indecisiveasshoe

Khamzat Chimaev x Reader

UFC Champion Khamzat Chimaev helps his wife through ovulation pains for the first time. What neither of you realizes is the effects of it on your body, and the way that it made you crave him all the more. As you struggle to maintain your composure, your desperate, hormonal need for his touch cracks your defenses. With one look, he realizes exactly what your body is begging for, and eventually, finds his hands between your legs as a result.

3.4k Words - Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Caretaking, Ovulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Orgasm, Finger Penetration. Dirty Talk, Slight Breeding Implied

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"Oh my god, it hurts so bad," you whined and collapsed on the bed as you clutched your stomach. 

The dull, heavy ache of whatever the hell was going on in your uterus made every movement feel like a stab. Its effects didn’t just burn you with pain inside, it persisted on the outside of your body as well, in a way you couldn’t comprehend. 

Ovulation had never felt like this before.

Your clothes, even brushing against your hyper-sensitive skin, were agonizingly torturous. It made you want to strip everything. With a graze against the fabric of your underwear, another small shiver flew through you, and as much as you tried to hold back a groan, it escaped your throat. 

You hoped it sounded more like pain than pleasure. 

Khamzat Chimaev, the notoriously terrifying fighter, known for dominating every single one of his opponents, could only furrow his brows at your fetal position while sitting down beside you. 

"What's wrong?" He asked, placing his innocently heavy hand atop his wife’s waist. His thumb rubbed a short circle before moving toward your head. Playing with your hair was had to be a sure way of getting you to calm down. 

Unbeknownst to him, that small touch from your husband only made your thighs clench together tighter. You tried to erase the grimace from your expression and mustered up the energy to answer, “My…my period is coming, and I'm ovulating.” 

The champion quickly fell into an area a little out of his expertise. He suddenly recalled his friends advising him on how to treat a woman when she's on her period. It was so long ago, though, even before he had gotten married, all he could recollect was just to never make them angry or else. 

But what the hell was ovulation? Was that still the blood stuff? 

He digressed, focusing back on your pitiful form. "Is there anything I can do?" He offered hopefully. You sighed, propped yourself up, and tried to sweep your messy hair out of your view to no avail. 

Khamzat was quick to act and gently tucked it behind your ear before smoothing the rest of it down. You gulped, mumbling a small ‘thank you’ while desperately attempting to fight back the urge to grab him by his shirt and use his thigh to grind off.

Oh god, why did he look so handsome? Did he cut his beard differently? Were those new glasses? He smelled different, that's for sure. The slight squint of his eyes quickly made you realize you were staring at him. 

But how could you not? He was so tall and strong…he could handle you like you weighed next to nothing. Even more so, he wasn’t scared of a little rough play either, a spank here and a soft slap to the face there were tantalizing to fantasize about, but you couldn’t just ask him out of the blue now—that would be odd, right? 

"Could I have another blanket and a hot water bottle?" you managed to rasp out instead.

In the back of his mind, as he finally met your gaze unimpeded by your hair, he paused. You were always beautiful, but today, you looked absolutely radiant despite what was going on.

Your skin seemed to glow against the shadows of the room, and your scent was unnervingly enticing, stirring something deep within him. 

"Yeah, I ’ve got it, koshechka. Stay put." He cupped your face. You savoured the sensation of his rough thumb tracing your jawline before he dropped a soft kiss to your forehead and hurried to find what you needed.

It took him a few minutes of trial and error to get the hot water bottle ready, but he managed it. Khamzat walked back up the creaking stairs to find you in the exact same position he had left you in. 

The room was completely darkened, the only thing he could make out was the lump on the bed. A soft chuckle escaped him while he carefully draped the fresh blanket over you. From underneath the three layers of fabric, he heard you giggle as you cocooned yourself in it. Even for a moment, your laughter eased some of the tension he was holding in his shoulders.

Khamzat’s memory recalled something else his friends had told him. A piece of advice echoed in his mind: when women are on their cycle, they get needy. Extra touchy.

He paused. "Can you move over a little? Let me lie down with you, koshechka," Khamzat said. You gasped in excitement and quickly made some space for your husband, who was taking off his shirt. 

He hated sleeping with tops on, especially when he was in bed with you. Even though you were wearing a shirt, he appreciated that at least his skin could touch you unimpeded. 

Khamzat got comfortable and held the hot water bottle to your stomach tightly, your back was pressed against his torso, and your hips was fit snugly on in front of his crotch. He secretly loved the way his huge frame just engulfed you, you laid so perfectly in the space of his chest and legs.

"So tell me what's going on?" He began curiously, you held his arm that looped underneath your body and around your chest securely.

"Well, do you know what ovulation is—" the end of your sentence was suddenly hindered by a sharp groan of pain

Khamzat frowned. Without saying a word, he pushed the water bottle that seemed to be lacking in its effectiveness with the presence of his hand gently massaging your soft stomach. "Does this feel good?" He mumbled.

You let out a soft, involuntary moan of relief. In your pleasure-stricken mind, you didn't think before you took his hand and guided it lower to just above where your uterus lay beneath the skin.

His fingers ended close to the elastic hem of your panties, which was the only piece of bottom clothing you were wearing. Khamzat swallowed hard, he couldn't think about such things while his wife was in pain.

"Right here... exactly there. Don't stop," you breathed, pressing yourself further into the cradle of his lap. When you turned your head for a moment, your lips brushed his sensitive Adam’s apple, his entire body went rigid. 

His friend's words came into his mind once again. You were never this needy normally. The wife Khamat was used to, was a woman who could maintain a powerful composure in her own right.

You were his personal advisor for matters none could answer, not much shook you, and in his chaotic, fight-addled life, it was a heavily grounding thing to have. 

But right now, seeing the way you were writhing in his arms, trying to burrow deeper into him, was so amusing. It made his stomach lurch. “I got it, habibti, don't worry," he whispered. 

There was a pause for a bit before you continued to try and explain the phenomenon, "Ovulation is basically my uterus releasing an egg, it's like my body's way of telling me I'm fertile," you explained.

His hand stalled on your stomach for a fraction of a second. To him, the air in the room felt heavy, thick with the scent of your skin and the weight of that statement. "So," he murmured, his thumb subtly hooking into the waistband of your panties and dragging the fabric just an inch lower. “If we have sex…and I didn’t wear anything, you’d get pregnant for sure?”

You paused to think about it. "Not for sure, but it would be a way higher chance," was your answer as you shifted your body slightly to get more comfortable. 

Khamzat’s mind exploded in about a dozen questions. The biology of it, the timing, the reality of what this meant, but he stifled them. His focus narrowed down to the way you were practically melting into his touch. "So that’s why you’re glowing like this," his voice dropping into that familiar possessive register that always made your heart stutter. "It’s like your body is literally begging for me to put a baby inside you."

You blushed and covered half your face with the blanket in embarrassment, "Stop saying it so casually," you chided, though your tone lacked any real bite.

He began to trail slow kisses along the column of your neck. Your husband’s beard grazed your sensitive skin. You closed your eyes, growing more sexually frustrated with the intimate pecks until a sudden shift in his movements startled you.

"Khamzat, what are you doing?" You questioned. Before you could pull back or even say any more, he had pushed your t-shirt up, exposing you to the cool, darkened air of the room. Your breath hitched as his hand, large and calloused, cupped your swollen chest. Your eyes widened, "Khamzat!" 

“They can hurt, right? I'm just massaging them for you,” he explained. You gulped as he started kneading them. Your breasts were so unbelievably sensitized by your cycle that the sensation was almost overwhelming, it was a sharp ache that just teetered on the edge of pain and pure, unadulterated pleasure.

"I'll be gentle, don’t worry,” he promised, tightening the space between his fingers where your taut, stiff nipples were. 

The heat radiating from his palm made your skin feel like it was on fire. He found it interesting that you didn’t even pretend you didn’t want it to preserve a little modesty. That's when it finally dawned on him, the entirety of those words his friends told him. When women are like this, they get turned on really easily, it's always the best time to have sex. 

You wanted this more than anything, to surrender and break away from that composed front you always wore for something more submissive. So your fingers dug into his arms as you exhaled a shaky, broken moan. "Khamzat...please..more" you whispered. No one had to tell him twice.

He obliged gratefully and maintained the intoxicating pressure, switching between each side to create a pleasure that slowly began to outweigh the deep-seated pain. "You'd look so beautiful pregnant, do you know that?" He said, you replied with a soft breathy laugh, "No, I wouldn't…I'd be big.”

“So what? You'd be carrying the baby I put inside you.”

“But we wouldn't be able to have sex."

"Says who?" he countered, his thumb and index finger teasing against your nipple, just slightly increased in pressure. "I read somewhere that sex while pregnant is good for the baby. Good for the mother, too."

He seemed so unnervingly eager for this, so confident in his vision of the future. You let out another shaky, stifled giggle, the sensation on your skin becoming almost too much to handle. "What kind of things are you reading?" Khamzat bit down a laugh, “The important stuff, habibti.”

Your amused eye roll was interrupted by a sudden desire for your husband to tend to another problem you were having. “Mmh...move a little lower,” you whispered, referring to his hand massaging your stomach. He felt your hips shift, your body angling to accommodate his touch.

He smiled, "What's hurting, koshechka? Talk to me and tell me exactly where you want me to put it," he whispered. You tilted your head upwards and bit down on your lip as the pleasure he was inflicting on your chest became overwhelming. 

“It’s aching, Khamzat… between my legs," you sighed exasperatingly, your voice was thick with building need. With a surge of desperation, you grabbed his wrist and guided his hand downward enough to push his fingers atop the pulsing heat of you. 

It was slick enough that he was able to simply slide his hand through your drenched folds without any friction. “This, habibti?” You whimpered an incoherent reply softly, his fingers gently slapped your cunt, the viscous evidence of your desperate arousal stretched between him and your heat.

The thin fabric of your underwear was utterly soaked through. 

He gave you another slow, deliberate tap. Underneath his palm, he could feel you convulse. He only needed three fingers to cover you completely, and he used that to his advantage. “(F/n), I said talk to me. Is it right here?” The fighter teased on. He took to massaging it sloppily, knowing he wasn’t hitting that particular sweet spot filled him with amusement. You were rolling your hips, trying to get him to meet you in the middle, but he refused.

