#ufc x reader

[ufciris]

This man is genuinely so beautiful it’s insane. Only watching Swedens football matches for him God I love blonde men

[hislittlesparklejumpropequeen]

Islam Makhachev x reader

Warnings; creampie, breeding kink, pregnancy, marriage, 18+ content

Word count:873

A/n: sorry if there are any mistakes. Wrote this very quick and just wanted to post it. Don’t forget to check out my other Islam fanfic ;3

Masterlist

Islam always loved children and wanted to be a father himself, as it was a part of his culture after all. He wanted a big family with the woman he loved. So when two of you got married, he didn’t want to wait to have kids. You on the other hand, wanted to enjoy your marriage with him first. Wanted to travel, wanted to get to know each other better than ever. But it wasn’t possible when Islam was fucking you raw every chance he got.

When you woke up early in the morning, bed still warm with his huge body, he would pull your panties to side and slide himself into you, making you wince since you were already sore from last night. He would shower you with kisses as his thick cock was beating your poor pussy, the wet sounds filling the room. You were all pretty, spread out on his bed, under him, reminding him how you were his and only his. He would fold you in half with his strong arms, your knees nearly touching your ears as he pushed his hips deep as possible, his tip kissing your cervix. And when he came inside you, his balls clenching painfully against your wet folds, his abs stretching in front of your eyes, it would spill out of you, forcing your walls to tighten to keep his load in you.

Before he left to go to gym, he would fuck you right by the door, your comfy home clothes on the floor, down to your ankles and his arms wrapped around your waist, his fingers lost between your hair, manhandling you as he pleased. His eyes would be fixated on his dick going in and out of you, your pussy creaming around his length. His phone would blowing up with the messages and phone calls from Khabib and rest of the team, asking why he was late as he was making your eyes roll back into your skull. He loved when you went stupid with his dick in you, drooling and could not even remember your own name as he fucked you like some feral animal. He made sure to put your panties back up after he came in you, painting your walls white.

“Keep it in.” He would whisper and leave a soft kiss to your temple. You would be still shaking as he grabbed his bag and left the house.

But the real obsession started when you casually explained him what ovulation was. He was mesmerised that he could get you pregnant in those few days. And to his luck, ovulation made you horny as well.

You saw him playing with one of his nephews or nieces, he would get ridden into the mattress the same night. He couldn’t understand how your legs were so strong, just bouncing up and down on his dick as if you were a professional athlete. His hands would be on your tits, massaging them and imagining how they would look like once they were filled with milk. The image of you, round and full with his child, your whole body changing and creating a new life would make this dick twitch inside you.

You heard him talk to his friends, saying he wanted at least 7 kids, he would be fucking you on your fours, just holding your ass and sliding himself in and out of you. It felt primal to fuck you like this, proper mating and breeding. He would grab your hair, pulling you up to his chest, kissing and biting your neck as his other hand worked in your clit. God, he loved how wet you always were, just taking him right in without any problem, legs always open for your lovely husband.

And when you were finally pregnant after 2 months of marriage, it was a no surprise to you. You and Islam were fucking like rabbits, using every chance you had. The news of your pregnancy changed him completely, making his demeanour softer, making him more careful around you. It was true that your pregnant form made him hornier than ever, making his dick leak into his underwear every time you were wearing your cute shorts around the house. Still he kept it silent as he was too afraid to hurt you or the baby.

But how could he say no to you when you wanted him to fuck you, telling him how wet you were after seeing him train with his friends? He was about to enter shower when you stopped him, asking him to come to bedroom really quick. And next thing he knew, he was bottoming out of you and making your tears of pleasure flow down your cheeks. Your pussy felt heavenly, better, wetter and tighter than ever. Your walls were sucking him in, making his legs shake as he was inside you. He could swear you smelled better once you got pregnant, your sweet scent getting even sweeter, making his mouth water.

His brain was foggy as he came inside, hips still going back and forth slightly, overstimulating both of you. He couldn’t wait to get you pregnant again and again until there was nothing left in his balls.

