🥺

Hiiii guys! I’m new to actually posting on Tumblr, but all my writing will be linked below. Also I’d love some feedback I’m welcome to all♥️

I’m open to requests, so feel free to ask! I’m comfortable writing angst, fluff, smut, slow burns, and jealousy/possessive themes.

I won’t write anything rude or disrespectful—whether that’s toward the person, their family, or their real lives. I also don’t write male x male.

Disclaimer: this is all purely fan fiction! I don’t know these people personally and I’m not trying to impersonate anyone!

Islam Makhachev -

You disrespect my wife?

It all makes sense.

Your secret, not mine.

Not until she’s 30.

The inevitable.

Khabib Nurmagomedov -

It’s painful to watch.

Khamzat Chimaev -

What’s more important - chapter 1.

What’s more important- chapter 2.

What’s more important - chapter 3.

What’s more important- chapter 4.

What’s more important - chapter 5.

What’s more important- chapter 6.

What’s more important- chapter 7.

What's more important - chapter 8.

What's more important - chapter 9.

What's more important - chapter 10.

What's more important? - chapter 11.

What's more important? - chapter 12.

Arman Tsarukyan -

I’m his wife.

Usman Nurmagomedov -

Umar Nurmagomedov -

The good & the bad.

Abubakar Nurmagomedov -

Magomed Ankalaev “ Big Ank” -

Could you do like a Isu fic where he's young(like 23,24) x reader. Fluff? Enemies to lovers ?

We like knew eachother since kids and we always bullied eachother but at the end we fall in love.

I acc really enjoyed writing this idea!! Enjoy xx

Islam Makhachev x reader

The inevitable -

The first time Islam Makhachev made you cry, you were seven years old and furious about it.

It had been summer in Dagestan - the kind of summer where the air held dust and sunlight until late into the evening, where every courtyard was full of voices, open gates, and children running in and out of the houses like they belonged to all of them.

Your grandmother had sent you across the lane carrying a bowl wrapped in cloth, something meant for his mother

“Walk carefully,” she’d said.

You had been doing until Islam stepped out from behind the low wall by the fig tree and scared you half to death - inevitably you dropped the bowl which shattered instantly and the silence lasted less than a second before he laughed and not a polite laugh either, a full one, head thrown back.

You stared at the broken pieces, your eyes burning.

“You did that on purpose.”

“I didn’t touch you.”

“You jumped out like an idiot.”

“You screamed like one.”

And then you cried which only made him panic because Islam Makhachev at seven could wrestle boys older than him into the dirt but had absolutely no idea what to do with a crying girl.

“Hey,” he’d muttered, suddenly awkward. “Stop.”

You only cried harder.

He glanced toward both houses like he was calculating how much trouble this would become before crouching beside the broken bowl.

“I’ll say it was me.”

You sniffed.

“You’ll get shouted at.”

He shrugged.

“You’re already crying.”

That didn’t make sense then but years later, you’d remember it perfectly…

Everyone knew the two of you not because you were friends but mostly because you were always arguing, you’d fought over who got the corner seat at dinners, over who ran faster, over whose turn it was to carry groceries, over who cheated at cards, over absolutely anything.

If your families heard raised voices outside, someone always signed and said -

“Islam and her again.”

And somehow it never became serious even when it sounded serious, you’d glare at each other over tea glasses, push shoulders passing through crowded kitchens, trades insults so casually that adults barely listened anymore.

By twelve, it had become routine.

By fifteen, everyone expected it.

By eighteen, everyone noticed something neither of you seemed willing to admit.

When you were fourteen, your cousin got married.

It was loud, crowded and warm inside the women’s side of the celebration, voices layered over music and dishes clinking - aunties calling from room to room.

You’d stepped outside for air and Islam was already there sitting on the wall by the gate, dressed properly for once, sleeves rolled to his forearms.

He looked annoyed.

“Why are you outside?”

“Why are you?”

“Too loud.”

“Same.”

You stood beside him in silence.

Rare.

Inside someone laughed so loudly it spilled through the open door.

“Your dress looks uncomfortable,” he said eventually.

You looked over.

“Your shoes look stupid.”