“Khamzat…please,” you cried. Your husband leaned over your body to peck your neck, covered in a wonderful sheen of sweat. You were being overwhelmed from all different angles.

The Chechen's body, acclimatized to handle frigid temperatures, acted as a natural radiator that was pressed against your back. The blankets that you were now regretting covering yourself with were heavy, and the just-barely satisfying touch between your legs was driving you to the brink of insanity. 

“Please? Please, what?” He questioned innocently and kissed the corner of your mouth.

"Touch me there… please," you pleaded, a lone tear of pure sexual frustration tracking down the bridge of your nose. "It hurts so bad, Khamzat. I need you. I can’t… I can't do this anymore." 

With your statement, it seemed he finally felt satisfied enough to give his sweet wife what she wanted. Watching his opponents be systematically defeated with his wrestling was one sort of satisfaction, but to see such a proud, collected woman as yourself act like total putty was a whole new high. 

Khamzat instantly got to work on you, from three to two precise fingers, they began with tending to your engorged outer lips for a moment before slipping inside. The sound of him pulsing in and out of your swollen depths was sloppy in the quiet room.

A rhythmic slap-slap-slap punctuated every one of your ragged sobs.  You gasped and moaned, the fire of your sexual desires finally overriding the pain.

Your hand lay on top of your husband's as it continued to stroke the heat between your thighs. Your moans rose higher, and you pressed your back into Khamzat's chest, calling out his name. "Just like that..please..keep going," you mumbled, arching your back and ever so slightly tearing up. 

Khamzat pecked your ear, "I know, koshechka, I know," he replied, completely pushing your underwear down to your knees. You made no objections and aided in kicking them off to the bottom of the bed. The blanket had been tugged off, and Khamzat jumped at the opportunity to hook his arm under your thigh to completely open up your legs. "Fuck, this is so much better," he grinned in ecstasy.

Free from the clutches of the blanket and constricting panties, Khamzat could finally see the effect he was having on your body, your thighs trembled in his harsh grasp, shiny with the fluids of your wetness. It coated everything.

The swollen peaks of your nipples reached up desperately, deprived of the sensory stimulation your husband was now directing onto your clit.

You gasped from the cold air hitting your soaking wet genitals. Khamzat attacked the fiery nerves of your clitoris like an animal. 

"You’re so fucking wet," he hissed, his own breathing heavy and ragged behind you. He ground his palm against your labia, flattening you against the mattress, his thumb rubbing your clit into a raw, throbbing nub. "I can't... I can't take it, it's too much," you gasped, your voice cracking as you bucked against him.

"You can," he commanded, his voice dropping into a dark, possessive rumble. "You’re going to take every bit of this. I want to feel you twitching around me."

Over, and over, and over again, a perfect hit with each penetrating thrust. Fingers hit that eye-watering sweet spot deep within your canal, while the bottom of his hand slammed a wonderful pressure with every push. You were a mess of wetness, and he thrived on it, so utterly swollen and desperate, you could no longer care about how embarrassing this position was. 

"Cum all over my fingers, koshechka, come on, come on, you can do it, be a good girl," he cooed in your ear, persuading you to continue using his hands like a sex toy as you desperately rubbed yourself against them to reach your peak. “Yes, yes, there you go, sweet girl, use it.” He was hammering against your G-spot, each thrust driving you further toward the edge, your legs trembling violently as the pleasure began to coil tight in your stomach.

"Oh fuck, Khamzat, please," you sobbed, your body arching back against his chest, seeking more.

"Tell me," he growled, his hand moving with a masterful, possessive speed. "Tell me how much you need this." He shoved his fingers in deep, hooking them against your inner walls while his thumb swirled over your clit in a tight, unrelenting circle. 

You cried out and obliged with no hesitation, the only thing you could imagine right now was reaching that gratifying orgasm your bodily functions were looking for. “Yes! Fuck! Yes, please, I need you, Khamzat!” You sobbed.

He plunged his fingers to the absolute hilt. Every so often, he'd play with your clit and alternate between the two parts, "oh my god Khamzat I'm going to cum, I'm going to cum fuck!" Khamzat grabbed your head and shoved his lips upon yours. Your mewling moans vibrated in his mouth like music. He took in the taste of his wife, savouring your saliva like nectar. 

Khamzat desperately pushed himself even closer towards you. He wanted to feel it on your body. His cock was aching horribly beneath his boxers, it strained so hard he was positive you could feel it digging into your thigh, but he couldn’t even focus on that. You, just you, he needed to make you cum, right now, he needed to his wife explode in the pleasure he had induced upon her. 

The sensation surged past pleasure and into a sensory overload. You bucked into his hand, while your hips slammed against his palm in desperation to bridge the distance between his touch and your need.

"I can’t—I can’t—Khamzat!" you shrieked.

He ignored your plea for mercy and escalated his pace. His hand was a blur, his thumb working in a frantic rhythm that felt like heaven against your clit while his fingers hammered deep into your wetness. As relentless as he was in the cage, he remained so in bed, utterly intent on driving you toward the cliff’s edge with delicious violence.

The first violent spasm hit your deep tissues. Your muscles clamped down on his hand, squeezing him with a sharp pressure. 

"That’s it, that it," he growled encouragingly, his own control fracturing. He watched your face twist in ecstasy, his jaw tight as he tracked every tremor. 

The world dissolved. Your climax was a wave of electricity that ripped through your central nervous system. Your body arched backwards into his chest as you convulsed, layer after layer of orgasmic release washing through you. 

You were sobbing, twitching, your mind completely shattered by the intensity of the sensation while he held you pinned, denying you the ability to escape the feeling of his hand buried deep inside you.

Khamzat refused to pull out. He held you firm, feeling every single pulse of your release, his thumb still working you until the last, residual shiver finally died out.

Only then did he stop, his hand heavy and slick inside you, his chest heaving against your back as he rested his forehead against your shoulder, both of you gasping for air in the aftermath. 

Your movement paused, and moans went silent, a bout of exhaustion instantly took its toll. Your legs trembled in ecstasy. Khamzat turned your body around, your chest was rising and falling against his. Both of his large hands came up to push the hair stuck to your forehead away. The fighter held his wife’s flushed face. 

The dampness of his fingers against your cheek made you smile. You reached up and took his hand in front of your mouth. Khamzat watched as you softly kissed the two that had penetrated you seconds before, “(F/n)…?” He called out, entranced by the motion entirely. You leaned into his neck. “Mh?” You hummed back.

I think this is my favourite edit to date, absolutely destroyed my phone but it’s Khabib soooo😝😝😝 it genuinely bothers me that I can never crack him, him and just all the Dagestani fighters are insane levels of fine.

Don’t worry guys I’ll still make edits too, this will be my last before I go back to w*rk💔 I’m going to miss doing nothing 😭 hopefully this won’t mess with posting one shots…

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.

He didn't stop. 

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."

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.

5.6k words - Male Masturbation, Religious Guilt, Forbidden Desires, Obsession/Infatuation, Suppressed Sexual Frustration. - Check out Pt. 2 here

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It was a regular afternoon at the AKA Gym in San Jose, another day of promos and training for the UFC. Javier had informed the team yesterday that a new camera crew and a professional videographer would be coming, so he urged them to try and look somewhat presentable.

Khabib Nurmagomedov, the rising lightweight sensation, rubbed his freshly lined beard in a glass screen, turning his head from side to side and inspecting the barber's work. "Look good?" He asked Islam, casting a glance his way as his closest friend stared in amusement. "Looks good, brother, mashallah."

"Why are they making so many videos? Someone just came a couple of days ago," Umar Nurmagomedov asked, scrolling on his phone on the lounge sofas. "Once you get into the UFC, they'll never stop," Khabib sighed, massaging his sore leg muscles. "Oh, looks like they're here," Islam interrupted.

As you walked through the threshold of the cool gym, the familiar smell of musk and equipment filled your nose. This was your fourth gig working for the UFC. It was a dream come true to work with the greatest professional fight league of all time, and so young too.

You specialized in photography and editing, so your portfolio was well built. Being an expert in both your fields made you quite the catch for the company.

Today was the whole procedure, lights, cameras, and microphones. It was your responsibility to get as many high-quality photographs of the fighters in their natural environment for some promo videos and posters.

But despite being in this line of business for a while, this new atmosphere slightly intimidated you, after all, you were working with huge men who, in one single motion, could completely knock you out.

You tried not to think about that so much, rather, you wanted to put your full focus on your craft and achieving the best results possible.

You peered through the viewfinder, pointing it around the gym and adjusting it as you did so. Suddenly, your hands paused, the camera landed on one of the fighters. You lingered on him, your high-resolution video captured him perfectly from afar as he spoke to one of his friends and laughed. He was even more handsome up close. Your finger hovered over the shutter button, and you bit down on your lips thoughtfully.

He began to turn his head in your general direction. Your cheeks were burning hot, your finger was eager to click the trigger and capture his calm, candid expression, but you regretfully bailed out and dropped the camera under the pressure of his hard gaze. Left slightly disheartened that you weren't able to take a picture, you decided that you should probably just do your actual job.

"(F/n), right?" A voice called out. You looked up to meet the laidback expression of Coach Javier, "Yes, sir, it's nice to meet you," you stood up to shake his hand. "You too, the photos you do are fantastic, let me introduce you to the rest of the fighters. You'll be working with them from now on, so they should know you," He said, motioning for you to follow him. "Hey, Khabib! Come meet your new photographer!"

Khabib paused his conversation with Islam and made his way to where a young woman was standing with Javier. He walked with a slight air of modesty in his step, he always tried to keep his distance from women, as was the way he was raised. "Khabib, this is (F/n), she'll be here taking some shots and videos of you guys today, probably for a while, right?" He asked, turning toward you.

Khabib's gaze moved from Javier to you, he froze. The young man was met with the expression of one of the most beautiful women he's ever seen. You looked like some kind of sports anchor rather than a photographer. He didn't realize the UFC hired people so young. "Yeah, since I'm under contract, I'm working with some specific fighters, your team happened to be on my roster." You smiled. You somehow looked even more gorgeous.

"That's great, I— Hey! What are you guys doing?!" Javier suddenly yelled behind you. Both you and your muse turned around to see two custodians carrying out some equipment. "Sorry, excuse me, guys, Khabib, introduce her to everyone," he directed before going off to deal with it.