[freethen1p]

imagine you’re taking your new husband islam’s virginity…

both newlyweds are still buzzing from the wedding that took place only hours ago. islam can’t stop staring at you; he knows what’s coming next. he’s nervous and it’s clear to see: wringing hands, tapping shoes, rolling shoulders. he’s not even like this before a fight to defend his gold. just with you.

of course, you know what’s coming too. you have more experience, not much, but enough to where your knowledge makes you the ringleader. that’s why when you get to your honeymoon destination you’re the one laying your husband’s back flat on the bed, helping him strip off his clothes with fidgety fingers. he looks at you with lidded eyes, waiting for any instruction.

you sit over his lap where his throbbing cock leaks against your stomach, his size reaching past your bellybutton from this angle. jumping his bones now is tempting, but you have to teach your husband the necessity of foreplay.

dragging his thick fingers to the sweet nectar between your legs feels like the slowest, most intensely-charged moment of your entire existence. when the pads of his digits ghost over your slit, you’re practically jolting with electricity. it seems to jolt islam to life too by the way his eyes widen and his fingers press harder. his middle finger sinks into you with desperate need while his palm cups your pussy.

isu cant help but stare between your twitchy legs as his finger starts to slide in and out. only does he look up to your face when he hears your first moan; quiet and broken, laced with something sweet that he understands he’ll be addicted to from now on. he realizes that he doesn’t care how this’ll feel for him as long as he can make you feel good enough to make those sounds again. some sense of desperation grows inside of him watching you writhe against his palm, your wetness dripping down onto him and you happily smear it into his palm as you grind down in your own desperation.

his lonely cock twitches against his stomach now, fully hard and beet red waiting for your touch. by the way your pussy sucks his finger in, islam’s not too sure how his length is supposed to fit inside of you. that thought alone makes him adjust his hips in arousal, but that’s a conversation for another time..

seconds pass before you’re chanting your husband’s name, thighs squeezing around his hips in a desperate attempt to close from the stimulation. has he really made you cum this easily? and islam hears that other men have struggled with this, how? he’s obsessed with this new side of you, flushed and gushing around his finger.

and when you recover? when he’s got you flat on your back, manicured nails between your legs to guide him to your needy hole? oh.. he’s done for! his eyes fight between shutting and opening wide, watching in bewilderment as your cunt stretches around his length. it’s a slow process, trying to get you to adjust, islam trying not to cum right then and there, but eventually you reassure him that it’s okay and you feel good.

he’s so breathless and it’s right in your ear when he leans over to start rocking his hips. you think you might explode from the sheer size of him alone, every thick vein scratching the walls of your pussy deliciously, and he knows it. it’s all so overwhelming for him really, getting to touch you and see you like this. islam sucks your left nipple into his mouth and closes his eyes to debate with himself where to focus his attention.

of course, he picks your cunt that drenches him newly each time he pushes back into her. her. he likes that, thinking of your pussy as a separate entity. the way she squeezes his cock, sucks him back in, pulses around him..

his pace is fast and frantic. he’s talking, maybe to you, maybe not, muttering something in russian that you don’t fully understand. the two of you start to stick together from the sweat that’s accumulated, but neither of you find it in yourself to care, especially not when you’ve pulled him in for a sweet kiss. your husband is a strong man; but you can break him like no one else.

“kukolka, please, i never…” he pauses, breathing hard, licking the sweat off your temple, “i never felt so much.. so good.”

isu has you hurdling over the edge with his last few strokes: deep, erratic, and fast. his dick kisses your cervix while his lips kiss yours, swallowing every perfect moan and soaking up every shaky breath. the way your walls flutter and convulse around him it’s another kind of magic that he never realized you had.

you’ve been keeping a very special gift from him?

“i feel..” but the words never come. there’s nothing to describe the feeling, not in english at least. islam’s hips snap once, twice, three times, before his hot seed shoots deep into you. he’s completely bottomed out, and doesn’t plan on moving anytime soon. or ever!

and when or if he ever recovers from this experience, round two is immediate. your sweet husband needs your sweet nectar..

