I made an edit inspired by one of my stories that I have been working on since yesterday and I wanted to share with you guys a little snippet on what I have so far. Enjoy!!
The beat was hypnotic. Industrial and dreamy at the same time, like being underwater in a factory. Islam lay on his bed—*the* bed, the one his subscribers knew so well, the one with the charcoal gray sheets that looked almost black in the right light—and stared at the ceiling, watching the LED strips around his headboard pulse in slow, lazy waves of purple and blue.
His finger hovered over his phone screen. The app was already open, camera positioned just so. He could see himself in the preview window: the sharp line of his jaw, the dark hair he hadn't bothered to cut in months, falling over his forehead in a way that his fans went feral for. The black tank top that was really just for show, because it wouldn't stay on long.
Three hundred and forty-seven thousand followers. That was the number waiting on the other side of the glass.
It hadn't always been like this. There had been a time when Islam Makhachev was just a boy from Makhachkala with calloused hands and a dream that didn't have a name yet. A time when the only thing he wanted to show the world was his fists, his discipline, his ability to endure pain without breaking.
Now he showed them everything else.
The music faded lower. Almost gone now, just a ghost of bass vibrating through the floor. Islam sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and tapped the *Go Live* button.
The notification went out instantly. *islam_makha is LIVE: private show starting soon 🖤*
His screen flooded with hearts and usernames. *LoverBoy_99*, *DaddyIssues_4Real*, *KhabibTheEagle*—wait, no, not that one. He blinked, but the name was already gone, buried under a thousand others. His heart did something strange in his chest, a flutter of unease that he pushed down with practiced efficiency. Just a coincidence. There were millions of people with that name.
"Hey," he said, voice low, the accent he tried to hide when he was working slipping through just enough to be exotic. Just enough to be *expensive*. "Miss me?"
He didn't read them. Not really. He'd learned early that reading the comments during a show was like trying to breathe underwater—possible for a while, but eventually you drowned. Instead, he let his body do what it had been trained to do, what he had spent years perfecting like any other craft.
The tank top came off first. Slow. His fingers catching the hem and pulling it up inch by inch, revealing the torso that had been his first real asset. The abs he'd carved out in his father's gym when he was sixteen, the chest he'd built during those endless Dagestan summers when the heat made the air shimmer and the only relief was movement. The V-cut that dipped below his waistband like an arrow pointing to his worth.
You probably don’t know the plot yet but you will find out soon enough.. that’s all I wrote so far💔 not much ( I should have the first part done by Thursday if I stay consistent)
Ok well to help you understand a bit more khabib is a crazy ass stalker.. and Islam is a porn star 😭✌🏻
gummygunk
kianamaiart
