The Photographer - Pt. 2 Smut
Khabib Nurmagomedov x Reader
Khabib finds himself enamoured with a young new photographer, you. When you send him a file full of the raw photos of himself, he accidentally stumbles across something he can never unsee. Charged with fiery desire, he struggles to get through fight week training with his mind constantly spinning back around to the intimate shots. So he decides to do something about it with a post-fight reward.
5.7k Words - Blowjob, Mild Face-Fucking, Wall Sex, Unprotected Sex, Hair Pulling, Mild Voyeurism, Locker Room Sex, Dominant Khabib, Dubcon, Aftercare - Check out Pt. 1 here
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Khabib's ears were filled with cheers so loud they made his head ring more than the headshot he had eaten. He soaked in the hungry atmosphere like it was a drug, climbing to sit on the top of the cage, motioning for the crowd to get louder, more aggressive, and chant his name.
A grin lined his bruised face, knowing that he had given those bloodthirsty spectators a fight they would never forget. Steady, heavy breaths escaped as he looked around, his eyes caught the sight of a nauseatingly familiar Canon DSLR camera.
Following the cage interview and official decisions being wrapped up, the stadium began emptying. You held your camera tightly in your hands, looking around for the Eagle Team in the back halls and coming across them, seemingly heading toward the conference room.
"Javier!" You called out, running over. "(F/n), nice to see you! How'd you like the fight?" He grinned, "It was fantastic, I was actually wondering if you knew where the champion was? I'm supposed to snap a couple of photos of him," you giggled.
"He still changing," Umar popped in and briefly greeted you. Javier nodded, "Wait by those doors, he'll be out in a second," he recommended. You smiled and thanked the group, giving them a quick congrats before walking over to the private rooms.
Upon your arrival, you took to staring at the locker room entrance for a moment, rereading the label of Khabib’s name, the sound of the crowd calling his name slowly faded into memory. That raw display of power he had shown was like a wet dream come true for a photographer.
Every single shot was simply a work of art, a testament to his ferocity, and although you were supposed to be completely focused on work, you couldn’t help but admire him from the ground.
An uncomfortable yet perplexing heaviness spread across your chest, and you felt obliged to gently rub it, almost like heartburn.
You were so vividly replaying the moment that you barely noticed the swinging of the door, almost catching your face. "Oh, I'm sorry," one of the doctors employed by the UFC apologized. You smiled and shook your head.
Khabib had just finished getting checked out and was cleared to head to the press conference. He thanked the physician and sat back down on the wooden bench, still dressed in his fight attire. While the older man walked out, Khabib’s eyes lazily followed his figure.
The door opened, and he almost thought he was seeing things until he heard your voice to confirm his doubtful vision. He peered through. You were holding the camera from earlier and talking to the doctor.
His eyes widened, and he surged to his feet, a sudden panic hitting him as he looked around for a shirt to make himself presentable. But as he rummaged through his messy gear bags, his hands slowly stopped. He glanced down at his bare, bruised torso. You were here for photos, right? So why not give you exactly what you wanted?
You said your goodbyes to the doctor and continued to stand outside. The door swung open fully once more, revealing the fighter. The corridor was empty now, and the distant hum of the arena crowd exiting the stadium was fading into background noise. Your focus right now was rather on the bare, powerful physique of the lightweight contender. "(F/n)," Khabib breathed. He was beyond grateful that he still had his groin guard on.
"Khabib! Congratulations, you did so well!" You complimented, looking up at him with a cheerful expression. He forced a polite smile onto his face, "Thank you, you are here for photos, yes?" He asked, you hummed a nod of affirmation, and pulled up the camera.
Khabib’s hand gripped the metal hinge of the door. Decisions were flooding his mind, and temptation was pulling him in deeper. You looked so beautiful, all he wanted to do was just be close to you.
He could control himself, he thought semi-confidently, he had masturbated earlier before the fight anyway, so there should be nothing to worry about. "Come in, we can take in here," he finally said.