[starrgazed]

18+ Welterweight!Islam Makhachev x Reader - size kink ⋆˚࿔

He's aware that he's bigger than you, so much bigger. Pure muscle, buff, huge, beyond average- especially now since hes moved up a weight class, packing on double the muscle from all the extra training and meals.

He watches you whine as you take in one of his fingers, clenching tight around it, your insides are hot and he groans, he needs to feel that around his even thicker cock.

You're immediately pushing him back, because you can barely take it, even his middle finger is too much for you, he knows, of course he knows, as he watches the fat tears drop from your pretty eyes.

"Shh, you do so good for me - you can take it, yes малышка?"

He likes you smaller for a reason, he likes when you struggle to take him, trying to stop him before he can even go past the tip of his dick, begging for him to go slow, but he knows that you don't really mean it, not with those hazy lovestruck eyes.

Thats why he loves you so much. His pretty little thing, made to take him- all of him.

He coos at you, as he forces his ring finger in as well, quickening his pace.

You moan and squirm around, whining about him filling you too well, but he knows something else that'll fill you up better. He scissors at your leaking hole, rubbing at the nub at the top, which makes everything feel better, too much and too little at the same time.

"you want to come from just my fingers, huh?"

And it's so much faster, his fingers slam into you at a brutal pace, your eyes rolling back, biting at your lips hard enough to draw blood.

As the pleasure washes over you and you feel tiredness pulling you into a sweet dreamland. You faintly hear the sound of a zipper.

"let me take care of you принцесса."

and you're out without another thought.

[isusdoll]

paddy head canons pls i beg

boyfriend!paddy x reader headcanons

a/n : your wish is my command... i love his lil accent its so cute

boyfriend!paddy who is loud and proud. the type to literally shout to the world that you're his. he'll post you all over his socials, dedicate every fight to you, and never shut up about you.

boyfriend!paddy who never really stops talking. he knows how to fill every silence. teasing you, narrating what he's doing, rambling about food, or recapping a fight he just watched. you've learned to tune out half of it lovingly.

boyfriend!paddy who is protective to the max. he's not controlling, of course, but he hates the idea of anyone disrespecting you. he'll go from goofy to deadly serious in seconds if someone crosses a line.

boyfriend!paddy who thrives on your attention. always moving, always affectionate, always trying to make you laugh.

boyfriend!paddy who is very touchy and clingy. he's always got an arm around your shoulder, his hand on your thigh, or his head in your lap while watching telly. physical affection is his love language and happy place.

boyfriend!paddy who will kiss your forehead constantly. especially after fights or training, when he's all sweaty, you'll protest, but he just grins and does it anyway.

boyfriend!paddy who'll take over the remote but always give in if you want to watch something. he'll grumble and act uninterested, but ends up way too emotionally invested in your favourite shows.

boyfriend!paddy who constantly raids the fridge for snacks, then comes back, offering you one even if it's the last bite.

boyfriend!paddy who will rub your feet without even asking, claiming it's just because, "they look cold," but you know it's his sneaky way of being close.

boyfriend!paddy who will get pouty if you're distracted for too long. "you've been on your phone for ages, y'know." then he'll steal it and hold it above his head until you give him attention.

boyfriend!paddy who will sometimes trace shapes on your arm or your back, and when you ask what he's doing, he'll say something like, "dunno. just like touchin' you."

boyfriend!paddy loves to go grocery shopping with you. you'll be trying to focus, but he's pushing the trolley like it's a race car and filling it with snacks you told him not to get.

[hoesinmysocks]

Omg idk if you’ve done one already, if so pls link me 🫶🏼 but can you do a NSFW alphabet for Islam (Makhachev) if you haven’t already pweeease 🥹💕

Islam Makhachev NSFW Alphabet ⋆˚꩜｡

Islam Makhachev x wife!Reader 🫧⭐️

Warnings: Heavy smut! MDNI please!

a/n: Ask and you shall receive lovely anon 😽 Thanks for the request and do let me know what you think of it!

Masterlist link

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

A - Aftercare: Islam very affectionate after sex, and likes to leave a trail of kisses over your body, humming and whispering sweet words of praise as you come down from your high. He doesn’t like to leave you alone, so usually he’ll just pull you on top of him and hold you until you fall asleep. Sometimes he’ll even pull out his phone so the two of you can watch some Instagram reels together (he’s chronically online let’s be honest) and have a good laugh to wind down from a wild night.