You felt like your tongue was in knots. It was quiet for a moment before the fighter spoke up. "So...do UFC pay good money for this?" He asked, the question had caught you so off guard that you had to laugh. Although he wasn't sure what was funny, he felt his ego grow at the fact that he had elicited such a reaction from you.

You turned to look at him, "It's more than what I expected, it's nice to meet you, Khabib," you answered back. He paused, hearing your voice say his name made his heart beat faster, "You too, (F/n)...come, I show you rest of team," he softly said, trying to fight down the warmth in his face.

You obliged and followed him over to the large group of men. It's like he saw through you, the slightly nervous face on your expression was clear enough to him. "Don't worry, they are nice," he assured amusedly.

"This is (F/n), she take our photo and video, don't do anything stupid," he scolded the last part in Russian lightly, you paid no mind to the foreign language. The team quickly proceeded to introduce themselves. As they went on, Khabib couldn't help but raise his brows at the way a couple of his teammates were acting, they were lowering their voices and kept their eyes on you for much longer than necessary.

"How you use this one?" Usman asked, walking over beside you. You happily stood beside him, explaining the different parts of the camera as simply as possible. "She's nice," Islam carefully began, looking closely at the expression of his friend. If he didn't know any better, he'd say that the redness on Khabib's neck was due to the heat outside. "Yeah," he mumbled, keeping a close eye on the way Usman's hand brushed yours.

"Put your eye here, and then push this," you paused and moved his finger to the button, he peered through the small viewfinder, pointing the lens at Umar and Abubakr. They both shot him a smile, and he clicked down.

"Show this one to me, too," Khabib directed. It almost sounded like a demand, but you were happy to do so. Usman handed the camera over to his cousin and returned to his conversation with the team, leaving you and the lightweight contender in somewhat seclusion.

"This turns on the flash, and then you push this to look closer, and turn the lens to make it clear," you said, looking up at him with a smile. Khabib found himself holding his breath at proximity. You smelled so good, it was starkly noticeable from the scent of sweat and grime he was so familiar with. This one made him feel dizzy with fluster.

Khabib held the camera, looking around the gym before pointing it at you. Surprise flickered over your face before the smile returned. He clicked down, capturing the expression quickly. "Looks good," handing it back to you. Your fingers brushed his, and though you didn't pay any mind, that small touch felt electrifying for him. "That's sweet of you, I'll make sure to get some great photos of you and send them over later so you can choose!"

You pulled out a small business card and handed it to him. "Oh, wait, actually," you said, fishing out a pen from your pocket, you scribbled down your number on the back. "My email can be weird sometimes, just text me there." Khabib stared down at the card, like an invitation to sin, his willpower was being tested more than anything. Your boss suddenly called your name and motioned for you to join them. "I'll see you in a bit. I'll be in the gym taking photos." You waved, walking off.

Later that day, after all the promo, Khabib had retired to the house they were renting for the training camp. It was empty and quiet, the team had decided to eat their dinner at a restaurant, but after a gruelling day of media, training, and exhausting himself, he’d chosen to stay behind.

One steaming shower later, and he was lying down on his bed with a towel weakly wrapped around his waist while scrolling. His eyes dragged lazily around the screen, trying to find something to entertain him, till eventually his hand collapsed beside him and he just took to staring at the ceiling. His own mind began to ponder back to the young photographer in the gym, who had stayed there for almost the entire time, mainly focusing on shots of Islam, Khabib, and Zubaira.

A flash of utter panic struck his body, he jumped to his feet and ran into the communal washroom while cursing angrily under his breath. He dove into the laundry pile. Gross, sure, but he didn't care as he flung mountains of rank, dirty clothes aside. Where were those shorts? There. He rammed his hand into the pocket, fingers scraping against the fabric until they finally snagged on the stiff edge of the business card. Thank God.

He paused, staring down at it as he walked back to his bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Khabib felt his heart rhythm change. This number, just looking at it and thinking of what he might do, filled him with a stark sensation of guilt. If his father were here and he saw him socializing with a woman, he'd scold him to no end. That idea of his beloved father being disappointed in him slowly made his hand lower to his side.

But that didn't stop his mind from running wild. As much as he tried to fight it, as much as he tried to repeat soft mantras and du'as to control his desire, he couldn't push that smile out. He saw it when he closed his eyes, even more so when he would talk to anyone else today. He remembered the way you looked up at him, that electrifying shock he felt when your warm fingers brushed his. Your touch was unfathomably soft. Khabib wondered if your entire body was that delicate.

His brows furrowed at that random thought, and a groan couldn't help but escape his throat. The fighter sighed and got up to find a pair of boxers. He glanced down once more at the number resting on the dresser as he pulled up the elastic waistband.

After another long moment of contemplation, he decided that he'd just ask you for the photos and say he wanted to post one on his Instagram. Yeah, that's perfect—it's appropriate, it makes sense, and it diminishes this nagging feeling about talking to you again. It was basically like business, right?

Totally. So that's what he did. After about thirteen different translation checkers, he finally sent you a message.

Hello, this is Khabib Nurmagomedov, from the gym. You said to text you here for the photos?

Khabib smashed his phone down on the bed. He buried his face in his hands and walked laps around the small bedroom. Why did he say that? Why did he even text you in the first place? What if you didn't reply? What if—

A vibration interrupted his thoughts. The fighter dove down like he was going in for a takedown and grappled his phone.

It was you.

You had replied.

His finger shakily hovered over the banner notification. He shut his eyes tightly and clicked it.

Hi Khabib! How are you doing after training today? I'm glad you texted me. I have the photos here, but they're not edited if that's okay?

He stared at the text message, Khabib fought down the smile that was already on his face, and he forwarded the text message to a bilingual friend for clarification. After gaining it, he quickly concocted his reply.

I am doing good, little sore, but that's normal. Did you like coming to AKA? It's okay if they're not edited. I just want to see if I can post one.

You sat down at your computer, the Adobe Photoshop software open in front of you as you worked on editing another fighter's photos. When Khabib suddenly texted you, you were caught entirely off guard, you never thought that the strict orthodox Muslim fighter would ever text you firsthand. That number was mostly meant for his manager to have and communicate with you.

But that tiny part of you that hoped he would be the one to reach was firmly pleased.

I enjoyed it a lot, everyone is really kind and respectful! I'll email the photos to you right now :)

You opened his text and gladly shared the file in which you kept all your photos. Your face was almost sore from smiling, and you chewed the inside of your mouth at the idea of the fact Khabib Nurmagomedov was texting you right now.

Khabib re-read your words slowly, the email notification popped down from the top of his screen, but he continued to stare at your message. A small deflated sensation filled his stomach, knowing that there wasn't really much more to say, the conversation would end there, it had to end there.

He sighed, hearing his rowdy teammates slam open the front door. Khabib quickly sent a quick thank you before closing his phone and hiding it under his pillow.

The rest of the night felt like he was living it as a blur. Nothing anyone was saying was fully clicking with him, he found himself zoning out multiple times, his head drifting toward the thought of you and what you were possibly doing. Maybe he could text you and ask? Or was that too forward?

"What's wrong? Why do you seem so distracted?" Islam asked, sitting down beside his friend as Usman and Amru wrestled each other on the living room floor. The lightweight fighter was instantly on the defensive, "What do you mean distracted? I'm not distracted, I'm just tired, these idiots are so loud, I can't sleep," he shot back, rubbing his buzzed hair.

Islam stared at him for a beat longer, now they weren't in the gym anymore. The house was perfectly air-conditioned, so the heat wasn't the excuse for the redness creeping around his neck.

"I know you better than that, you'll feel better if you just talk about it," Islam paused, choosing his words carefully. "Is it about the photographer from the gym?"

"What?!" Khabib yelled at the younger man, his tone so suddenly loud it forced everyone to turn and stare at him. "What are you fools looking at?" He shot at them, grabbing Islam's shoulder and pulling him toward the porch doors.

"Why did you say that in front of them?" Khabib scowled, "Relax, brother, they were so loud, none of them were paying attention." Islam reassured, leaning his elbows against the wooden railing. The cool night air washed over Khabib's warm body. "So that's what it is?" He added, after a moment.

Khabib rubbed his eyes and stared up at the sky. He mumbled another du'a of repentance and turned to his closest confidant with a soft expression. "I can't get her out of my mind, it sounds so bad, but...fuck, I don't know," he cursed, avoiding eye contact out of shame. Islam stayed silent, awaiting his friend to feel comfortable enough to continue.

"I texted her."

"You did what?"

"All I did was ask her for photos, nothing else, she was polite and just emailed them to me," he added quickly, trying to rationalize. Islam took in a long inhale. He had never seen the normally composed Khabib so infatuated with a woman before.

Girls had come and gone, crushes only, nothing ever stuck, but this was different. It truly felt like he could be pulled into temptation at the slightest inclination.

"Brother, do you remember what your father told us? One sin leads to another, it's always how it works, you think the first thing isn't so bad, and you do the next until it leads to something you can't take back," Islam began. Khabib stared silently at the grassy lawn, his grip on the wooden railing tightening.

“You know this Khabib, I don't need to tell you, I won't tell you how to live your life either, whatever you do, it's your choice, I'm just here to tell you to be careful, and think through everything properly, you're still fairly new in the UFC, you're carrying the representation for your country, your religion, and your father, just be cautious on how you act."

Khabib took Islam's words to bed, he contemplated them as he found himself staring up at the ceiling once more. The house was dark, it was almost midnight, and all his teammates had fallen asleep now. Only he remained awake and alert, still fighting between his head and his heart.

With another frustrated sigh, he decided to distract himself by looking at the photos. He grabbed his laptop and leaned against the headboard of his bed. The lowlight illuminated his face as he found the email and opened the file.

He was surprisingly very impressed, the pictures had given him a small ego boost. You had done a fantastic job of capturing him in his elements, candid shots of sparring with partners, striking the bags, and small breaks in between. It took almost two hours to get through a good chunk, and by the time he was halfway, it was almost two a.m.

Khabib noticed something, however. He wasn’t sure if it was just his interpretations, but as the shots went on, he noticed a small change in the toning of them.

