The Candy Store

Prologue

Warning: Cheating, Toxic, khamzat being the sexy man he is

The desert heat in Abu Dhabi wrapped around us like it always did, sticky and unforgiving. I was just a girl from the city lights, scrolling through his fights late at night, heart stupidly full every time Khamzat won. He was this great man moving that thought loving me was his first priority, and for a second I thought maybe I thought that too.

We’d crash together after his training camps. Texts at 3am, him pulling up in that blacked out G-Wagon, gold watch catching the streetlights. “Come here, habibi,” he’d say, voice low, and I’d go. Every time. Lips on mine in the backseat, hands forgetting promises, the city blurring past the windows. It felt like flying.

Then the off switch. Always the same. Some girl in his DMs, some story from his boys, some “it’s not what you think” that never added up. I’d scream at him in the parking garage, voice echoing off concrete while he stared at me with those eyes calm, distant, already halfway out the door. “You knew what this was, Mia.” Yeah. I did. But loving him still hit harder than any punch he threw in the octagon.

Weeks later he’d be back. Flowers from the best floral stores, soft apologies with the same old word “I will never do it again”, pulling me close like the cheating never happened. I’d let him. We’d laugh in his kitchen at midnight, eating something he made, talking about nothing. For a minute it was perfect. Then the cycle spun again rumors, blocked numbers, me crying in my apartment with the AC blasting, deleting his pics I swore I’d never look at.

We were never good. Fire and gasoline in human form. He needed control, I needed honesty. He gave me luxury and lies, I gave him loyalty he couldn’t hold. On again, off again.

But God… I still loved that man. Even when I hated him. Even when I knew better.

WAIT IM CRAZY, I WAITED THIS LONG JUST TO DO A SHORT ASS PROLOGUE

Warning- CW / TW:

NSFW • 18+ only • explicit adult nursing / lactation kink • ANR • hurt/comfort • soft babyboy Khamzat • emotional vulnerability • male submission • breastfeeding fetish • slight mommy kink • interracial couple • do not read if any of that squicks you

The apartment was dim, just the low glow of a salt lamp flickering against the walls like it was trying to hold space for all that heavy energy. Khamzat sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, that big fighter’s frame looking so small tonight. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes still wet from the quiet tears he kept swiping away like he was ashamed of them. Strickland had taken the win. Not in some epic war, but clean enough that the ache in Khamzat’s chest felt louder than any bruise on his body.

“Baby…” His voice cracked, soft and needy, nothing like the beast who usually stared down opponents. He reached out with those big hands, trembling just a little, pulling at the hem of her shirt.

His wife, skin deep and rich like warm mahogany, stood between his knees and cupped his face. She didn’t laugh at him, didn’t tease. She just looked down with that soft, knowing smile that always made his walls crumble. “C’mere, my big soft boy,” she murmured, voice low and sweet like honey over gravel. She lifted her shirt and guided his head forward until his mouth found her breast, already full and leaking just a little for him.

Khamzat let out the tiniest whimper as he latched on, eyes fluttering shut. He suckled slow and desperate, one hand fisting the back of her shirt while the other rested gentle against her waist like he needed to make sure she was real. Milk flowed warm across his tongue, and every pull seemed to drag another piece of the loss out of him. His cheeks hollowed, soft baby noises escaping around her nipple little hums and sniffles as tears slipped free again.

She stroked his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp the way he liked. “That’s it, baby. Let it all out. Mama’s got you.” Her voice was velvet in the dark room, her free hand rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades while he nursed deeper, body melting against her. The big bad Khamzat, reduced to this needy, teary mess, cheeks flushed and lips glossy with her milk.

He pulled back just enough to whisper against her wet skin, voice thick and broken. “Lost… I lost everything tonight.” Then he was back on her, suckling harder like her warmth could fix the hole in his chest. She only held him closer, letting him drink until his breathing slowed and the fight drained out of those heavy muscles, leaving just her soft giant of a husband who needed his wife more than air.

In the quiet, only the wet sounds of comfort and her gentle humming filled the room, tragedy wrapped in skin and milk and love.

WAIT IM ACTUALLY SCARED FOR KHAMZAT AND KADYROV

LET KHAMZAT BE SAFEE

I JUST MADE THIS FOR THE ONES THAT WERE GRIEVING FOR THE KHAMZAT CHIMEAV

Sex-Khabib

NSFW WARNING: This story contains explicit sexual content, adult language, and mature themes. Reader discretion is advised. 18+ only.(and impregnation)

The hotel room smelled like sweat, hotel soap, and that faint cologne Khabib still wore even after he’d hung up the gloves for good. Vegas lights bled through the half-

closed curtains, painting gold stripes across the sheets where you were tangled up with him.

