pairing: islam makhachev x khabib nurmagomedov x reader
summary: Youāre 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 wasnāt 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 boysā¢, 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: iāve had this cooking up since last summer yallā¦ im just finishing it nowššthere will be a part two coming, i think yall can guess whos pov itāll be in ššššš
They didnāt want to be in America in the first place.
At least, Khabib didnāt. He complained about New York the whole drive from the airport: the smell, the traffic, the people. Islam, on the other hand, didnāt say much at all. It was his first time in America, and he looked like he didnāt know where to start. He barely said a wordāeyes wide, glued to the windows. When it came to you, you were stuck translating, fighting jet lag, and the recent news that UFC had āaccidentallyā booked one less hotel room than needed.
You werenāt 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 wasnāt the bestāyou didnāt think youād actually use it for much more than in awkward conversations in grocery store lines and ordering coffee wrongāso why not get better? You took up volunteering at some gym in Dagestan to fill your hours. Something different. Something to do.
Thatās where you met Khabibāat 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 youād never actually see him, like he was some myth. He was always somewhere elseātraining in America, cornering fights, doing interviews in cities you couldnāt 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 tooālaughing, 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 didnāt expect him to even glance your way. But his eyes landed on you almost immediatelyāand 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 noāhe was headed directly atā¦ you.
āYou are from AKA?ā was the first thing he said to you.
It took you a second too long to realize he was actually speaking to you. āAmerican Kickboxing Academy?ā
He smirked. āYes. I know you. You help.ā
Huh. Now that you remembered it, you didnāt 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 AKAāhis first time there, you thinkāto 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 didnāt.
From there, it justā¦ happened. Slowly at firstāKhabib 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 werenāt 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 didnāt know Islam wellāonly in the way you knew someone who was always by another personās side. He was quieter, less direct than Khabib, more shy, and youād 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 youād been his person all along.
āShe come,ā he told his manager. āShe fix all.ā
You hadnāt even been sure what āallā 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 werenāt 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.
āAgain,ā Khabib says from behind you, snapping you out of your thoughts just for you to find out youāre actually hereāstanding 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. āŠŠ²ŠµŃŃ Š½Šµ Š¾ŃŠŗŃŃŠ²Š°ŠµŃŃŃ?ā
Something about the door not opening. You shake your head. āItās probably just the angle. Theyāreāā You swipe it again. āā¦like this sometimes.ā
Khabib steps forward. āI do,ā 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. āOkay, letās just-ā
You freeze in the doorway.
Islam walks in last, swinging the door shut with his footāand 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.
Itās small. Full-sized, maybeānot even a queen. Thereās 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 thereās a second room hiding there. There isnāt.
āŠŠ“Šµ Š½Š°Ń Š¾Š“ŠøŃŃŃ Š“ŃŃŠ³Š°Ń ŠŗŠ¾Š¼Š½Š°ŃŠ°?ā Islam asks. Where is the other room?
āThere, uhā¦ā you say, too quietly. Then louder: āThis is the only room.ā
Khabib turns to you slowly, āŠŠ“Š½Š° ŠŗŃŠ¾Š²Š°ŃŃ?ā He points. One bed? āThis mistake?ā
You nod. āYeah.ā
He stares at it for a second. Then: āI call UFC,ā he says. āThey fix?ā
āNo, noāā Because you know exactly what he meansāyouāll 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. āThey mustāve messed up the listing. Or I clicked the wrong thing. I donāt know. Itās whatever. We can find another place tomorrow.ā
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. Maybeā
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 byā¦ you.
You donāt 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 didnāt happen. Then you slide it into your pocket.
And thatās it. Youāre going to hell. You swear, youāre going straight to hell. Or worseāhaving to share a bed with two men who think youāre just their translator and not a complete fucking idiot.
Islam bends to unzip his bag. āŠÆ Š¼Š¾Š³Ń ŃŠæŠ°ŃŃ Š½Š° ŠæŠ¾Š»Ń.ā I can sleep on the floor.
āWhat? Noāā You open your mouth to answer, but thenā
āŠŃ Ń ŃŠ¼Š° ŃŠ¾ŃŠ»Šø?ā Are you crazy? You hear Khabib say.
Islam blinks up at the two of you.
You press your palm to your forehead. āOkay, no. No oneās sleeping on the floor.ā
Itās 98 degrees outside. Hot. Youāre frustrated. And this is not the argument you want to be having right now. āJustāā You start, trying to talk in a way thatās easily digestible for them to understand, āWhy donāt you guys go check out the gym? Walk around. Explore the city a little. Iāll get some food, maybe call the front desk. Try to fix all this.ā
Neither of them looks convinced.
āNow?ā Khabib asks.
āYeah,ā You nod, a little too quickly. āYou shouldnāt have to worry about this. Iāll figure something out.ā
Islam doesnāt move. Heās still standing by his bag, hand curled loosely around the strap like heās not sure whether heās staying or going. Then he looks at Khabib, and Khabib sighs.
Finally, he nods. Not really like he agreesāmore like heās choosing to let it go, for now.
You donāt 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?
Itās almost 5 p.m. when they come back.
Youāre 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 weāre initially supposed to go to. When you asked if they had a room āfor tonight, three people, please anything,ā 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 itād be crazy to call Dana White personally and demand a room at the fucking Four Seasons. You didnāt. 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 mightāve changed while you were gone. It hadnāt. 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 counterāyou figured theyād 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 youād chosen: tiny shorts and an old tank top that shouldāve been left at home. You didnāt dress for this. You didnāt expect to be sharing a roomālet 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 didnāt mean to look so small, so curled up, but the room suddenly feels too full now with the two of them inside again.