The beginning consisted mainly of training shots and exercise photos. When he scrolled further down, the sole subject of the lens became his body. Close-up shots of his sweating form, scenes of him relaxing after a hard session, his head tilted back, his legs open, as if he were reeling in from the exhaustion.

Although it didn't necessarily bother him, a strange curiosity began to gnaw at his gut. No one had ever taken such... intimate photos of him before.

Was he just misinterpreting things because he was tired? Or were these frames explicitly, intentionally sexual? He rubbed his eyes hastily, trying to wake his brain up. He pressed the arrow key, eager to see the next photo.

Khabib froze.

No, time itself froze. No, it had just slowed down immensely. What Khabib thought he was going to be met with was another slightly erotically charged photo of him. Instead, the young man was staring straight at a photo of you, clad in scantily worn underwear and a t-shirt so tiny it barely covered the swell of your chest.

He slammed his laptop shut so violently that he feared he had cracked the screen.

But the state of the computer was the absolute last thing on his mind. He threw himself off the bed, the wooden floor creaked violently, but his hammering heart against his ribs completely drowned it out. There was no way what he had just seen was actually what he had just seen. He was tired, he was immensely exhausted.

Khabib did not just see the most dream-like photo of you in silk underwear. Even though it was for only the briefest moment, it didn't look like some sort of formal photoshoot. Not posed in the professional sense, it looked like you simply collapsed onto the bed and someone happened to capture the moment.

The camera flash had washed the room in bright white light, leaving shadows tucked away into the corners. The wall behind you was empty. The flowers on the bedside table were slightly out of focus. Everything about it felt accidental.

Everything except you.

He desperately tried not to remember the way your arm had been thrown across your face, hiding part of your expression. The way your shirt had twisted slightly at your stomach. The shine on your lips where the flash had caught them. The way your nipples oh-so-subtly poked out of the fabric.

God.

He remembered that part far too well.

Khabib was completely at a loss, his entire body was jittering with months of pent-up sexual frustration already. Being a fighter and a religious man meant that there was no place in one's life for such things. He locked his eyes onto a dark patch of grass outside the window, frantically flooding his mind with anything else.

Fight conferences, interviews, diet plans, exercise schedules, flight bookings, payments, anything. Every single logistical detail he could think of, he dragged to the forefront of his brain. But you wouldn't stop, those pictures of you wouldn't stop staring at him in his imagination.

But it wasn't his imagination, it was real.

And it was still on his laptop.

He glanced back at the closed computer like it was some sort of tainted thing, it lay sprawled across his bed, along with the bed sheets he had ruined in his haste to get up. His chest was rising and falling, he knew something was wrong in his body, that strain between his legs was becoming all too prominent. In his hazy mind, the only thing he could do was tire himself out some way, somehow. He couldn't deal with this right now, not with the fact that he had already taken an interest in you before.

He grabbed his sweater and threw it on, the fighter didn't bother to stay quiet. He simply laced his shoes up, walked out of the house, and ran.

Khabib had been outside for about two hours, taking intervals between sprinting as fast as he could and jogging lightly. Anytime his mind wandered back, he'd force his aching legs to pick up speed as punishment. He ran to God knows where, till he was almost dragging his mangled body back to the house, he didn't even make it to the bedroom.

The team had found him out cold, sleeping on the couch, still in all his running gear. Islam stared at his friend's form with a slightly concerned look on his face. He had heard Khabib get up, but he had no clue when he returned.

Thankfully, today was a rest day, so it didn't matter much anyway, but that didn't stop everyone from finding this wildly out of character.

The next week passed by like a blur. Khabib was a robot, doing drills exactly as normal, nothing changed for anyone else, but no one else knew that he was fighting an internal battle.

He hadn't touched his laptop since then, and he hadn't spoken to you, despite the fact that you had come back to the gym either. In fact, he actively avoided you, doing different exercises just so he wouldn't be in the same room as you. It almost amused him the extent to which he was going, but this was all too much for him.

If he saw you, that infectious smile, the curves of your cheek, the slope of your nose, that smell that made him dizzy. He wouldn't be able to stop himself from looking at the rest of those pictures, and he knew there was more than just that one.

He was sure you had absolutely no clue that those were included, how could you? You were a professional, it was just a mistake. A terrible mistake that Khabib couldn't get out of his head. Testing his patience, pulling him into temptation and wonder till he simply couldn't take it anymore.

It was now almost touching two weeks, in that time, Khabib received a short-notice fight offer from the UFC. What should've filled him with absolute euphoria only made him feel dread, knowing that there was no choice but to see and talk to you.

This led him to come to one single conclusion, Khabib knew himself. He knew that he wouldn't be able to train as furiously as he normally did in this sexually repressed state he was in. There was only so much a man could take. His curiosity had to be satiated before the promo videos and before training really got underway.

That night, after another long day of strenuous activity, Khabib wound himself up with more energy than he could bear. Throughout the evening, his teammates kept poking at him, asking why he was so squirmy, why he couldn't sit still, why he seemed so entirely on edge. He had laughed it off, but inside, he was losing his mind with frustration. The truth was infuriatingly simple, he was so fucking horny it was making him aggressive.

After dinner and relaxing with his friends, the fighter returned to his room. He shut off the lights, feigning sleep to avoid any interruptions, and climbed onto the bed. He looked outside his view in the window for a second, contemplating his decision once more before his resolve was solidified.

This was the only solution to his dilemma that would cause the least amount of issues possible. For everyone.

Khabib took a deep breath, trying to ignore the excited jitter in his hand out of guilt, and he slowly pushed open the laptop screen. He hadn't touched the device since the last time he'd closed it, and because he had slammed it shut in such a blind panic, he didn't exit out of any tabs.

The young man was met instantly with the same image he had seen a week ago, in all its glory. His breath hitched, and slowly grew coarser as he took in all the details.

Questions began to arise in his mind. He wondered who could have taken these photos? But the jealousy was quickly drowned out by the sheer, magnetic pull of you.

His finger hovered shakily over the trackpad before he finally clicked. His stomach flipped, his mouth growing drier by the second. The next photo was a similar pose, but rather than the half-lidded sensual expression you were wearing in the previous one, you smiled bashfully in this, your head slightly off the edge of the bed.

He continued. For this one, you were on your stomach, stretching across the sheets, giving him a perfect, unobstructed view of your ass in those beautiful panties. They hugged your skin as if they had been custom-tailored for your curves. In the photo, you were staring straight up into the camera lens.

No.

Khabib felt like he was being stared at, his mind flashed between the sweet young woman he had met and the promiscuous tease he was looking at now.

Khabib clicked once more. He leaned back, gazing in wonder. You opted to strip off the little t-shirt, only now wearing a matching bra. You were sitting on your knees, casually fluffing up your hair, looking away from the lens with an agonizingly innocent expression.

The fighter gently pushed the laptop toward his knees while searching for the drawstring around his shorts. With one impatient tug, his waist was freed, and after a bit more pushing and pulling, his hand grasped the base of his hardened cock.

It was a while since he had last masturbated, only in his teens he could recall perhaps doing it, so he felt slightly awkward. However, the overwhelming pleasure from his grip quickly subsided that initial embarrassment. Your eyes, staring up at him from the glowing screen, felt like an invitation to stroke his length.

His fingers wrapped around himself tightly, he gulped, pressing his thumb firmly into his tip and using the wet clear liquid already leaking out as a lubricant of sorts. Khabib grabbed his laptop, bringing it closer to him, his free hand pressed the next photo, and another violent surge of arousal coursed through him.

"Fuck..." he moaned softly to himself, licking his bottom lip before biting it. His chest inhaled a sharp breath of air, as he rubbed his cock, slowly at first, but the longer he stared at your eyes, your freed tits, your cocky little smile sheen with that gorgeous gloss, the quicker he got.

He imagined if he were there with you, in the moment that the shutter clicked. Khabib imagined himself pulling your head to the edge of the bed. He would have you on your back and grab your neck, it looked so small compared to his hands, he could probably fully engulf it. He'd hold it tight and position his cock right in front of your mouth, forcing your legs open in the meanwhile and letting the cold wind lick and tease your aching slit. He'd grab those beautiful breasts, massage them, play with them, slap them, till you were softly crying and begging for him to just put his dick inside your mouth.

Khabib stared at the next photo, it was one of you looking up at the camera, you looked so submissive, so perfectly innocent, so ready to take his cock. In his mind, he'd tell you to use his cock to stroke your lips with his bulbous tip, gliding it on both top and bottom, glossing them back up.

He squeezed and tugged faster, the veins of his manhood protruding prominently with every single euphorically growing moment. Then, that familiar sensation appeared at the bottom of his stomach, it manifested itself as a dull ache, like an itch he couldn't quite reach. It burned, it burned so fucking good. Khabib clenched his eyes shut, his imagination vividly rendering every single contour of your body

He'd make you thank him, then apologize for all the cruel teasing you did by sending him these godforsaken photos. Finally, after hours of torturous teasing, after reaching down the length of your naked body while you lay on the bed with your head hanging at his disposal, after stroking your soaked clit, so swollen and painful and hungry for his touch. He finally would shove his cock in your mouth, press down on your neck once more to feel the muscle infiltrating your throat, and enjoy the blowjob you were giving him.

He couldn't take it anymore. His hand blurred up and down the shaft, and then, he suddenly froze as the burning in his stomach erupted over his entire body. His thighs violently seized up, his hips bucking upward instinctively as his cum released in long, heavy sprays across his stomach and blankets. He remained in a tight, tense state for a couple seconds before the high began to wear off, and he slumped back down. It was a mess all over his blankets and his hands, but he couldn't care less.

He felt like he should be ashamed, masturbation was a disgraceful thing after all. But more so, he felt guilty that he didn't feel guilty. Resting his head against the plush pillows, his chest rose and fell in jagged gasps while he reeled himself back in from the shattering climax. His hand trembled when he raised it to glance at the thick cum coating his fingers. All he could do was let out a dark, satisfied smile and allow the bed to claim his exhausted body.

Khabib had finally figured out a way to return to training. The next day, he was up early, even cooking breakfast for the rest of his team.

Alongside an early morning jog and an amazing training day filled with compliments from his coaches and superb takedowns, the fighter was living in utter bliss. All he had to do was masturbate when it became too much, surely, that was all he needed.