He wasn’t the khabib anymore, not tonight. Tonight he was just freaky Khabib quiet, heavy, still carrying that calm intensity that made your stomach flip every time he looked at you like he was deciding exactly how he was going to ruin you.

“You always were tight clothes,” he muttered against your neck, voice low and rough from the post fight interviews he’d done hours earlier. His beard scratched your skin in the best way as he kissed down your throat, one big hand sliding under your shirt to palm your breast like he owned it. Which, honestly, he kind of did.

You laughed breathlessly, fingers threading through his short hair. “And you never get pregnant enough.”

He answered by biting down gently on your collarbone, just enough to make you gasp. Then his mouth was on yoursslow at first, then deeper, tongue sliding against yours, his body pressed you deeper into the mattress, all solid muscle and heat. Even retired, he felt unstoppable.

You tugged at his shirt until he let you pull it off, your hands greedily mapping the familiar lines of his chest, the scars, the tattoos. He watched you with dark eyes, letting you explore for a moment before he caught your wrists in one hand and pinned them above your head.

“Be good,” he said simply. The command sent heat rushing between your legs.

He took his time undressing you, like he had all night and nothing in the world could rush him. Shirt gone. Bra unhooked with one hand. Pants dragged down your thighs along with your panties, leaving you bare under that golden Vegas glow. Khabib’s gaze dragged over you slowly, appreciative, almost reverent in that quiet Dagestani way.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

Then he was between your legs, broad shoulders spreading you open. The first slow lick of his tongue had your back arching off the bed. He didn’t tease—he devoured. Strong hands holding your hips down while his mouth worked you over with focused, relentless hunger. Two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling just right, and you were already shaking, moaning his name like a prayer.

“Khabib—fuck—”

He hummed against your clit, the vibration making your thighs tremble. He didn’t stop until you came hard on his tongue, fingers tightening in his hair, hips jerking against his face while he held you through it.

Only when you were still panting did he crawl back up your body, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his lips. His cock was heavy and hot against your thigh, already leaking. You reached down to stroke him, loving the way his breath hitched rare proof that you could affect him too.

He let you play for a second before he caught your hand again.

“Enough,” he growled softly.

Then he was pushing inside you slow, thick, stretching you open in that perfect burn. You both groaned at the same time. He bottomed out and stayed there for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

“Fuck I can’t wait to put baby in you” he whispered in that thick accent, like it was a fact of the universe.

He started moving deep, steady rolls of his hips that made the headboard knock softly against the wall. No frantic pounding, just that controlled power that had you seeing stars. Every thrust dragged against that spot inside you that made you whimper. His hand slipped between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in time with his strokes.

You came again with his name on your lips, clenching around him so tight he cursed in Russian under his breath. Only then did his rhythm finally break. He fucked you through it, harder now, chasing his own release until he buried himself deep and came with a low, guttural groan, hips stuttering as he filled you.

After, he didn’t pull out right away. Just collapsed half on top of you, heavy and warm, pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder while his hand stroked soothing circles over your hip.

You traced the line of his jaw with one finger, smiling sleepily.

“Still not talking much, huh?”

Khabib huffed a quiet laugh against your skin, the sound rare and soft.

“Actions better than words,” he said.

And yeah… you couldn’t really argue with that.

Jealous- Any fighter

Warning- this has Overprotective, jealousy, and kissing

The roar of the Vegas crowd still echoed in your ears as you stepped into the dimly lit hotel suite, the door clicking shut behind you like a final bell. He was already there your fighter, all coiled muscle and barely contained storm, pacing the thick carpet in nothing but low slung shorts, the fresh tape still wrapped around his knuckles from tonight’s fight. His chest rose and fell too fast, not from the fight he’d just won, but from whatever was burning behind those dark eyes the second you walked in.

“You’re late,” he said firm, voice low and rough like gravel under boots. He stopped pacing, turning that full intensity on you. The kind that made opponents tap out before he even threw the first punch.

You shrugged off your jacket, trying to play it cool even as your pulse kicked up. “Traffic. And I told you I was catching up with someone real quick—”

“Someone.” He cut you off, stepping closer until the heat of him rolled over you like a furnace. His hand came up, not rough but firm, tilting your chin so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. “That high school friend you ‘reunited’ with on Facebook? The one who slid into your DMs the second he saw your picture? Yeah. I saw the messages.”