B - Body part: You go insane for his biceps. Everytime he flexes those guns you can literally feel yourself getting soaked. You have a photos album on your phone solely dedicated to mirror selfies that the two of you take where Islam is purposefully flexing his biceps behind you. On you? Islam loves your thighs. He loves putting a hand on your thigh as he drives, loves watching the way they move when you run together, loves kissing them and watching you shiver in delight. He also loves being suffocated by them when you wrap them around his head as he eats you out… but that’s a conversation for another day.

C - Cum: In you, preferably. Finishing in you is just the most divine feeling in the world. Plus he wouldn’t mind having a litter of kids running around soon, so what’s not to like? Islam doesn’t like finishing in your mouth; he feels like it’s too degrading. Whenever you suck him off, he’ll always pull out before he comes and finishes in his hand, or even better, asks to be in you before he’s even close to finishing.

D - Dirty secret: He’s never admitted it, but the few times that you’ve called him “daddy” in a moment of playfulness or tease genuinely arouses him. It plays into his domineering side and he loves the way you say it with such innocence and charm.

E - Experience: Contrary to popular belief, Islam isn’t all that experienced with sex. He’s never had a steady girlfriend before you to practice on, and all his other sexual encounters were meaningless one night stands when he first came to America. But he’s a fast learner, and is always enthusiastic to find new ways to please you.

F - Favourite position: You two get really creative when it comes to fucking. You’ve done it upright against the glass shower door, sideways where he’s fucking you in a headlock (he loved this one), traditional missionary or doggy with your head shoved against the mattress so hard you can barely breathe… He doesn’t really have a favourite — he’s down to do whatever the occasion calls for.

G - Goofy: Islam can be pretty funny during sex. If the vibe isn’t strictly hot and heavy, he likes to be playful and make you laugh. He has always thought that your smile is one of the most beautiful things in the the world, and he’s always trying to find new ways to crack you up (even when that’s during the cracking).

H - Hair: Islam is very carefree with his hair maintenance downstairs. He lets it grow out totally, sometimes to the point where you have to remind him to trim it, at which he will just shave everything completely and start afresh with a bald shaft. In his words, shaving down there is not on his priority list because who else sees it but his lovely wife?

I - Intimacy: He’s such a romantic. To him, sex is an opportunity to worship and adore you and your body. It’s the most intimate thing a couple can engage in. He’s always touching you, kissing you, showering you with compliments and encouragement as you fuck. Outside of the bedroom, even in front of his team, he makes sure everyone knows you're his. A subtle hand on your waist, a lingering reassuring gaze…

J - Jack off: Because of his line of work, he’s away from you a lot, and sometimes he just can’t control the urge. He’s always thinking about you and moans your name as he finishes. He never asks for nudes but he will stare at this one particularly scandalous picture of you in nothing but a thong that he keeps hidden in his phone.

K - Kinks: We all know this man has a breeding kink. He wants seven kids and is prepared to do all the dirty work to knock you up. But Islam also has a thing for some light BDSM. You’d introduced him to the world of choking (during sex of course; this man is very familiar with choking outside of the bedroom), spanking, hair-pulling… And it totally changed the game for him.

L - Locations: Islam is lowkey into public sex. You've only done it once — in the arena toilet right after his first title shot. He was so full of adrenaline and ecstasy that the moment he saw you backstage he knew he needed you then and there. He knows it's super risky but he’s secretly been itching to try it again.

M - Motivation: His turn-ons aren’t immediate. Usually it’s the build up of things that eventually gets to him. He’s particularly aroused when you take charge of situations and show your more dominant personality. Something about you scolding Usman for making a scene, or barking at Amru to put his phone away at the dinner table; he can’t help but feel a tinge of arousal.

N - NO: Islam isn’t really into dirty talk, not just because he finds it slightly awkward and embarrassing, but also because he thinks it’s wrong that he should be calling you such horrible names and insults. Outside of the bedroom, Islam would never dare disrespect or degrade you, so why should that change in the bedroom? The spanking and choking is the flip side to his otherwise impenetrable morals — it’s what you want, and after all, isn’t it his job to please his woman?