Islam didn't know what he was talking about—one sin could lead to another, what a bunch of nonsense for a strong man such as Khabib.

He had his desires fully under control.

But, it should've made him more concerned as the days to the fight grew closer, Khabib dreamt about you in his sleep.

It was in the exact same setting as the photos, a low-lit girl's bedroom, it was always so blurry, but he knew it was you. It was your body, it was your lips, it was your sweet cunt.

He always awoke sweating and hard, where he quickly resorted to his new strategy of simply looking at your pictures and getting himself off.

He should've been more concerned about how his hands ached to sink into your soft flesh every time he touched himself.

He should've been more concerned about how he wished to watch his cock bury itself deep inside your warm pussy.

He should've been more concerned when he began thinking about how good you taste, about how he wanted to be between your thighs, grabbing at them, forcing you deeper into his tongue.

He should've been more concerned that it was taking him longer to cum looking at your photos than the spontaneous and quick first few days.

He should've been more concerned when you finally spoke to him, and he was already getting harder despite cumming in the washroom just moments earlier.

Khabib was even more concerned that every single time he looked at you, he wanted to bend you over and fuck you like a dog.

Khabib Nurmagomedov x Reader

When Khabib is suddenly called back overseas for work after only just returning, you, his wife, are not too thrilled about it. Having been away from your newlywed husband, you employ some...dirty tactics to subtly punish him for all the months he stays away. But what happens when he finds out his wife has purposely been tempting him all day?

4.3k words - MildFemdom, SubbyKhabib, Cowgirl Position, Penetration, Begging, Overstimulation, Edging, Aftercare - Check out Pt. 1 here

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Khabib slowly let go of the ceramic basin. That desperate, frantic energy that had consumed him all day evaporated and was replaced by the cool focus of a fighter who had just spotted his opponent's weakness.

So his sweet, modest little wife wanted to play a tactical game? Sure, he'd play along.

He stepped out of the bathroom, his posture entirely changed. He walked with an unhurried, loose stride and climbed straight back into bed. Instead of reaching for you, he propped his head up with one hand, lying back against the pillows, and watched you with dark, knowing eyes.

You were standing by the dresser, pretending to be busy with your hair, but you could feel his gaze burning holes into your back. Your brows furrowed slightly, "Aren't you going to sleep?" you asked, trying to keep your voice cool and dismissive.

"In a minute," he murmured, his own smooth and entirely relaxed. "I am just enjoying the view, malyshka. You look so beautiful tonight." You bit the inside of your cheek, your heart skipping a beat. This wasn't the whiney, frustrated husband you had been torturing all afternoon. His response prompted you to turn around, "Is that so?" You shot back, Khabib fought a smile, sensing your growing agitation already.

"Mmh." His eyes deliberately tracked the line of your collarbone down to your hips. "Come here and lie down next to me. Unless...you are afraid to get too close to your husband?"

Your legs felt suddenly weak, the smug satisfaction you'd held all day dissolving as you realized that by trying to drive him crazy, you had walked yourself right into his cage.

You gripped the back of the vanity chair behind you, forcing your knuckles to turn white. Do not let him see you sweat, you repeated to yourself mentally. You had spent the entire day holding all the cards, and you couldn't fold just because he put on a smug smile and lay back against your pillows. "I am not afraid of you, Khabib," you said with a lean back against the vanity. "I'm just...enjoying my space. You usually take up the entire bed."

"Is that so?" Khabib repeated your line while flashing a row of white teeth. He looked utterly predatory lying there, a toned frame draped lazily over the sheets. He tracked the defensive movement of your arms as they crossed over your chest, "Then come take your half, malyshka. I promise to stay on my side."

He patted the mattress next to him. It was a blatant trap, and you both knew it.

But you were determined to prove that his sudden burst of confidence hadn't shaken. Rather, you pushed away from the vanity and walked over to the bed with steady steps. He watched your every move with wrapt attention. You lay flat on your back, tucking yourself underneath the duvet and stared rigidly at the ceiling.

For a long moment, the room was completely silent except for the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. You thought you had won this round. You thought your icy resolve had forced a stalemate. Then, you heard the rustle of the sheets.

Khabib didn't slide over to your side. He didn't break his promise. He simply rolled onto his stomach, resting his chin on his forearms, and turned his head so he was looking directly at your profile. He was so close you could feel the intense, radiating heat of his bare torso acting like a furnace beside you.

"You are very quiet," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating through the mattress and straight into your ribs. "Usually, the night before a flight, you talk a lot. You tell me what to wear, you tell me to call you when I land...but tonight, nothing."

"I have nothing to say," you lied plainly, staring at the plaster molding on the ceiling.

"No?" A soft, teasing warmth brushed against your bare shoulder as he leaned in just an inch closer. "Not even about why you chose this nightgown? The one with the little ties on the side? The one you know I have to untie with my teeth because my fingers are too big for the knots?"

A shiver racked your body, and a tiny, betraying gasp escaped your throat. Your eyes snapped sideways to meet his. Khabib was watching you with absolute triumph written across his face. His eyes were bright with a wicked, playful heat. He had caught your reaction, checked your blind spot, and landed a perfect hit without even touching you.

"Your heart is beating very fast," he whispered, his gaze dropping to the rapid flutter at the base of your throat. He slowly raised one hand, his thick, calloused index finger hovering just a millimeter above your skin, not quite touching you, but torturing you with the proximity. "This game is getting difficult to play, moya lyobov. Tell me...who is breaking first?"

You tensed up. Khabib had caught on to what you were doing all day. But so what? You refused to let him win that easily. With a slight shift onto your side, you reached up to wrap your fingers around his hovering wrist. His skin was scorching, a heavy, steady beat pounded against your palm, reminding you exactly how much power was packed into his frame.

Instead of pushing his hand away, you pulled it down lower to place his large palm flat against your chest, right over your hammering heart. "You think you've won because my heart is beating fast?" you mumbled, your voice dropping notably, your gaze shifted from the middle of his chest to his eyes, admiring the way the defined ridges in your husband’s collarbone shifted.

You leaned your head back into the pillow, looking at him through heavy lashes. "It beats fast because I like watching you struggle, Khabib. I liked watching you sweat over my touch. I liked watching your knuckles turn white in the bathroom."

Khabib's smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his jaw tightening as his palm registered the chaos of your heartbeat. "You are a very wicked woman," he growled, the playful arrogance in his eyes suddenly darkening into something much more primitive. His hand didn't move from your chest, but his fingers flexed, the rough texture of his callouses snagging slightly against the smooth silk of your gown.

"I'm just a good wife giving her husband exactly what he asked for," you countered, a smile finally returning to your lips. "You said you needed to focus on your training, no? I'm just helping you practice your restraint. Unless... the future champion can't handle a little discipline?"

That did it. The playful banter crashed straight into a wall of pure, competitive instinct.

Khabib let out a low, rough sound from the back of his throat. In one fluid motion, he pushed his weight completely over you. He didn't pin you down, but he hovered directly above your torso, his shoulders completely blocking out the rest of the bedroom. The sheer scale of him was overwhelming, anchoring you to the mattress without him even having to use his full strength.

"Discipline?" he echoed, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a gravelly, dangerous rasp that vibrated directly against your lips. He brought his hands up, pinning your wrists to the mattress atop your head, his grip adamant but careful. "You want to talk to me about discipline after what you did today?"

He leaned down, his lips brushing yours with agonizing calculation, tasting you without actually committing to the kiss. He was trying to replicate that same teasing torture you had used on him all afternoon.

"I have the most discipline in the world, malyshka," he almost purred against your mouth, his breath meeting with yours. His eyes were completely dark now, blown out with a fierce, possessive hunger. "I can stay like this all night. I can watch you, look at your beautiful face, and not take a single thing until you beg me for it." He nipped gently at your lower lip, drawing a breathless groan from your throat.

His heavy chest hovered inches above yours, his breathing a harsh, ragged rhythm in the dim light. His large hands still held your wrists pinned to the pillow, but as he took a moment to look down at your flushed face and the defiant fire in your eyes, he felt his own pulse hammer a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

You didn't look defeated. You looked like a royal waiting for her opposition to finally admit defeat.

"You think because you are bigger, you get to dictate how tonight goes?" you whispered, your voice a smooth challenge that cut through the thick static of his desire. You pulled against his grip and dragged his hands down, forcing his knuckles to rest right against the mattress by your shoulders. "You've been gone for months, Khabib, and you're leaving again. You don't get to just slide into our bed and take whatever you want. If you want relief tonight... You have to earn it."

Khabib's jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped. The sheer, intoxicating thrill of you taking the reins made his head spin faster than any blow in the octagon.

"You want to dominate me, malyshka?" he growled, his bright eyes flashing with a dangerous, heavy heat. A devastatingly submissive, lazy smile broke through his rugged features. He was a man who conquered the dreams of others for a living, but right here, in this bedroom, there was nothing more erotic than letting you completely take away his autonomy. "Show me then. I am yours, I am always yours... but tonight, show me how it is so."

In one fluid, powerful motion, he slid his strong arms under your arms, lifting your upper body effortlessly off the mattress as he positioned himself flat onto his back. Before you could even gasp, the world spun, and you found yourself straddling his thighs.

Khabib lay completely vulnerable beneath you, his broad chest rising and falling heavily, the muscles in his arms flexed out, flat against the sheets on either side of him. He purposely left his hands open, palms up, purposely refusing to touch you. His rigid, aching erection was pressed flat against your slick center through the thin silk of your gown, a heavy, throbbing reminder of how desperately he was burning for you.

"I won't touch you," Khabib rasped, his voice a thick, gravelly plea as he looked up at you from the pillows. His pupils were so dilated that his eyes looked entirely black. "Not until you tell me to. Punish me for leaving, habibti. Take whatever you want from me." The power of the shift made a wave of intense, dizzying heat rush straight to your core. The immovable fighter was offering himself up to you on a silver platter, letting you call every single shot.

Leaning forward, you planted your hands flat against his broad, scarred chest, feeling the racing of his heartbeat beneath your palms. You sat up straight, sliding the silk of your nightgown methodically up your thighs until it bunched at your waist, exposing your aching, wet skin to his ravenous gaze. Khabib let out a low, tortured groan at the sight, his hips twitching instinctively, but he forced his hands to stay pinned to the sheets, his knuckles white with the sheer effort of his restraint.