He consciously noted the change in his accent, it was heavier. But like all the warning signs he had ignorantly dismissed, he disregarded this too, knowing full well what it could mean for his high-running emotions right now.
"Oh, alright, perfect," you said unsuspectingly, walking inside. This would be a perfect setting for a post-game photo, what could be better than a locker room?
You glanced around, trying to find the perfect spot for some shots. "How you like my fight?" Khabib asked. You turned toward him, "It was fantastic, I did get a little scared though, when he punched you in the chest," you said sheepishly, brushing past him.
He couldn't ignore the pounding in his head, the sweet smell returned. It overpowered the musky scent of the room, like a fresh breath of air. He wanted to continue lingering near, it soothed him, it made him feel euphoric.
"How about...you sit down on the bench right here? Just lean forward slightly, and wear your papakha," you directed. He obliged, eager to please and follow your instructions. Your hands moved closer to shift his limbs before you froze, "Oh, is it okay if I...?" Khabib paused, then stiffly nodded.
It wasn’t supposed to be okay. Khabib knew full well what it meant to let a woman he was not married to touch his bare body in such a way. He should have said no, but with the blood still rushing from both his fight and his emotions, he felt clouded from better judgment. He wasn't to blame for this.
His breathing grew instantly coarse as you stepped into the space between his knees, leaning down to gently dab at the sweat and grime from his forehead with a small towel.
Your hands brushed against the tense muscles of his thighs, each touch never failed to send a violent tingling sensation straight down his spine.
His nerves were on fire. His cock throbbed, aching behind the guard while staring down at your focused face. He cursed himself for thinking such dirty things when all you were trying to do was your job.
Unaware of the absolute crisis he was having, you took his wrapped hands and pulled them down between his legs, bracing his elbows on his thighs to try styling a cool, unbothered posture for the shot. "Just let them rest right here," you said, unconsciously leaning closer to his ear. "And just relax...you look handsome."
How am I supposed to relax? He thought silently, but he simply nodded again.
You stepped back a few paces to raise the heavy camera body to your eye. The shutter clicked sharply in the concrete room, and the lens focused on his rugged features beneath the sheepskin papakha. Through the digital viewfinder, you adjusted the exposure to perfectly capture the raw contrast of the harsh locker room lighting against his broad shoulders. He looked imposing, like a king on a throne.
But as you clicked through a few more frames, you noticed his jaw was clenched so hard the muscle was almost twitching, his dark eyes locked onto your lens with a fierce intensity that made your fingers tremble slightly on the grip.
That odd sensation in your stomach returned.
"Perfect, Khabib. Just stay like that," you murmured, both transfixed at the emotion while trying desperately to ignore the ache in your lower abdomen. You shifted your weight to step closer, seeking a tighter, more intimate angle of his wrapped hands.
The camera clicked again, louder this time in the confined space. You moved to his right to close the distance until you were standing less than a foot away from the bench.
You leaned in, tilting the angle to catch the profile of his face, the sweat glistening on his collarbone, and the jagged, red mark on his ribs where he had taken a heavy blow in the cage.
Khabib didn't dare move an inch. His large hands now remained pin flat against the wood of the bench on either side of his thighs, but you could hear the light, whistling rhythm of his breathing through his nose. Every time you stepped closer, your perfume washed over him again, it both dulled and sharpened his senses.
“Hmm, let's get a few vertical ones," you said, completely unaware of the turmoil raging inside his chest. You stepped back just a small bit, dropping your hips slightly to get a lower perspective while he remained seated. “You look amazing, Khabib," you said softly, looking over the top of the camera to give him an encouraging, professional smile. "The lighting in here is actually perfect for you."
The praise hit his ears like a physical punch. His chest expanded with a massive, jagged inhale. Perfect. Handsome. Amazing. The words ran circles around his brain, entangling with the memory of lace and the exposed skin from his laptop screen. "I want to get a shot that shows the height difference, something really imposing to capture this angle. Can you stand up for me? Take off your papakha if you could,"
Because you were already standing close to the bench, his massive, broad-shouldered frame instantly towered over you, he completely blocked out the harsh fluorescent light overhead. You were now cast in his shadow.