Khabibās eyes slowly move across the room. Still only one bed. His jaw clenched for a second but he doesnāt 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. āI talked to the front desk.ā
Islam raises his brows. The smallest flicker of acknowledgment. Waiting.
āThey said maybe tomorrow,ā you say quietly. āNo other rooms tonight.ā
Silence. Again.
āI got food,ā you add after a few seconds, gesturing toward the table. āFries and shawarma. Waterās in the fridge.ā
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 doesnāt sit. Doesnāt 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 theyāre on you.
This has to be a punishment. Some karmic retribution you donāt 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 secondāblinking, like he forgot how small the room actually is. Khabibās 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 didnāt bother to fix it. One big hand slowly drags down his face. Youāre still on your side of the bed.
Islamās standing at the foot of the bed now, holding his folded hoodie in one hand like heās debating whether to throw it on the floor and sleep there.
Khabib doesnāt even look at him. He just shifts slightly to the side and mutters, āŠŠ“ŃŠ¼.ā
Itās flat. Final. Letting him know thereās no point avoiding it anymore. Islam doesnāt 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 itās real.
Youāre in the middle and everythingās impossible to ignore. Islamās knee shifting slightly under the sheets, brushing the mattress near your calf. Khabibās shoulder close behind you, broad and warm through the thin layer of air between your skin and his shirt. Your own body feels like itās too loudāthe 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 oneās looking.
No one speaks.
Khabib moves just slightlyānot toward you, but not awayājust 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.
Youāre caught between them now. Sandwiched. You stare at the ceiling and wish youād packed something else to sleep in. Something looser. Longer. Lessā¦ whatever youāre wearing. But itās too late now. You close your eyes and breathe, slow and careful, like that will trick your body into relaxing. It doesnāt. Your body knows itās lying.
You donāt know if either of them is asleep. You donāt know if theyāre thinking the same thing you areāthat this is ridiculous, that this is weird, that the heat in this room isnāt 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 isnāt big enough. The air isnāt cool enough. The bed isnāt wide enough.
You close your eyes anyway.
Itās fine.
Youāll sleep.
Eventually.
Khabib couldnāt 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.
Itās 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 āŠŠ°ŃŠŗŠ¾ā under his breath.
Heās right. Itās hot. The heat was worse than those afternoons back home when the gymās 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 didnāt even know it could get this hot. Heās already turned his pillow over twice. Nothing helps.
And worst of all, the bed was small. Too small for three.
Youāre between themāhim and Islam. Youāre lying on your side, facing him, back arched the slightest bit, your knees curled toward your stomach. Youād 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 didnāt mean to look. Didnāt mean to watch the small top cling to the curve of your breasts. Your nipples. Didnāt 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.
Didnāt mean to remember it now, either. His head has been pounding for hours. His stomach growls. He didnāt eat after training. He never does this close to a fight. Water, a little saltāthatās all. But even his mouth feels dry now. His bodyās sore from training and the dehydration made it worse. He hasnāt had real carbs in three days.
But somehow, none of that compared to thisāhaving to lie so close to you.
He wasnāt supposed to see you like this. Wasnāt supposed to think of you like this.
He closes his eyes.
This was a test. The heat, the headache, the starvationāall of it. It had to be. The kind of test his father always warned him aboutāāJahannam is hotter,ā 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.
Itās Islam.
He didnāt say anything, but Khabib could tell. Heās awake.
Then, finally, a whisper, āā¦Š„Š°Š±ŠøŠ±.ā
He didnāt answer at first.
Islam tries again, a little clearer. āŠŠµŠ½ŃŠøŠ»ŃŃŠ¾Ń ŃŠ¼ŠµŃ?ā The fan died?
Khabib huffs. āŠŠ°.ā
Islam shifts. āŠŠ¾Š¶Š½Š¾ Š»Šø Š¾ŃŠŗŃŃŃŃ Š¾ŠŗŠ½Š¾?ā Can we open the window?
Khabib turns his head slightly, still staring at the ceiling. āŠ”ŠæŠø. ŠŠµŠ»Š°ŃŃ Š½ŠµŃŠµŠ³Š¾.ā Sleep. Thereās nothing to do.
A few seconds of silence pass.
āŠŠ½Š°ā¦ ŃŠæŠøŃ?ā Sheāsā¦ asleep? Islam asks.
Khabib looks at Islam. His eyes are barely visible in the dark, but he can tell heās lookingānot 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 boyās gaze. It makes Khabibās jaw clench. He should know better. Why doesnāt he know better?
āŠ„Š²Š°ŃŠøŃ.ā Khabibās voice cuts sharply. Stop it.
Islam blinks, startled. āŠÆ Š½Šµā¦ā I wasnātā
But Khabib cuts him off before he could even defend himself. He doesnāt want excuses. Doesnāt 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.
āŠ”Š¼Š¾ŃŃŠø Š½Š° ŠæŠ¾ŃŠ¾Š»Š¾Šŗ. ŠŠµ Š½Š° Š½ŠµŃ.ā Look at the ceiling. Not at her.
Islam mumbles something under his breath.
āŠ§ŃŠ¾?ā Khabib asks. What?
Islam doesnāt 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 Islamās shorts.
Khabib exhales hard through his nose.
āŠŃŠ»Š°Š¼ā¦ā
No response.
It didnāt matter. Khabib saw everything. He always did. And what he saw burned hot in his chest, his face, his bodyānot just anger at Islam, but something uglier. Recognition. Because he knew exactly what ran through Islamās 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.
āŠŠ¾Š½ŃŃŠ¾Š»ŠøŃŃŠ¹ŃŠµ ŃŠµŠ±Ń.ā He said finally. Control yourself.
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