"Don't move, Khabib," you commanded, holding his gaze with absolute authority. "I won't," he choked out, his chest heaving. Slowly, you lifted and aligned yourself. With an unhurried downward press, you sank onto him, taking his thick, rigid length all at once.

The tight, friction-filled stretch was so intense that a high-pitched gasp was forced from your lungs, your inner muscles clamping down fiercely around him. Khabib's head slammed back into the pillow, his throat arching as a loud, fractured roar of pure, unadulterated pleasure was dragged from his chest. His eyes closed tight, lines of deep tension paining his face as he took the full, deep weight of you.

"F-fuck, malyshka..." he wheezed, his large frame trembling beneath you like a leaf. "You are so tight... so hot..."

You didn't let him rush. You controlled the pace completely, lifting your body and sliding down him in a leisurely, torturous, grinding rhythm that drove him to the absolute brink. Every time he tried to lift his hips to meet you, to take back a sliver of control, you pressed your hands harder into his chest and stomach, pinning him down, forcing him to take the pace you only dictated.

"I told you to stay still." You leaned down until your lips brushed his ear, your damp heat enveloping him completely.

"Please," Khabib whimpered, a sound he would never make anywhere else in the world, a raw, desperate surrender born of absolute devotion and overwhelming physical pleasure. His fingers clawed into the bedsheets, his entire body slick with sweat.

You had turned the terrifying fighter into a completely willing captive to your pleasure. You kept your hands planted firmly on his chest, absorbing the violent, erratic thumping of his heart as you shifted your weight, grinding your wet heat against the sensitive base of his length. Pent up with hours of teasing, every time you slid down, your inner muscles clamped around him like a vice, wringing a low, fractured whimper from his throat.

Khabib was completely losing his grip on reality. His skin was slick with sweat, his jaw locked so tight the muscles looked ready to snap. The sheer volume of sensation flooding his brain was becoming too much, his senses were completely overloaded by the smell of your perfume, the tight, slick stretch of your body, and the absolute authority in your eyes.

"You like being good for me, Khabib?" you murmured, leaning down to trail your lips along his jawline, your breath hot against his damp skin.

"Y-yes... malyshka, please," he gasped, his chest heaving as if he were in the fifth bout, he twitched upward in a desperate, involuntary plea for deeper penetration and a faster pace. "I can't...it's too much... I'm close..."

"I didn't give you permission to move," you scolded lightly, your voice a cool, commanding contrast to the burning chaos between your thighs. It hurt so bad, you wanted to lose control, to ride him, please yourself, release yourself, but you had to hold back.

To punish his disobedience, you suddenly accelerated. You lifted your hips and drove down on him in a fast, relentless, pounding rhythm. You targeted his blind spot, rolling your pelvic bone directly against his most sensitive nerves over and over again.

The sudden, intense rush of overstimulation hit him like a physical blow. Khabib's head slammed back into the pillow once more, his eyes rolling back as his throat arched. A loud, ragged roar of pure, helpless pleasure was dragged from his chest. His fingers clawed blindly at the mattress, his toes curling as his entire lower body trembled on the absolute precipice of a shattering, ruinous release. He was a second away from breaking.

And then, right at the absolute peak, you stopped.

You clamped your inner muscles tight, locking him completely still inside you, and lifted your upper body, pulling your chest out of his reach.

The sudden, brutal arrest of all movement sent a violent shockwave straight through Khabib's overloaded nervous system. His breath caught in a sharp, choked gasp. He lay there panting, his vision swimming, his body vibrating with a horrible, unfulfilled ache that felt like pure torture. He was stranded on the very brink of an orgasm, completely denied the release his body was screaming for.

"No... no, no, malyshka, please," Khabib pleaded, his tone entirely stripped of his pride. His eyes snapped open, completely blown out, filled with a desperate hunger that bordered on madness. "Don't do this. Don't stop. I beg you... please..."

"You need to learn to listen to me," you said softly, looking down at him with a calm, torturous smile. You shifted your midline, not up and down, but in a tiny, strict circle, just enough to tweak his hypersensitive nerves without giving him the thrusts he needed.

A high-pitched, pathetic groan escaped his lips, his pelvis bucking weakly against yours. The tiny, teasing grinding was almost worse than nothing at all, it was sending a fire straight up his spine, making his skin feel hyper-aware and dangerously sensitive to the point of pain.

"I will listen... I swear to God, I will listen," he wheezed, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. He couldn't take it anymore. The restraint snapped out of sheer, desperate survival.

His large, trembling hands finally flew off the sheets, wrapping firmly around your waist. He didn't force you down, but his fingers dug into your skin as he looked up at you with completely ruined, adoring eyes.

"Ride me," he begged, a gravel-rough, breathless command that sounded like a prayer. "Please, habibti... break me completely. Let me come, let me make you feel good."

You held his gaze for one long, torturous second, letting him hover in that state of complete, undone suspension. It wasn't just Khabib who was on the brink. Your own body was humming with an excruciating, electric tension, your cunt was throbbing, soaked, and aching for the cock you had been denying yourself all afternoon.

Slowly, a beautiful smile curled your lips. "Good boy.”

The praise shattered what was left of his restraint, and you immediately set a fast, unforgiving pace. You lifted your hips and slammed back down onto his rigid length, riding him with a fierce, relentless rhythm. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming, the thick, heavy fullness of him stretching you to your absolute limit, friction-hot and unyielding against your walls.

Khabib let out a loud, fractured cry, his head throwing back into the pillows as the tidal wave of overstimulation crashed directly over him. Your hand snaked up his sternum till it found its proper place wrapped around his neck. You pushed down on his airway, garbling his moans, but the pleasure was hitting you just as hard. Every time you drove down, his solid pelvic bone slammed directly against your clitoris, sending violent, breathless jolts of pure ecstasy straight up to your spine.

Your eyes rolled back, a loud, needy moan ripped from your throat as you rode him harder, completely consumed by the tight, sliding heat of your bodies.

You leaned down, pressing your sweaty, flushed chest against his, your lips finding his ear. As you maintained the brutal, breathless rhythm, your inner muscles clamped around him like a vice, milking him ruthlessly while the internal friction pushed you closer and closer to your own precipice. "You're going to remember this every single day you're away," you whined breathlessly into his skin.

"You're mine, Khabib. Tell me."

"I'm yours... fuck, yes... I'm yours, (F/n)," he ranted mindlessly in a desperate admittance.

He couldn't hold back a single fraction of his strength anymore. His powerful hands gripped your hips, and instead of just letting you do the work, his pelvis began to buck upward, matching your pace with a heavy, explosive desperation. The change in angle drove him impossibly deeper inside you, hitting a spot so deep that your vision went hazy.

A high-pitched, sobbing gasp escaped your lips as the dual stimulation, his upward thrusts and your downward heat, completely overloaded your senses. You were squeezing him so tightly it was borderline painful, your entire lower body tight, coiled, and ready to snap.

The friction reached a burning, explosive peak. You felt his lower abdomen tighten into iron beneath you, his inner muscles twitching violently.

"I'm coming... malyshka, I'm—"

"Come for me, Khabib, please," you commanded, breaking as your own orgasm finally tore through your defenses.

With a loud, guttural roar that vibrated straight through your chest, Khabib broke completely. His hips violently bucked up one last time, pinning you deep against him as he convulsed beneath you, a thick, heavy, ruinous release spilling inside you in a desperate, pulsing rush.

The internal sensation of his hot, pulsing release acting as the catalyst was the final straw for your own body. Your walls clamped down in a series of violent, uncontrollable contractions, locking him inside you as a shattering, toe-curling orgasm completely took over your senses.

You threw your head back, a long, undone cry escaping your lips as wave after wave of intense, pulsing pleasure rippled through your core, leaving you completely breathless and trembling. You rode out the heavy, overlapping aftershocks together, the quiet room filled only with the sound of your fractured breathing and the racing beats of your hearts.

When the world finally stopped spinning, you collapsed forward onto his broad chest. Khabib's massive arms instantly wrapped tightly around your torso, pulling you flush against his sweating skin. He was completely spent, completely conquered, and yet his grip on you was fiercely protective, tucking you against his heart as if he could keep you there forever, both of you utterly sated and beautifully ruined by the night.

Slowly, the heavy fog of pleasure began to clear, leaving behind a deeply tender quiet, taking place beside the heavy, rhythmic thrum of your shared breathing.

The air felt so thick, warm, and intensely intimate. He didn't move a muscle, completely content to act as your mattress, anchoring you to his chest.

Khabib shifted slightly, his large hand moving from your waist to trail up your spine. His touch was no longer demanding or possessive, his calloused fingers moved with agonizingly gentle care, tracing the delicate line of your vertebrae before coming to rest at the nape of your neck. He dipped his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss right into the crook of your shoulder, his breath warm against your damp skin.

"Are you okay, malyshka?" he asked. Khabib gently eased you back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes entirely gentle now, searching your face with a quiet, protective intensity. "I didn't... I wasn't too much for you?"

You let out a breathy laugh. The fierce, controlling woman from moments ago had completely turned, leaving you feeling warm and entirely secure in his hold. "I'm perfect, Khabi," you murmured, reaching up to gently brush away a bead of sweat on his forehead. You traced the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble prickle your fingertips. "Are you alright?"

A faint, sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his lips, a rare blush creeping up his neck. "You broke me," he admitted in amusement, kissing the palm tracing his jaw. "Completely. I have never felt like that in my life. My clever, beautiful wife."

He rolled his weight slightly, carefully bringing you with him until you were tucked securely against his side, your head resting on his chest, while the heavy duvet was pulled up over both of you, shielding you from the cool night air.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

A peaceful, heavy silence settled over the room. The only sound was the steady tick of the clock on the nightstand. You listened to the steady, unyielding beat of Khabib's heart beneath your ear. It wasn't as vicious now, it was muted, almost lulling you to sleep. Your fingers idly traced patterns across his collarbone. It was the sound of silence that only existed between two people who knew each other's souls entirely, a sensation that you had been deprived of for months, and would be once more.

