out your name. As you adjusted the necklace you adorned, he noticed a glimmer in your hand.
Your finger held the most beautiful ring he’s seen. The glare from your ring finger mocked him whilst he pushed down the bile rising. As if the universe wanted him to see, a man slid beside you, and his hand found your waist as if it belonged there.
“Darling, there you are. I've been waiting for you.”
Your laugh was easy, pulling your husband close as you leaned closer towards him. “I'm just catching up with some old friends.”
“Hi, I'm her husband. As much as it's a pleasure to meet you, I think we've been socializing way too much.” Your husband's humorous bluntness sent waves of laughter among your friends.
“You ready to go, my love?” He asked, his voice dropping an octave for a question meant only to you as his eyes fixated on yours. You nodded, saying your goodbyes to your friends.
Islam shouldn’t feel jealous. He has no right to be. He should be moving on, focusing on his career like he always told you. And yet, you were etched in his skin, crystallized in his mind so much that you could find yourself in his fingerprints. Islam had won the belts, but not you. Never you.
Ever so subtly, for just a fleeting second, you turned and smiled at him. A last goodbye. Fate bestowed itself on your path, and acquiescence was the verdict.
He was to burn, And you, his angel, were to ignite.
"Спасибо тебе за веру в меня, я тебя люблю." - Thank you for believing in me, I love you. the end!!! i love angst
also the pics i use for every part foreshadow the parts! (little rant sorry) in part 1, the shadow pic represents their hidden relationship, their inability to be public or integrate themselves in each other's lives. in part 2, the hand reaches and barely touches the other's hand, representing the unreachable nature of their relationship (peep the wedding ring on the girls hand). in part 3, they are fully detached, representing the finality of their separation :P