O - Oral: Surprisingly, Islam isn’t the biggest fan of blowjobs. He thinks it’s dirty and doesn’t like seeing you on your knees taking him. When you’re in the mood for it, he doesn’t object, but because you know he’d much rather just be in you, you don’t initiate it often. He does however, enjoy eating you out. He likes you on your back for it and relishes in your taste and smell. He’ll lick his face and fingers clean after you finish and leave kisses down your thighs.

P - Pace: Islam is a pretty versatile man when it comes to his pace. Depending on the vibe he's ready to go heavy and fast to get the job done, or take it slow and steady so you can really stay in the moment. When he gets flustered, especially after a really taxing training day or an exhausting media day, he's both fast and rough (which you secretly love but won't tell him).

Q - Quickie: Yup. Anytime is game time if you're down. Islam always fucks raw so there's no fuss about being “prepared” or whatever. If you're ovulating and you need that, Islam is more than happy to give it to you.

R - Risks: As mentioned, Islam isn't totally against the idea of some risky public sex. Something about the thrill of it all kind of turns him on. He once subtly suggested having a quickie up in the secluded mountains of Dagestan, to which you vehemently rejected because who knows what kinds of bugs or pervs were lurking in the bushes up there. He'll try suggesting it again in a month…

S - Stamina: Boy does this man have a crazy libido. You guys could have just finished fucking, 20 minutes later if he catches a glimpse of your rear end as you enter the shower for a clean-up, the man is bricked up again.

T - Toys: You own a vibrator which you guys occasionally incorporate into your sex routine. You had to teach Islam how to use one on you and he was totally mesmerised by the reaction you had when he pressed it against your clit out of the blue. Safe to say he keeps the vibrator in reach on the days where he wants to push your body to the limits and overstimulate you.

U - Unfair: Both of you are equally as naughty when it comes to teasing, especially in public. Islam is the kind of husband to give you a slap on the ass when no one is looking, and then look away pretending it wasn't him (as if anyone else would ever dare touch you like that). You also like to ride your high heel up the side of his inner calf when you guys are at a fancy restaurant just to watch him squirm as he tries to order his dinner. This back and forth will continue for the rest of the night before he puts you in your place back home.

V - Volume: Islam is very vocal in bed. Not only is he coaxing you through everything — telling you how good your pussy feels, how he loves your breasts, how he wants you to spread your legs wider for him — he also isn't ashamed to moan a lot. He wants you to know how good you make him feel, so he just lets go and becomes a whining mess when he's in you.

W - Wild card: He’s really into thigh-riding. The first time you tried it was on accident; You were sitting on his thigh trying to fix his tie for a gala event you both were attending. Naturally, your dress rode up and it was only a thin layer of your panty separating you from his leg. The slow rocks of your hips aroused you and Islam caught on very quickly, grabbing your hips and encouraging you to get off on it. He loved the warmth of you on his leg, your pleads as you gripped his neck, the insane idea of getting you to climax without even taking off a single layer of clothing.

X - X-Ray: Girthy. Very girthy. And he is constantly reminding you of it, telling you how a much of a good girl you are for taking him in full.

Y - Yearning: Islam needs you 24/7. Not even in a sexual way — the man just wants to be with you at all times. You bring a sense of peace and stability in his ever-changing life. He's guilty of being a clingy pout — always sulking and whining whenever you can’t join him on trips, or even when you leave the house to go grocery shopping without him. Whenever you're not home when he comes back from the gym he’ll spam you with the same texts everytime: “Where are you, darling?” “You are not home? Where are you?” “Send location. I will go to you. I have car.”

Z - Zzz: You usually fall asleep before he does (the sounds of his doomscrolling on Instagram really lulls you to sleep). He loves cuddling up with you and playing with you hair mindlessly while you doze off. Sometimes he'll get out of bed to do some cleaning up like putting your discarded clothes into the laundry bin, or picking up whatever pillows you two have flung off the bed. But ultimately he just wants to lie with you, feeling your warmth and steady breathing, before he can really relax and go to bed.