As the minutes ticked closer to dawn, the silence began to lose its lightness, growing heavy with the unspoken weight of the morning. The image of his packed duffel bag by the front door seemed to loom over the bed. You drew in a quiet breath, your fingers stopping their movement on his chest.

"I hate how much you have to leave," you whispered into the quiet room, the vulnerability finally cracking through your voice, entirely bare. "I know it's your job. I know that everyone expects so much from you…but the house feels so big when you're not here."

Khabib's entire body went still. He didn't offer a quick, easy reassurance or an excuse like before. He simply tightened his arm around your shoulders, pulling you so close that you could feel the sudden, heavy ache in his own chest.

"I know, (F/n)," he murmured, his voice dropping into a thick, somber tone. He rested his cheek against the top of your head, his fingers gently tangling in your hair. "Every time I step on that plane, a part of me stays right here in this bed. In the gym, when I am cutting weight, when I am fighting...it's all just noise. The only thing that is real is coming back to you."

He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his eyes brimming with a quiet, painful sincerity. "I'm going to miss you so much," you confessed, a small, stubborn tear finally escaping your eye.

Khabib caught it with the pad of his thumb, holding your jaw and tilting your face up to press a deeply tender, bittersweet kiss to your lips. It was a quiet, solemn vow.

Khabib Nurmagomedov x Reader

When Khabib is suddenly called back overseas for work after only just returning, you, his wife, are not too thrilled about it. Having been away from your newlywed husband, you employ some...dirty tactics to subtly punish him for all the months he stays away.

4k words - Soft Smut, slight teasing, use of explicit language. - Check out Pt. 2 (smut) here

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"Abubakr texted me, he said to be at the airport by 7 a.m. tomorrow," your husband, Khabib, informed. He was leaving for another UFC-related event, despite having just gotten back, apparently there was business that demanded him to return.

You hummed a soft reply and brought the fine china cup filled with steeping hot tea to your lips. Your husband's cup lay untouched as he placed his phone down on the kitchen table and glanced at his wife's expression. As usual, you remained the poised and composed woman you always were, it was what Khabib loved about you.

This time, however, felt a little different. There was an underlying tension in the air, hidden by your serene expression, it was almost dismissible. But your husband knew better than that.

In the last year you two were married, he had taken a six-month break from training to become accustomed to married life before jumping straight back onto the scene.

His contract with the UFC brought thousands of miles between you two for the rest of the year, and he finally returned right in time for the new one.

Until now, this call was bringing him back, only a couple of weeks after he'd returned, it was wildly absurd. The news secretly broke your heart. You loved Khabib with everything, he was kind, sweet, and handsome, but this was something that would take getting used to.

"Are you alright, lyubimaya?" He asked gently, trying to get you to look at him. "Your tea is getting cold," you replied instead, standing up to put away your now-empty cup.

Khabib paused, he was still navigating marital life at the young age of twenty-two. It had only technically been six months since the two of you had been together, and he admitted it fully, it wasn't enough.

The marriage had been arranged by Khabib's father, and while you hadn't opposed, it wasn't something you were exactly excited about either. Growing up in such a village where MMA fighters were honed and sent off, you saw the way the women would stay at home for months on end without a husband. They were hurt, but they suppressed it, because that was their "duty".

You thought you would never become one of them, in fact, you were absolutely set on it till the proposal came your way. Your parents insisted on it, emphasizing how well of a match it was and how beautiful a couple you two would be.

Not to mention the fact that you and Khabib attended the same school throughout your early teens, making you familiar with each other.

After a bit of convincing, you agreed, and a large celebration was had. Then came everything after. The beginning was like a dream, you had always worried about the type of man you would marry, but Khabib made that all melt away. He was tender and gentle, treating you with the utmost respect constantly.

But in the end, it ached to see him leave, watching him overseas, calling him and hearing his voice, but never being able to touch him. And now, here he was again, subjecting you to that same misery.

Your husband caught your hand as it passed by him to pick up the cup. He quickly rose to his feet and stood in front of you. You sighed and looked up at him, "(F/n)...are you..mad at me?" He asked slowly after contemplating whether to question you.

He watched the tension on your face dissipate and be replaced with a soft smile. You gave his large hand a quick comforting squeeze before getting on your toes to peck his cheek, "No habibi, not at all, it is your job, what can you do?" You gently replied and removed yourself from him.

Khabib watched his wife stand by the sink. That answer didn't quell any of the tension in the air, he wasn't too dense to realize the passive-aggressive tone in it.

You were rinsing the cups when you suddenly felt two hands snake around your waist. Your breath hitched, but you tried to find the strength to pay it no mind. Khabib's thumbs stroked your stomach through your thin tank top. He pressed himself further into you till there was no space.

You felt the young man's short stubble ever so gently prick your skin as he dipped into your shoulder. "Please malyshka, tell me if you're angry or sad," he pleaded, closing his eyes and filling his lungs with the scent of your lotion. You looked up at the sky through the window over the faucet and prayed for strength.

You couldn't give in this easily. At the slightest bit of submission, your normally immovable husband showed, it dawned on you that you had never actually gotten mad at him. Not since you two were married, there hadn't been an actual argument yet.

Under his fingers, Khabib felt you take another deep breath. He backed up slightly as you turned around. "I'll be honest, I am mad that you're leaving. The anger comes from my sadness. You've just come back, and now you're leaving again Khabib. How does that make me feel? Imagine if you were in my shoes, you'd stay here, while I left you alone for months..." you trailed off, looking away.

Khabib felt a wave of guilt overcome his body, his hands found yours instantly, and he pulled you toward him. "I'm so sorry (F/n), I know I was supposed to be here for longer...but it's not my fault, I've just been signed so things are going to be extremely busy right now, I have to focus on training," he softly explained. "I know that Khabib," you began, "I understand, but that doesn't make it any less painful. I attend my classes, I come home to eat alone, and our house is empty."

The young fighter stared at your expression, he was trying to distinguish it the same way he tried to understand what his opponents would throw next in the ring.

You sighed in exasperation at his lost look to your reply, "Khabib, listen, it's okay, don't feel bad or anything, alright? Like you said, it's not your fault, come on, let's go pack your clothes together," you smiled, pulling up toward the stairs to which he followed limply.

He didn't want to let it go, but for his own well-being, he did, after all, you seemed like you had gotten over it, you two were laughing and smiling together the whole time he was packing. He even offered to bring back some American products for you to try, he thought it was cute the way you reacted excitedly about the candy like a little girl.

Yes, it seemed like Khabib had successfully worked through his first marital quarrel with stunning results, all seemed well and good in the Nurmagomedov household.

And then the evening rolled around.

"Malyshka? Are you done showering?" He called out, walking up the stairs, "I'm in the bedroom!" You yelled back. Khabib ran his hand through his buzzed hair, his mind was absent, he wondered if he should ask his manager to call the barber to the hotel before he went out. His beard was getting slightly too bushy as well, but you always insisted on doing that part for him.

He walked through the threshold expecting you to be lying down, reading a book, or working on a paper. The fighter glanced toward the bed, but when he didn't see you, he turned his head. Khabib froze like a deer in headlights. His wife was standing in front of their dresser mirror, your body clad in his favourite colour of lingerie. It was lacy and thin, it complemented your body in a way that made you look like a model. You were turning from side to side,  simply looking at yourself. You pretended not to notice your husband, and continued to do so, pulling the waistband up and inspecting how it made your ass look. The skin was slick in a healthy coating of your favourite body oil, your entire body looked like it was glazed.

"(F-f/n)...? When did...when did you buy this?" He asked shakily, walking toward you. He was almost at a loss for words, his brain was short-circuiting. This was something else. He had never ever seen his modest wife wearing such...slutty clothing. You glanced back and placed your hands down onto the dresser table, bending forward slightly for a better look at your face. You innocently fluffed up your hair, "This?" You replied coyly. Khabib stared down at your ass, it was almost completely out, he felt his cock grow harder at the sight of it covered in lace.

You felt his hands grip your waist, and suddenly pull you back onto his crotch. You closed your eyes for a moment, the sensation of his bulging erection pressed against your lips had caught you slightly off guard. "Fuck, malyshka...I've never seen you like this," he whispered, kissing your back. You gulped, trying to re-anchor yourself. You had to do this properly, you wanted to make your little husband pay for all his time away.

He expected you to melt in his hands, to let him touch you, it had been so long after all. It's not like he had any outlets for all that testosterone when he was overseas, it was insanely difficult controlling it, and he had taken to occasionally jacking off to pictures of you whenever it got to be too much.

He'd never tell you that, of course.

But right now, here you were, looking too beautiful. "Mm...give me something to remember before I leave, habibti..." he said softly, taking in the fresh smell of your entire body. You smiled, reaching back to stroke his face. "I was just trying it on, do you like it?" You asked, turning around.

You excitedly caught the slightly confused expression that flashed over your husband's face at the fact that you looked indifferent to his advances. He didn't stop his pursuit, instead, he grasped your hand with both of his, bringing it up to his lips. The cold metal of your wedding ring brushed his cheek as he kissed it. "I love it malyshka...buy more like this," he murmured.

Your legs began to slightly tremble at this sight, but you remained strong. As horrible as it felt, you were sure you were now wet. "Good, I will then," you answered back cheerfully, walking past him.

"Uh, wait (F/n), where are you going?" He asked quickly, trailing after you. His hard-on was making it wildly uncomfortable to move, "to change?" You said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Your husband suddenly began to stammer, "I-i thought...we...you know..." Khabib tried to say without actually saying it.

Your brows furrowed, "Habibi, who's going to make dinner? Come on, I need help peeling the potatoes, you're always so good at that." You giggled, walking away to the bathroom. You had him like a snake charmer, his pupils intensely following the swaying of your behind as you made your way down the hall.

He would never make you do anything, but he assumed that the getup you were sporting had to be leading to something.

Khabib let out a long exhale and walked a lap around the room, trying to relax his pulsing body. His mind was running a mile a minute, replaying just how absolutely enticing you looked in that underwear. No matter how much he tried to avoid thinking about it, he couldn't get it down, and he didn't want to walk out of the bedroom still hard. The door to the bathroom opened up, he looked up to see you in a warm white silk nightgown and a black cardigan. "Have you seen my slippers, Khabib?" You asked absently, walking past him once more.