To get the exact dramatic angle you wanted, you dropped down onto your knees right in front of him.
You raised the camera, pointing the lens straight up toward his face. From this position, you were crouched almost directly between his legs. Your face was mere inches away from his bare, tightly defined stomach. You could feel the radiating, post-fight heat rolling off his skin, the sharp metallic scent of sweat and adrenaline filled your head.
You looked through the viewfinder and adjusted the focus on his face. "Okay, look right down into the lens for me, Khabib. Give me that look you had in the…"
However much you wanted to continue talking, your voice faltered with a small hitch audible enough for it to be obvious that you were caught off guard.
Through the crisp quality of the camera lens, you realized he wasn't looking at the glass at all. Khabib was staring straight down at your mouth. His lower lip was slightly parted, his chest heaving up and down in a way that looked dangerously unhinged.
Slowly, your hands began to tremble, and you lowered the camera a few inches from your face, looking up at him with your bare eyes. From this downward angle, the innocent illusion of the photoshoot instantly shattered.
Right there, directly in front of your face, the heavy, pulsing outline of his erection was straining violently against the thin, satin fabric of his UFC fight shorts. It was massive, throbbing, and completely unmistakable, pushed to its absolute limit right behind his groin guard, mere inches from your lips.
The silence in the locker room became instantly suffocating. The air felt heavy enough that the temperature seemed warmer. You looked up from his waist to his face, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs as you realized exactly what your proximity, your touch, and your innocent compliments had done to the victor.
Khabib didn't back away. He stood perfectly still, his thighs still bracketing your shoulders, completely trapping you on the floor beneath him. He looked down at your wide, realizing eyes. His own, a reflection of raw, dark, and utterly consumed desire.
"You finish taking pictures?" Khabib rasped, his voice rumbled and vibrated straight through the floor beneath your knee.
Your throat went completely dry. You tried to form a response, to say something professional to break the suffocating gravity of the room, but your tongue felt like it was glued to the roof of your mouth.
Looking up from your knees, the sheer physical scale of him cast you entirely in shadow. The camera felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, like it was the only shield left between you and a hungry predator.
"I-I think..." you stammered, your voice barely a whisper. "I think we have enough, Khabib. We can... we can stop." smiling shakily, trying not to make him feel awkward.
You made a subtle move to shift your weight, intending to stand up and break the suffocating proximity, but Khabib didn't budge. He didn't step back to give you room. Instead, his powerful thighs physically bracketed your shoulders, locking you in place against the wooden base of the bench. You were completely boxed in.
"Why you stop?" he murmured, his breathing thick and ragged through his nose. His dark eyes scanned your face. "You like the view from down there, yes? You always take many photos of my body."
You blinked, an anxious flutter rising in your chest. You couldn't fathom what was happening. This was Khabib, a deeply reserved fighter who barely looked any women in the eye outside of training.
The heavy suggestiveness in his tone felt completely unreal.
"I was just... getting the angles they asked for," you explained softly, your hands trembling as you gently reached out, placing your palms against the hard, tense muscles of his thighs to gently push for space.
"Khabib, please. Let me stand up. You need to get ready for the press conference." The moment your bare hands touched the skin of his thighs, an electric shockwave seemed to pass through his entire frame.
His jaw clenched so hard the bone looked sharp beneath his skin.
Inside his head, a violent, desperate war was tearing his remaining restraint to shreds. Let her up, the rational, disciplined side of his brain screamed. She is a professional. This is a sin. Let her get up. What would father say? Walk away.
But the feral, starved part of him, the side that had spent fourteen days staring at a glowing screen, watching your curves, aching to stretch his hands across your delicate flesh, viciously submitted that voice out.
You were right here. On your knees. Your face was inches from his groin, your sweet, intoxicating perfume filling his lungs until he was dizzy with it. He was done running at midnight. He was done trying to erase you with his fist in the dark. "Forget press conference,"
"What do you mean?" Your brows furrowing and your breath catching. You looked down at his waist as you finally processed the heavy, pulsing reality straining violently against the thin satin of his fight shorts. "Khabib, I don't understand...what do you want?" You pressed, fighting to break your gaze from his imprint. You had to maintain some sort of professionalism, but through your jeans, you could feel a warmth pooling.