Your stomach flipped. You hadn’t even shown him. “How did you—”

“Because I check,” he said simply, no apology in it. His thumb brushed your lower lip, possessive in that way that always made your knees weak. “You think I’m letting some nostalgic man from your past breathe the same air as you? Think again, baby.”

He backed you up until your thighs hit the edge of the bed, his body caging you in without touching. Not yet. The jealousy rolled off him in waves hot, territorial, the same fire that made him unstoppable in the octagon. But this? This was different. This was yours.

“I was just being polite,” you whispered, even as heat pooled low in your belly at the way his jaw clenched, the way his free hand flexed like he was imagining wrapping it around something that wasn’t yours.

“Polite?” A dark chuckle rumbled out of him, dangerous and low. “You don’t get to be polite with guys who remember how you looked in that cheer skirt senior year. You’re mine. Every inch. Every laugh. Every second of your time. I don’t share. Not with ghosts from Facebook, not with anyone.”

His mouth crashed down on yours then hungry, claiming, the taste of salt and victory still on his tongue. One big hand slid into your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your head back and deepen the kiss until you were gasping against him. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breath mingling.

“You think I fought like a champion tonight just for the belt?” he murmured, voice dropping to something raw and velvet rough. “I fought knowing some man was trying to reminisce with what’s mine. Next time you even think about replying to shit like that… you come to me first. Or I’ll remind you exactly who you belong to. Right here. All night.”

His fingers traced down your side, slow and deliberate, slipping under the hem of your shirt like a promise. The protectiveness in his touch was almost overwhelming shielding and devouring.

You swallowed, heart hammering. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, lips brushing your ear, sending shivers racing across your skin. “Insane for you, so delete the thread, baby. Or better yet… let me watch you do it.”

He didn’t move away. Just stood there, all six-foot something of lethal, jealous heat, waiting. Because in his world in this world he’d carved out with blood and fists you weren’t just his girl.

You were his everything. And God help anyone who forgot it.

Idk how I feel about this one

Aggressive-Islam

NSFW Warning

This story contains explicit adult sexual content, including BDSM elements (dominance/submission, mild choking/breath play, power exchange), graphic descriptions of sex, and strong language. Reader discretion is advised. 18+ only

(Are you gonna read my text and stop looking at Islam orrr)

The hotel suite in Las Vegas hummed with the low buzz of the city below, but inside, the air was thick with tension of a different kind. You had been dating Islam Makhachev for months now quiet, intense evenings after his training sessions, his strong hands gentle on your waist when the cameras were off.

He stood before you now in a simple black tank top that clung to his broad shoulders and defined chest, sweat from the gym still faintly glistening on his skin. His hands, calloused from years of grappling.

“Strip,” he said simply. Not a bark, but a command wrapped in that quiet authority. You obeyed, peeling off your clothes under his watchful gaze until you stood bare before him. Islam’s eyes raked over you appreciatively, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Good girl.”

He guided you to the edge of the king-sized bed, turning you so your back pressed against his front. His arms, powerful from endless takedown drills, encircled you. One hand trailed up to cup your throat lightly not choking, just a reminder of control while the other skimmed down your stomach. “Tonight, you don’t move until I say. Understand?”

“Yes,” you whispered, already feeling heat pool between your thighs.

Islam worked methodically, like he was setting up a fight strategy. He had you kneel on the bed first, the position arched your back slightly, pushing your breasts forward. He stepped back to admire his work, then circled around, his bare feet silent on the carpet.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice husky. “So pretty when you let me take over.” He climbed onto the bed behind you, knees bracketing your hips. His hands roamed freely now palming your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened under his touch. A soft gasp escaped you, and he chuckled, the sound vibrating against your ear. “Patience. I control this.”

One hand slid lower, fingers teasing between your legs. You were already wet, aching from the anticipation and the thrill of being restrained. Islam’s touch was precise, two fingers slipping inside you slowly while his thumb rubbed firm circles over your clit. He built the rhythm deliberately, mimicking the grinding pressure he used when he always trains. Your hips tried to buck,his body weight kept you pinned.

“Stay still,” he warned, nipping at your shoulder with his teeth. “Or I stop.”