He was dumbfounded, utterly, and completely at a loss for words. "T-there..." he simply said, pointing toward the corner. You thanked him and quickly slipped them on, "Aren't you coming?"

"Is it okay if I just go outside for a second malyshka? My head is hurting a little," he said. You paused, feigning like you had no clue what was wrong, although your husband had pulled his erection up inside the waistband of his boxers, it was more than prevalent in between his legs.

You held his cheek for a moment before flipping it around and using the back of your hand to check his temperature on his forehead. "What's wrong? Are you feeling alright?"

He gave you a small smile, "I-I'm fine...I'll be back in just a couple minutes, leave the potatoes for me to do," he pecked your cheek and quickly flew down the stairs before exiting the house. He accepted the frigid Dagestani weather as his recluse. You covered your mouth, trying not to die laughing at how he was acting. This was all going so much better than you expected.

You slipped off the cardigan, placing it onto a chair before getting to work on dinner and waiting for the return of your husband.

After about fifteen minutes of wandering around the property, Khabib finally re-entered his home at the behest of his growling stomach. The warmth of the fireplace blasted his face with a comforting welcome while the smell of something delicious quickly hastened him toward the kitchen. The radio was playing an American song he didn't recognize, but the sound of you softly singing along to it drew him nearer.

He walked into the kitchen where you were standing over the counter, chopping some vegetables while something was boiling on the stove.

"Sorry I left for so long," he apologized sheepishly, rolling up his sleeves to join you. You shook your head and smiled, "Don't worry, are you feeling better now?" You asked, turning toward him, he replied with a smile and a nod, thankful that his painful issue had been subverted.

You two continued on in conversation for a while, just as it had been before. Khabib had taken over the cutting while you tended to the stove now, "I wonder when my next fight will be, maybe you could come," he offered. "If it's during my break, I'd love to, getting the Visa is really annoying though..."

You placed the spoon down and slowly turned up the heat on the stove before looking over at your husband's peaceful expression.

"We can try to expedite it. I'll take care of it, don't worry, just let me know when you want to come, you and father can come together." He smiled warmly at the thought of his loved ones joining him for his triumphs in America. "That sounds good," you softly said.

Khabib suddenly felt pressure on his abdomen. He looked down to see your arms wrapped around him. He stopped cutting and rested his hands on the counter, "(N/n)? Are you okay?" He asked, you pressed your chest deeper into his back.

The taller man paused. You weren't wearing anything underneath that silk nightgown, like a classical conditioning situation, Khabib's hard-on returned, this time, even worse.

"I'm just going to miss you, I want to hold you...is this okay?" You murmured, pressing your forehead into his hoodie. Khabib slowly reached over to grab a towel and wipe his hands clean. He turned around to face you properly, "I'll miss you too...so much more than you know malyshka," he dipped down to kiss you.

This time, you decided, you'd let him have a little more. His lips caught yours, happily allowing you to have the pleasure of kissing his bottom lip. Soft, gentle pecks turned into a stretched-out wet make-out session.

Khabib held your smaller body against his, leaning back against the counter and sneaking his hand around your waist once more. You massaged his neck, moving in sync with his lips. A soft grunt suddenly escaped his throat as your hand found a new home on the bulge in his pants.

“Khabi...you're so hard," you commented. His own hand suddenly covered the one between his legs, and he suddenly clenched down. "Hold it like that, habibti..." he demanded, his voice coarse from the sudden influx of pleasure. You smiled and obeyed, maintaining the pressure after he had left.

You continued to palm it through his pants, kissing him deeply and slowly gravitating toward his neck. Your husband cursed in his native language and leaned lower to allow you more access. This was the magic, he was total sucker for neck kisses. They could make him instantly go to sleep when nothing else worked. A hard day of training? Solved with neck kisses. A fight with his family? A hickey and a hair rub would make him forget all about it.

"Mmm...you like when I do this, don't you, malysh?" You ran your nails along his jugular, adding just enough pressure to leave light marks on his fair skin. He nodded, keeping himself in your shoulder, clenching his jaw as tight as possible to refrain from moaning loudly.

He was losing himself in you, you knew that, and there was no better time than now to take it all away.

You pushed yourself back, the smell of burning suddenly filled the entire kitchen. "Shit!" You cursed, running to the stove and hastily shutting it down completely. Khabib, despite that same horribly uncomfortable feeling, jumped into action and grabbed a towel to remove the pot.

He placed it on the ground, you both gathered to watch him uncover it. You coughed and fanned the air, the food inside was charred.

A small, disheartened sigh escaped you. Khabib kneeled down beside you and kissed your cheek, "It's okay, there's still the food from yesterday," he reassured. "I know, but I wanted to make you something good to eat before you left," you huffed. He pecked your ear, "Maybe I'd like to have something else instead..."

"Like what?" You said, turning around. Khabib met you with a dumbfounded look before holding your hands and guiding you to your feet. "Let's just eat later, habibti, you look too beautiful...it's so difficult to keep my hands off," he mumbled, stroking your waist through the silky fabric. He paused.

The ridges on your hips were completely absent. Were you not even wearing underwear? His stomach was churning, a million different ideas were flashing through his head, but they all quickly fell back down to earth.

"Khabib, we can't leave it here. Come on, go scrub it clean," you directed, walking away and leaving him with his erection. He stood there for a moment, blinking slowly, before closing his eyes and rubbing his face. This one wasn't going to go down for a while.

It took him about half an hour to clean that damned pot. In the meantime, you cooked something else and left him to eat since you had some unfinished university work to do. He assured you that he would clean everything up, you thanked him, and kissed him a little longer than usual.

Khabib finally sulked upstairs, the wood creaked under his heavy feet. He glanced toward the bedroom, then it slowly shifted to the bathroom. His hand suddenly grabbed his painful erection through his pants. He didn't want to bother you, you were working so hard, and you needed to focus.

But it hurt so bad, worse than any other hit he had taken. He'd much rather just be put to sleep at the moment than continue on, he didn't even know if he could sleep beside you tonight without his cock getting hard.

With another exasperated sigh, he walked toward the bedroom and completely collapsed on the bed. You paused typing and turned around in utter pleasure at the sorry sight of your husband groveling. It was so terrible that he could probably rub himself against the bed, and it would get him off at this point.

"What's wrong? Feel sick again?" You asked calmly, focusing back on the computer screen. Khabib kept his face down, "No, just tired," he answered back in garbled speech. This went on for another minute or so till he popped his head up to breathe. "Will you be busy with this paper for a while?" He asked weakly, seeing if you were in the mood for anything.

He couldn't leave tomorrow like this, not in such a pathetic state where even the fabric of his boxers rubbing against his sensitive cock elicited a moan from his mouth. "No, I'll close it down now, but you should change and get some sleep. I'll join you in a second," you informed, getting up to go to the bathroom presumably.

His clothes felt wildly irritating, their heaviness and the way his pants only compressed his cock were too overwhelming for the young fighter. He pulled the hoodie over his head and shoved his pants off, leaving him in just a pair of boxers. Khabib paused, wondering if this would be enough to finally entice you.

Surely it had to be, your husband, lying almost completely naked with the most noticeable tent in his boxers. How could you not?

He waited for a moment, placing his arms behind his neck as he waited for you. "Khabi, could you come here for a moment, please?" You called out. His arms dropped, and he fought the urge to let out a frustrated groan. After a moment, he got up to see what you needed.

The bathroom door was open a crack, light peeked out from the thin slit. He pushed it through, setting his eyes upon you and closing the door behind him. You were staring up at him suspiciously, your arms crossed over your chest. Khabib's eyebrows furrowed in confusion for the thirteenth time that day, he was convinced he was about to get a new wrinkle at the age of twenty-two.

He played along with his wife, though, crossing his arms as well and shooting you the same suspicious look with an amused smile. "You know...this is our house, if you wanted to talk, we can talk in every room, and no one can hear us," he informed.

You shook your head, "You've been acting very weird today, since you've gotten that phone call from Abubakr...is something the matter?"

"Huh," his smile and his arms dropped.

"Is there something I should know, Khabib? Is everything alright?" You continued to question, at your completely, utterly, dumbfounded husband. He wanted to yell and just tell you he was horny and needed to fuck, even at this very second, as you went on your tangent of questions, he could only stare at your chest shifting with every one of your exaggerated hand movements. Was the neckline lower? Why did it feel as if your breasts were suddenly on full display? He couldn't stop, his mind began to spin a fantasy.

He'd get you lower right at this second and push that beautiful nightgown all the way up. Then, he'd stick his rock-hard dick right in between those perfect tits, fucking them til his stream painted your face. He'd force your tongue out and enjoy the sight of it dripping off before forcing you to clean it all up with a blowjob.

"Khabib! Are you listening? This is what I'm talking about!" You scoffed. He blinked a couple times and then met your gaze, "shit, u-uh, no, I heard you, I'm fine! I promise I am, there's nothing wrong, I'm just sad to leave home again, that's all!" He protested as his wife stared him down.

You paused that look and sighed, "Oh, that's all? Alright, well don't worry, you'll be back soon, like you said," you reassured, tapping his chest dismissively and walking past him. Khabib was left, once more, staring at the bathroom wall.

He was the one acting weird? No, you were the one acting weird. He had never seen you like this before, so bipolar and sudden, it wasn't you. Wearing these skimpy clothes, silky nightgowns with nothing underneath, avoiding the touch he initiated, and only running on your own time. It was like you were purposely teasing him the whole day, getting him all riled up just to deprive him—

Oh.

Khabib's turned to stare at himself in the mirror. He leaned forward against the ceramic sink, holding each side with a terrifyingly strong grip. After an entire day of this, it finally dawned on him just what the hell was going on.

Tried a different colouring. Even though he talks a lil too much, Usman is just too fucking hot bro. I wish he kept his mouth shut sometimes, like when he was saying you don’t need skill to beat ilia, baby shhhh 😭 also, can you tell I luv shots of their back muscles lol

Guys please just forget any post where I mention that I have something planned because it somehow never goes according to it. Anyways, here’s another Khabib edit cuz he’s just toooooo fucking fine 😮‍💨 I definitely need to make an edit with Arabic music for one of them soon.

Rip quality, I was working on another Islam edit but then I got distracted and made this instead…also that clip of Khabib with Islam smiling in the back has meeeee🤭🤭