"You don't understand?" he repeated, almost mockingly. Slowly, his large, wrapped hand reached down. His thick fingers didn't grab you harshly, but they tangled into your hair at the back of your head with a firm, possessive weight, tilting your face straight up toward him.
"Look at me, (F/n)," he commanded softly. You looked up, utterly helpless in the hold, meeting eyes that had gone entirely black.
He looked in between both of them, "I see file on my laptop," Khabib confessed, the words falling like bombs, destroying everything in their path. That one sentence filled you with utter dread. "I see the pictures you leave for me. The…underwear."
Blinding, hot realization crashed over you. The file. The joking lingerie photos your best friend had taken of you. The room felt like it was spinning out of control as a furious, terrified hotness rushed to your cheeks. He had seen everything.
"No, no, Khabib, I swear, it wasn’t on purpose, that was an accident, I didn't mean to—"
"I don't care if is accident," he interrupted, his grip on your hair tightening while he spoke through gritted teeth. It was just hard enough to assert absolute authority, to guide your face a fraction of an inch closer until the radiating heat from his groin fanned across your lips.
"For two week, pictures ruin my mind. I cannot sleep. I look at you in the gym, and I want to lose all discipline. And now, you come in here…" His breathing was completely coarse now, the internal battle lost, leaving behind only the primal urge to conquer.
"You want to know what I want?" Khabib rasped, his free hand moving down to the waistband of his shorts. With one quick, impatient tug, he freed his waist, pushing the fabric and his protective guard down past his hips.
Your breath left you in a sharp gasp as his hardened, thick manhood finally stood free, fully exposed and throbbing right at your eye level. It was massive, heavily veined, and weeping with clear, slick pre-cum at the heavy crown.
"I want you to be good for your champion," he whispered, his hand in your hair guiding your head forward until your nose brushed the burning skin of his lower abdomen, the hairs on his stomach tickling your soft skin.
He gently pressed you down, underneath his bobbing erection, making you stare at the thick, beautiful length of him.
Any remaining hesitation dissolved completely into the heat of the locker room. Watching him stare down at you with this expectant look in your eyes, it only hid what he truly was—utterly broken and completely enamoured.
You made him like this, you wanted this. That ache in your stomach that you assumed to be the flu, or nervousness, was only the prelude to your true feelings. The ones that you suppressed so deeply because of who this man was. You wanted to taste him, to swallow him whole, to be the one who controlled the stoic fighter. "Open your mouth"
Without a single second's thought, you leaned forward, parting your lips willingly to take him in. But Khabib didn't let you swallow him just yet.
A low, gravelly hum vibrated deep in his chest as his wrapped hand halted your forward movement just an inch short of your goal. Your eyes fluttered open, dark and heavy with desire, looking up at him in breathless confusion. The wetness between your legs was demanding for him, but the fighter was firmly back in control now, orchestrating every single movement of the space between you.
"Slow," he rasped, his eyes completely black as he stared down at your wet, parted lips. "First, you apologize properly."
Before you could even process the command, Khabib shifted his hips forward. He didn't thrust, he used the hold in your hair to move your head like a toy, leaning you back just enough so he could press the weeping underside of his crown directly against your upper lip.
A sharp, ragged gasp caught in your throat at the blistering heat of him.
Slowly, he began to drag his bulbous tip across your mouth. He glided the smooth, pre-cum-slicked head of his manhood back and forth to trace the exact contours of your lips. He moved from the top lip to the bottom, smearing the thick, clear lubrication just like he had envisioned in the dark of his bedroom.
The torture of it was mentally shattering. The burning weight of his erection dragging against the skin on your lips sent violent jolts of electricity straight down to your core, making you ache for him to just push inside. Your hands gripped the muscles of his thighs desperately, your fingers digging into his flesh as your hips instinctively twitched on the floor, wordlessly begging for relief.