You whimpered, forcing yourself to obey as pleasure coiled tighter. His free hand returned to your throat, applying just enough pressure to make your head spin in the best way. Islam’s breathing grew heavier against your neck; you could feel his hardness pressing against your ass through his shorts. He was enjoying this as much as you did.

When he finally deemed you ready.

He fliped you onto your back and rebind them above your head to the headboard. Now fully exposed, you watched as he stripped off his tank and shorts, revealing the sculpted lines of his body, abs etched from brutal core work, thighs like steel cables from sambo throws. His cock stood thick and ready, a bead of precum already visible.

Islam settled between your spread thighs, not rushing. He dragged the head of his cock along your folds, teasing your entrance while his eyes locked on yours. “You want this?” he asked, voice rough with restraint.

“Please, Islam…”

He pushed in with one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch was perfect, filling you completely. A groan escaped him as your walls clenched around him. “So tight… all mine.”

He didn’t start gentle. His hips snapped forward in deep, powerful strokes each one driving you into the mattress, the mattress creaking softly with every movement. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise faintly, using that legendary grappling strength to angle you exactly how he wanted. One hand returned to your throat, the other pinned your bound wrists higher as he leaned down to claim your mouth in a hungry kiss.

The pace built relentlessly. Islam fucked you soft at first, then overwhelming, grinding deep on every thrust so his pelvis rubbed against your clit. Your moans filled the room, body trembling under the onslaught of sensation. He whispered praises in a mix of English and Russian: “Good… take it… моя хорошая девочка…”

When your orgasm hit, it crashed through you like a submission tap sudden, body shaking, walls pulsing around him. Islam didn’t stop, riding you through it with short, punishing thrusts until your cries turned hard. Only then did he let go, burying himself deep one final time as he came with a low, guttural groan, filling you with hot pulses.

He stayed inside you for a long moment, forehead pressed to yours, catching his breath. Then, with careful hands, he untied the rope, massaging your wrists and kissing the faint red lines. “You okay?” he asked softly, switching back to the gentle man you knew the one who balanced fatherhood, training, and this hidden intensity with quiet devotion.

You nodded, pulling him down for a slower kiss. “More than okay.”

Islam smiled, that rare, warm curve of his lips, and wrapped his strong arms around you. “Next time… we go longer. But always safe. Always with you.”

Wait I actually like this one

Warning- This has kissing (idk ya’ll I’m just saying whatever)

The hotel room smelled like rain on concrete and the faint citrus from the diffuser Khabib always carried in his bag. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the blurry Vegas lights, but the curtains were pulled mostly shut.

Aaliyah kicked off her sandals by the door and padded barefoot across the room, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame. She was still buzzing from the fight his fight adrenaline mixing with the secret weight of it all. Nobody knew. Not her girls back home, not his team, not the internet that would lose its mind if they ever found out. Just this, stolen nights in anonymous suites, locked doors, and the low hum of whatever playlist she queued up when he let her touch his phone.

Khabib was already on the bed, back against the headboard, wearing a plain black tee that stretched across his shoulders. His hair was still damp from the shower. He didn’t say anything when she climbed up beside him, just shifted so she could tuck herself under his arm like she belonged there. She did, in this small hidden world they kept carving out.

“You almost cussed when you won tonight,” she teased, voice soft, tracing a finger along the faded scar on his knuckle. “I saw it. Don’t lie.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the kind that rumbled through his chest and into hers. “No cussing in the cage, Aaliyah. You know this.”

“Yeah, yeah, Khabib rules.” She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. Outside, the city kept moving, loud and bright and oblivious. In here it was just the two of them, the distant bass from the Strip muffled by thick glass, and the way his hand rested heavy and warm on her waist like he was afraid she’d disappear if he let go.

She wasn’t Muslim. He never asked her to be. That was the thing nobody would understand the quiet respect that lived between them instead of arguments or pressure. She lit her little vanilla candle sometimes, talked about her art classes and the mural she was sketching back in her apartment.

He listened. Really listened. Then he’d tell her stories about the mountains back home, about his father, about how fighting wasn’t just his workplace it was his life

Tonight she pulled out her phone and showed him the latest photo she’d taken of the desert at golden hour, the one she was thinking of turning into a painting. He studied it for a long moment, thumb brushing the screen.

“Beautiful,” he said. Simple. No extra words. That was his way.

Aaliyah turned the phone off and set it on the nightstand. She shifted until she was straddling his lap, hands framing his face. Up close she could see the tiny cut above his eyebrow, the exhaustion under his eyes that only she got to witness.

“You tired, baby?” she whispered.