[makhachevwife]

room for three pt. 1

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.

Khabib says it because he needs to hear it, too.

[ivoryruin]

hi lovely, are you down to write welterweight!islam with a size kink who teases you for not being able to take him??

this has been on my mind seeing all these vids of him looking massiveee in his camp 😫😫

OMG YES

thanks for the request anon and sorry if you have requested from me i literally have like 8 requests rn im getting to them okay 🙏

islam makhachev x reader

smut- size difference, power dynamic (kinda), and slightly possessive, islam soft dom, reader sub

authors note: when i saw this in the request box i got really excited lowkey 😭🙏 but i hope you enjoy :)

The door opens and you hear his familiar footsteps, but when Islam walks into the bedroom, you do a double-take.

He's massive.

You knew he'd been bulking up at welterweight for this camp, but seeing him in person is something else entirely. His shoulders seem broader, straining against his tight black t-shirt. His arms look thicker, veins prominent along his forearms and shoulders. Even his neck looks more muscular, and when he turns to set down his gym bag, you can see how his back has filled out.

"You are staring, myshakla" he says, catching your gaze. There's amusement in his dark eyes as he walks toward where you're sitting on the bed. "What you looking at?"

"You're... you look different," you manage, feeling heat creep up your neck.

He stops in front of you, and from your seated position, he seems even bigger. He reaches down, tilting your chin up with one calloused hand. "Different how?"

"Bigger," you admit quietly.

A slow smile spreads across his face. "yes is true. I am up to 81 kilos now. You like?" He flexes his arm deliberately, the bicep swelling under the sleeve. "Feel."

Your hand seems small against his arm as you reach up to touch. The muscle is rock-solid under your fingers, warm and unyielding.

"Is good, no?" His accent thickens slightly, the way it always does when he's pleased with himself. "Coach say I look like different person. More strong. More big." He moves closer, standing between your knees. "Your so small now, compared to me."

"I'm the same size I've always been," you protest, but your voice comes out breathless.

"No, no." He shakes his head, reaching down to wrap both hands around your waist. His fingers nearly meet at your spine. "Feel how strong I am now, no? When I lift you, is so easy. Before, you had small weight. Now? You is like feather to me. The camp, the training—I am different man now."

"Islam—"

"Shh." He sets you back down but doesn't step away. Instead, he pulls his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, and your breath catches. His torso is a landscape of defined muscle, his abs more pronounced than you remember, his chest broader. "This is what you wanting to see, yes? Why you staring when I come in?"

You can't deny it, so you don't try. Your hands move to his chest almost involuntarily, exploring the warm skin, the hard planes of muscle. He's always been fit—he's a professional fighter—but this is different. This is more.

"You like touching me?" he murmurs, covering your hands with his own. The size difference is stark—his hands dwarf yours completely. "Is okay. You can touch. I am yours." He pauses, then adds with a possessive edge, "And you are mine."

He guides your hands down his torso, over his abs, to the waistband of his track pants. "All of this, is for you. I get big and strong, come home to my wife." His voice drops lower. "You know what else get big?"

Your face flushes hot. "Islam..."

"What? Is true." He's grinning now, clearly enjoying your embarrassment. He takes your hand and presses it against the growing bulge in his pants. "See? Everything is bigger now. You think you can handle?"

"I—" You're not sure what to say. The size of him is evident even through the fabric, and a thrill of nervousness mixed with arousal runs through you.

"Your not sure," he observes, reading your expression. "Is okay. We find out together." He cups your face with both hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks. "But I think maybe is too much for you. Maybe my little wife is too small for big husband now."

"I'm not too small," you argue, but it sounds weak even to your own ears.

"No?" He raises an eyebrow. "We see about that."

He kisses you then, deep and possessive, one hand sliding to the back of your neck to hold you in place. Not that you're going anywhere—you're melting into him, your hands clutching at his shoulders for balance. When he pulls back, you're breathing hard.

"Lay down," he commands softly, and you obey without thinking.