"Ah... fuck," Khabib choked out, his head thrown back while the sensitive nerves of your warm breath were directly felt against his pulsing skin. The veins along his neck throbbed to match the ones on his cock as he fought his own soaring arousal. He wanted to bury himself in you, but the satisfaction of breaking your composure completely was too intoxicating to rush.
He finally looked at your glossy, painted lips, wet with his own fluid, looking so beautifully undone beneath him.
"You like teasing your champion, yes?" he whispered roughly, his thumb rubbing against your slick mouth. He forced your mouth open even wider. "Look at me. Look at what you do to me, and tell me thank you."
"Thank... thank you, Khabib," you breathed, your voice trembled with a desperate, submissive compliance. The sound of your quivering completely shattered the last of his restraint.
His wrapped hand at the back of your head tightened to apply a steady, unyielding downward pressure. Khabib couldn’t wait another second. He shifted his hips forward, and with one firm push, forced the thick, burning head of his cock straight past your wet lips.
Your eyes widened as your throat instantly stretched to accommodate his massive size, it filled you gradually, each second was another inch until you were entirely consumed by the taste and the heat of him.
Your throat stretched tight as the thick, heavy head of his cock sank fully into your mouth. A muffled gasp caught in your chest, your hands locking onto his solid thighs, trying to pace yourself. The taste of his post-fight sweat mixed with the subtly salty taste of his pre-cum, filled your senses until your brain was completely foggy with his scent.
Khabib didn't wait for you to move. Now that he finally had his slick length past your lips, those primitive instincts took over.
His large hand remained firmly anchored in your hair, his thick fingers providing a steady, controlling counter-pressure at the back of your head as his hips began to move. He bucked forward with a slow tilt, drawing himself almost completely out before sliding all the way back in, burying his shaft deep into your wet warmth.
“fuck,” Khabib cursed again, his eyes squeezed shut as the blistering friction of your throat squeezed around him.
The pace picked up instantly. The initial restraint he had fought so hard to maintain for two fucking weeks completely disintegrated. He began to push into you harder, his heavy thighs framing your face, forcing you into a rapid, helpless rhythm.
You let your eyes close, you wanted to submit to the possessive grip in your hair. Every time his hips hit your lips, tears pricked the corners of your eyes from the sheer depth of him, a low, needy whimper vibrated in your throat, only driving him more insane.
Hearing that sound, feeling it radiate on his cock, Khabib’s breathing turned into a ragged, feral wheeze.
He was right on the edge, the ache in his stomach engulfing his entire body just like it had on those lonely nights in his room. This time, however, it was real, you were real, and his conscience wouldn’t let him cum now without truly feeling you.
He quickly pulled himself out of your mouth, a thick strand of saliva and pre-cum lingering between his tip and your swollen lips. You looked up at him in confusion. His twitching cock made you assume the fighter was close to his peak.
Without a single word, Khabib reached down. His wrapped hands locked securely under your waist, hoisting your body off the floor in one effortless, terrifyingly powerful motion. You let out a sharp gasp as your feet left the ground. Your camera was left forgotten on the ground, your back was slammed firmly against the cold metal of the lockers.
"Khabib—" you breathed, your hands flying up to grip his broad, bare shoulders for balance. “Take off,” he replied, his own chest trembling. You didn’t deny him, and you had no intention of denying yourself the pleasure.
Your hands flew up to your dress shirt, hastily unbuttoning it and revealing another beautiful set of underwear. He licked his lips, switching between your chest and your eyes. Your hands reached down to undo the belt around the waist of your jeans.
Khabib quickly assisted in shoving them and your underwear down to the ground. He wedged his thigh right between yours, forcing your legs wide open and pinning your hips flat against the tile with the sheer weight of his body.
There was no slowing down. No easing into it. Guided by two weeks of pure, unadulterated desperation, Khabib lifted your right leg, hooking your knee over his hip, and drove his waist forward in one deep, unyielding thrust.