“Da,” he murmured, but his hands slid up her back under the hoodie anyway, palms warm against her skin. “But not too tired for you.”

The kiss was slow, unhurried, the kind that tasted like relief after weeks apart. No cameras, no expectations, no one waiting outside the door. Just the rain starting to tap against the windows and the low glow of the city lights painting soft gold across her brown skin where the hoodie rode up.

She pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against his. “We gotta be careful tomorrow. Your boys are gonna be all over you at breakfast.”

Khabib’s fingers traced lazy circles on her hip. “I know. Secret still safe.”

Aaliyah grinned, small and crooked, the one that always made something in his chest loosen. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not sharing you with the media yet.”

He tugged her back down, arms wrapping around her like a bear made of safety instead of fear. The TV stayed off. The world outside could wait. In this room, time stretched lazy and warm, full of quiet laughter and whispered secrets.

Just them. Just tonight. Just and the steady beat of two hearts keeping a promise no one else knew about.

Soooo ummm why hasn’t anyone sent me some things to write about

𝐊𝐡𝐚𝐦𝐳𝐚𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐯 𝐗 𝐁𝐥𝐤 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲)

The bell above the door jingled soft as he stepped in, shaking rain off his shoulders like it was nothing. It was this handsome man . Even in a plain black hoodie and joggers, he took up space without trying quiet confidence, that low fade still damp from the weather, a faint scar over the top of his lip that made you’re eyesbrows frown.

You were already at your usual corner table, laptop open, nursing a oat milk latte that had gone lukewarm twenty minutes ago. Headphones half on, scrolling through your drafts and editing them like it’s gonna make it any better. The rain tapped steady against the window like background music.

He ordered an americano, black, then glanced around for a seat. The place was packed. His eyes landed on the empty chair across from you.

“Mind if I sit?” Voice low, a little rough around the edges, accent curling the words just enough to notice.

You looked up, met his gaze, “ Go ahead.”

He dropped into the chair with a small nod of thanks, set his cup down. For a minute it was just the rain and the low hum of the shop. Then he tilted his head toward your screen.

“You a writer ?”

“Yeah. News media, Mostly writing and designing stuff for New York Times right now.” You shrugged, kept it light. “You look like you do something that involves… not sitting still much.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound warm. “MMA. Training mostly. Fighting when they let me.” He took a sip, eyes steady on yours. “Explains the hands, I guess.”

You glanced at his knuckles busted but clean and smiled. “Explains the scar. You from around here?”

“Visiting for camp. California weather’s soft compared to where I grew up.” He leaned back a little, relaxed. “What about you? This your spot?”

“Most Tuesdays. Good light, better people watching.” You closed the laptop halfway, giving him your attention without making it a thing. “Work’s been heavy lately tight deadlines, picky clients. Feels good to just… sit and not think for a second.”

He nodded like he got it. “Same. Some days the gym feels like therapy and punishment at once. But it keeps me honest.”

The conversation flowed easy after that. Nothing forced. He asked real questions about your favorite projects, the music you were playing low through one earbud, how you ended up in this city. You asked about his training, the countries he’d fought in, the food he missed from back home. He was funny in a dry way, observant.

Time slipped. His cup emptied. Yours too.

He checked his phone once, then looked back at you, something softer in his expression.

“I gotta head back to the gym before they send a search party.” A small pause. “But I liked talking to you. For real. Can I get your number? Maybe grab coffee again when I’m not when I’m so sleepy .”

You felt the little flutter low in your stomach nothing dramatic, just warm. He wasn’t pushing, wasn’t performing. Just… nice. Steady.

You slid your phone across the table, open to the new contact screen.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

He typed quick, saved it under “Khamzat ☕️”, then stood, pushing the chair in neatly.

“Text you later, then. Stay dry out there.”

He gave you one last look genuine, a little lingering before heading back into the rain, hoodie up, shoulders squared against the downpour.

You watched him go for a second, the shop feeling a touch quieter. Then your phone buzzed almost immediately.

Unknown number:

Hello coffee girl you never tell name. My name is Khamzat, if you can’t call me that just say Kham. – K

You smiled at the text.

Maybe going to the coffee shop while it was raining wasn’t such a bad idea.

-.-.-..-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-..-.-.-..-.-.-.-.-.-..—.-..-.-.-.

All about me

My Tumblr name is Mimi

And I will write for UFC characters

This is what I’ll write for:

Smut, angst, Fluff, PWP, and BDSM