He follows you onto the bed, covering your body with his, and the weight of him is incredible. He's careful not to crush you, holding himself up on his forearms, but you can feel the solid mass of him, the heat radiating from his skin.

"See?" he murmurs, looking down at you. "You disappear under me. So small, so..." He searches for the word. "Delicate. Like I could break you."

"You won't," you whisper.

"No, I won't. I take care of what is mine." His hand slides down your side, over your hip. "But I like this. I like how small you are. How I can do whatever I want with you."

To demonstrate, he grasps your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head. You test his grip experimentally and find you can't budge at all. His fingers wrap completely around both your wrists with room to spare.

"You see? Is easy for me. You are like doll in my hands." His free hand roams over your body, possessive and exploring. "My doll. My wife. Mine."

"Yours," you agree breathlessly.

"Mine." He releases your wrists to pull at your clothes, and you help him, suddenly desperate to feel his skin against yours. When you're finally bare beneath him, he sits back on his heels to look at you, his gaze hungry and appreciative.

"Every time, is like first time. You are so beautiful." His hands span your waist again. "And so small. Look—" He positions his hand over your stomach, fingers spread wide. "My hand cover all of you here."

You squirm under his touch, arousal building steadily. "Islam, please..."

"Please what?" He's teasing now, you can hear it in his voice. "Please touch you? Please fuck you?" His broken English somehow makes the crude words even more affecting. "You want me to fuck you?"

"Yes," you mutter.

"But I am so big now," he says, mock-concerned. "And you is so small. Maybe is not good idea. Maybe I hurt you."

"You won't hurt me."

"You are sure?" He's removing his pants now, and when he's finally naked, your breath catches. He wasn't exaggerating—everything about him seems bigger, more imposing. "Because I think maybe is too much. Look at you, look at me. How this is going to work?"

"It'll work," you insist, reaching for him.

He catches your hands, pinning them again. "Maybe we need to check first. Make sure you are ready for me." His hand slides between your thighs, and you gasp at the contact. "Ah, you are wet already. You like when I talk about how big I am? When I say you are too small?"

You can't form words, just nod desperately.

"I think you like very much." He slides one thick finger inside you, and you arch against him. "Even my finger is big for you. So tight, myshakla. How you going to take all of me?"

"I can," you manage. "I will."

"We see." He adds another finger, stretching you, and the sensation is overwhelming. His fingers are thick and calloused, and he knows exactly how to use them. "You are squeezing me so tight. Like you don't want to let go."

"Don't stop," you plead.

"I don't plan to stop. I plan to fuck my wife until she cannot walk tomorrow." His voice is rough with desire now, the teasing giving way to genuine need. "Until everyone at gym know that Islam take care of his woman. Until you are marked all over as mine."

He withdraws his fingers and positions himself between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against you. The size of him is intimidating, and he sees the flicker of nervousness in your eyes.

"Is okay," he soothes, his voice gentler now. "I go slow. I take care of you. Always I take care of you." He pushes forward incrementally, watching your face. "Breathe, myshakla. Relax for me."

You try to relax, but the stretch is intense. He's patient though, working himself in slowly, giving you time to adjust. His jaw is clenched with the effort of holding back, sweat beading on his forehead.

"So tight," he whispers. "So perfect. Made for me, only for me."

"Only you," you agree, gasping as he sinks deeper.

"No one else get to have this. No one else get to see you like this." He's fully seated now, and you feel impossibly full. "You are mine. Say it."

"I'm yours," you breathe.

"Again."

"I'm yours, Islam. Only yours."

He begins to move, slow and deep, and you moan at the sensation. "Good girl. Take all of me. I know is big, I know is almost too much, but you take it anyway. Because you are my wife and you are made for me."

His pace increases gradually, and you wrap your legs around his waist, trying to pull him closer despite the overwhelming fullness. He responds by hitching your legs higher, changing the angle, and you cry out.

"There?" he asks, hitting that spot again. "Is good there?"

"Yes, yes—"

"I feel you getting close," he observes, one hand sliding between your bodies to where you're joined. "You going to come for me? Going to come on my cock?"