A loud, surprised cry tore from your throat as he buried his entire massive length inside you in a single, breath-stealing motion, filling your tight, aching pussy to the absolute limit.
The sudden fullness of him stretching you open made your head tilt back against the cold tile. It hurt, you wanted to tell him, but Khabib didn't give you even a second to adjust, he had lost himself now. Everything he imagined you’d feel like exceeded his expectations. The fighter was enamoured, he couldn’t think about sinning anymore, he just wanted you tighter around his cock.
The moment his hips hit your pelvis, filling you to the root, his grip on your thigh tightened until his knuckles turned white beneath the hand wraps.
Every drive of his waist was a blunt, powerful force that slammed your back rhythmically against the lockers. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder as the slick, wet friction of your bodies echoed loudly in the cramped concrete space.
He was pacing himself like he was in a final championship round, his breathing turning into a ragged, guttural growl next to your ear with every frantic thrust.
"Khabib... oh my god... wait," you whimpered, your vision swimming from the sheer intensity of the speed. You were completely overwhelmed, your wet walls clamping desperately around his massive length, which only made him drive into you harder, chasing that tight, suffocating friction.
"Quiet, kukolka," he rasped, his English rough, phasing in and out of his native language as his hips bucked in a furious, unyielding rhythm.
Suddenly, a heavy, echoing knock-knock-knock rattled the locker room door.
"Khabib? Hey, you in there, brother?"
The loud, unmistakable voice of Javier boomed through the thick wood. It cut through the heavy atmosphere like a knife, and threw you back into your conscious mind.
Your eyes flew open in panic. Your heart leaped into your throat, and a sharp, terrified gasp began to form on your lips. If he walked in, if the door gave way, your entire professional life, your reputation, everything would be shattered in an instant.
Before a word could escape your throat, Khabib’s wrapped hand snapped up, a heaviness clapping firmly over your mouth, muffling your panic into a desperate, vibrating whimper against his palm.
In fact, the sudden spike of adrenaline and the delicious risk of getting caught made his cock throb, swelling even larger inside you.
That one reckless acceleration pushed you completely over the edge, it lit a fire inside you that you didn’t even know you would enjoy.
With his hand locking your mouth shut and his coach standing just inches away on the other side of the door, the sheer, forbidden intensity of the moment broke through. The coil inside you snapped. Your internal muscles violently convulsed, seizing around his thick shaft in tight, desperate waves of a shattering orgasm. Your head thwacked back against the tile, your eyes rolling back as a muffled, sobbing scream was smothered directly into his heavy palm.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together, and instead of slowing down, his hips began to drive into you with a frantic, punishing speed, desperate to catch up. He pinned your back against the wall, his waist hammering into yours in a blurry state, embedding himself deep into your aching, soaked slit.
The hardened muscles at the base of his cock were hitting your sensitive clit over and over again. You couldn’t catch a break, you couldn’t breathe, it felt so good it burnt.
"Khabib!" the coach called out again, jiggling the metal door handle. The sharp clack-clack of the locked mechanism felt incredibly close. "The press conference is starting in five minutes man. Dana is asking for you, and the Doctors said you were cleared. Everything alright in there?"
You let out a muffled, tearful whine against Khabib's hand, your nails dug themselves desperately into his shoulder, your hips trembling violently all while he continued to ruthlessly pound into you. Your internal walls were still pulsing frantically, milking him, clamping down so tight. Your climax was the final catalyst that tore his own restraint to shreds.
Khabib swallowed hard, his chest heaving as he tried to force his ragged breathing to stabilize. He had to speak. If he stayed silent, Javier would force his way in.
Keeping his palm locked tightly over your mouth, he tilted his head back toward the door. He didn't break his furious rhythm for a single second, his hips continuing to slam into yours with agonizing force as he spoke.
"Yes! Yes, coach!" Khabib called out, his voice dropping into a strained, deeply gravelly shout. He took a sharp, whistling breath as he drove himself into you to the absolute root, his muscles seizing at the pleasure. "I... I am changing clothes! Give me... give me two minutes! I come out!"
"Alright, hurry up, man! Don't keep us waiting!" His muffled voice shouted back, the footsteps finally fading down the concrete corridor.
The moment the threat vanished, Khabib let out a loud, feral groan against your neck, no longer held by any restraints. The danger, the sheer desperation of the moment, and the tight clamping of your swollen walls pushed him right over the precipice. He removed his hand from your mouth, immediately replacing it with his lips, catching your loud, echoing scream in a deep, bruising kiss as his hips slammed into you three more times.
Hard, fast, and shockingly deep.
He was going to cum inside you, after all this time, after you made him waste it all, he was going to make you take his load. Right before his entire body locked up, he released a massive, scorching wave of cum deep inside your womb. He couldn’t think properly. All he wanted in those couple of minutes of pleasure was to completely conquer your body, inside and out.
The heavy tension in Khabib’s muscles eventually began to thaw. His forehead slumped heavily against your breasts as his own chest rose and fell in ragged, trembling gasps. You could feel his massive length pulsing inside you, slowly softening as the heat of his climax settled within your core.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sound in the concrete room was the synchronized, frantic rhythm of your breathing.
"Two minutes," Khabib muttered against your skin, his voice a gravelly, exhausted whisper. The reality of the ticking clock was crashing back into his brain, but his wrapped hands didn't loosen their grip on your waist. He didn't want to let you go.
But he reluctantly pulled out. You found yourself holding onto him tightly, he returned your hug and covered your naked body with his arms.
A soft, breathless whimper escaped your lips at the emptiness, followed by the warm, wet sensation of his release spilling down your inner thighs. Your legs felt like completely useless weights as he gently lowered your feet back to the cold tile floor.
Your knees buckled instantly, the sheer, exhausting intensity of the pounding leaving you entirely unstrung.
Khabib caught you before you could fall. His large arms hooked right under yours, guiding you down onto the wooden bench where this madness had first started.
"Stay. Rest," he commanded softly, his rough accent melting into a deeply protective tone. You gratefully obliged, still trying to catch your breath as you pressed your palms on the seat.
He looked down at you, through his dark eyes, he simply took in the beautiful, chaotic state you were in. Your lips swollen and shiny from his kisses, your hair tangled, and your beautiful naked body, all for him.
A possessive sensation of pride pooled in his chest, but it was immediately diminished by the reminder of urgency.
They were waiting for him.
Khabib quickly shifted back into his efficient, athlete mindset. He pulled a pair of boxers over his body and walked over to the locker room sink. Grabbing a clean, white towel, he ran it under warm water. He didn't care about the conference so much as he wanted to make sure you were alright.
He knelt back down between your knees, the exact same position you had been in just minutes prior, but the energy in the room was different. It was no longer so sexually charged.
"Look at me, (F/n)," he murmured softly.
You looked down, your eyes heavy and dazed, still reeling from the aftershocks of the climax. Khabib gently took your hands, kissing them before he began to clean you. With surprising gentleness for a man who had just destroyed an opponent in the octagon, his fingers guided the warm towel over your thighs, wiping away the messy traces of his cum and sweat.
"I have to go out there," he whispered roughly, reaching onto the bench and covering you with his sweater. His thumb gently caught a stray tear at the corner of your eye. "But you stay here. Lock door when I leave. Fix your clothes, clean your face."
He was already on his feet, stepping into a pair of sweatpants and stripping the handwraps from his fists. He pulled a clean team t-shirt over his head, hiding his broad, bruised torso from view. You looked up at him from the floor, wishing you could capture the exact frame.
The champion persona was back, flawless, except for two things: his ragged breathing, and the dangerous, untamed look still burning in his eyes.
Khabib walked to the heavy door, his hand resting on the metal bolt. Before he slid it open, he paused, turning his head back to look at you one last time. "Text me which hotel you stay," he said, his voice dropping into a tone that made your stomach flip all over again. "No rushing this time. I’ll be more gentle, be ready for me."
With a sharp clink, he threw the bolt open, stepped out into the bright hallway, and left you alone in the quiet warmth of the locker room.