You're beyond words now, just nodding frantically as the pressure builds. His thumb finds your clit, circling with practiced precision, and that's all it takes. You shatter around him, crying out his name, your body squirming and clenching tight.

His rhythm starts to falter. "Just like that. Squeeze me, show me how you take all of me, how small you are." He thrusts harder, chasing his own release.

His movements become more urgent, more desperate, the careful control slipping as he gets closer. You feel him thickening inside you, his breathing ragged against your neck, hot and uneven. "You feel so good, so tight around me—" His voice breaks on the words, rough and strained.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and you feel his teeth graze your skin, not quite biting but marking you nonetheless. His hands grip your hips firmly, holding you exactly where he wants you as he drives deeper, and harder. The bed frame creaks with the force of his thrusts.

Then he's there, his whole body going rigid above you. He finished with a deep groan that seems torn from his chest, burying himself as deep as physically possible. You feel the pulse of him inside you, the warmth flooding you, and the sensation is overwhelming. His fingers dig into your flesh as he shudders through it, your name falling from his lips in broken syllables mixed with Russian you can't understand.

The weight of him settles over you gradually as the tension drains from his muscles. He's trembling slightly, his heart hammering against your chest so hard you can feel it echoing your own racing pulse. For a moment he stays buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping for air in the same rhythm.

"Myshakla" he breathes, the endearment soft and reverent. Slowly, carefully, he shifts his weight to his forearms, caging you beneath him but not crushing you. His thumb traces your cheekbone with surprising gentleness given how roughly he'd just taken you. "You okay? I was not too rough?"

"I'm perfect," you assure him, your voice hoarse.

He lifts his head to study your face, dark eyes searching for any sign of discomfort. What he finds instead makes his expression soften into something achingly tender. "Yes, you is perfect. My perfect little wife." He brushes damp hair from your forehead, his touch feather-light. "Even if you is too small for me."

You swat at his chest weakly, and he catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "I'm not too small. I took all of you just fine."

"This is true," he concedes with a tired grin, pressing kisses to your knuckles. "You take me very good. Better than good—but tomorrow, when you is sore and cannot walk straight, you remember—I tell you I am too big."

"Worth it," you murmur, tugging him down for a kiss. It's slow and deep, lacking the urgency from before but no less intense. You taste the salt of sweat on his lips, feel the scratch of his stubble against your skin.

He hums contentedly against your mouth. "Yes, is worth it. Always is worth it with you." With careful movements, he withdraws from you—both of you gasping at the sensitivity—and rolls to his side, immediately pulling you with him. You're tucked against his chest, your head fitting perfectly under his chin, his arms wrapped around you like he's afraid you might disappear.

His hand splays over your hip, thumb stroking idle patterns on your skin. "You is mine, and I am yours. This is how is supposed to be," he murmurs into your hair, and there's something almost vulnerable in his voice, a softness he only ever shows you in moments like this.

"This is how it's supposed to be," you agree, already feeling drowsy in the cocoon of his warmth, surrounded by the scent of him—sweat and skin and something uniquely Islam.

"Sleep now," he whispers, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. "Tomorrow I train again, get even more big and strong. Then I come home and we do this again. And again. And again." His chest rumbles with quiet laughter. "Until you beg me to stop."

"Never," you mumble against his skin.

"Good. Because I never want to stop." His arms tighten around you. "You is everything to me, you know this? My wife, my home, my heart. Everything."

The confession makes your chest ache in the best way. "You're going to make me cry," you whisper.

"No crying. Only sleeping. Only being happy with husband who love you very much." His lips brush your forehead again, then your closed eyelids, your nose, your cheeks—soft kisses scattered like promises across your face.

As you drift toward sleep, you feel him pull the blanket over both of you, cocooning you together. His hand never stops its gentle stroking, and you hear him murmur in rhythmic words you don't understand but recognize as endearments, as prayers, as love made audible.

You're his, and he's yours.

The size difference that he loves to tease you about, the strength he uses to hold you close, the possessiveness that makes you feel cherished rather than caged—you love it all. You love him.

And as sleep finally claims you, wrapped in arms that could break you but never would, you've never felt safer or more loved in your life.