He nodded once, fair.

Then he shifted and handed you the cold bottle of lemonade he’d been holding like he’d been saving it and you took it without saying thank you.

He didn’t ask for one.

When Islam began traveling more for fights, everything changed in ways nobody said aloud.

At first it was small, a few days away, then a few days turned into weeks, camps in places far enough that time zones got involved and phone calls became strange and brief.

Everyone was proud of him.

How could they not be?

He’d always been disciplined in a way most people weren’t. Even as a boy there’d been something sharp in him—focused, stubborn, impossible to pull away once he’d decided on something.

He trained like breathing, like it was part of him and then suddenly he wasn’t around nearly as much.

You hated to admit it but the courtyard felt different without him - quieter.

No arguments over tea, no sarcastic comments thrown across the table, no door slamming because he’d annoyed you on purpose - you noticed it immediately and hated that you noticed.

He called his mother often, his father traveled with him, sometimes rang his brother, the odd time someone would pass the phone around but you never spoke to him directly.

Except once.

You were nineteen.

His mother was making dinner and her phone rang with his name lighting up the screen immediately she smiled and answered, talked while stirring something on the stove.

Then held the phone toward you casually.

“Talk to him.”

You nearly dropped the spoon.

“No.”

“He asked where you were.”

Your face warmed instantly.

“He did not.”

She raised a brow.

“Take it.”

You did.

Reluctantly.

“Hello?”

His voice came through rough with bad connection and background noise from a gym.

“You sound annoyed.”

“I am annoyed.”

“Good.”

You rolled your eyes and suddenly you felt twelve again.

“When are you back?”

A pause.

“Miss me?”

“No.”

Another pause.

Then “Two weeks.”

And quietly, before the line crackled “Maybe less.”

You thought about that call for three days.

By twenty-three, Islam had changed not completely he was still sharp-tongued with you, still impossible when he wanted to be, still stubborn enough to argue with a wall, but he carried himself differently now.

More confidence, more control, people knew his name outside your town now- he came home broader through the shoulders, with deeper lines around his eyes, worn by training, travel and responsibility.

But around you - somehow he was still just Islam.

The boy who broke your bowl.

The teenager who stole food off your plate.

The man who looked at you too long when he forgot himself.

It happened at a gathering at his family’s house.

Everyone packed into the courtyard after dinner, tea being passed around, conversations overlapping.

You were standing beside the table speaking to one of your cousin’s friends—someone visiting from Makhachkala, easy-going and loud enough to make everyone laugh.

Islam had arrived late from training.

You were that engrossed in the conversation you barely noticed at first until his mother greeted him, until voices shifted, until you looked up and saw him standing by the gate.

Watching.

Not the group.

You.

The cousin’s friend said something funny and you laughed and instantly Islam’s jaw tightened, subtle but there.

He came over eventually.

Calm. Too calm.

Greeted everyone and then stood beside you, close enough for your shoulder to brush his arm.

“Who’s that?”

You looked sideways.

“Who?”

“The one trying too hard.”

You nearly smiled.

“He’s talking.”

“He performing.”

You bit back a laugh.

“Are you jealous?”

His eyes flicked to yours.

Dark and steady.

“No.”

Liar.

You took your tea slowly.

“He’s nice.”

Islam leaned slightly closer.

“Then why you looking at me?”

And for once- you had no answer.

That night his younger cousin grinned while clearing cups and muttered—

“Finally.”

“Finally what?” you asked.

He just laughed and walked off.

The thing about falling in love slowly is that everyone else gets there before you, your grandmother noticed when Islam started arriving at your house without needing a reason, his mother noticed he asked where you were before sitting down, your cousins noticed how he always seemed to end up next to you at dinners without trying, how he watched doors when you stepped outside, how his mood improved the second you entered a room.

How yours did too.

People stopped teasing loudly about the arguments and started exchanging knowing looks instead.

One evening not long after he returned from another fight camp, you found him sitting on the low rooftop terrace behind the house while the sky faded orange into blue.

You climbed up beside him.

“Everyone’s looking for you.”

“They’ll survive.”

He handed you tea while you slowly sat beside him, it wasn’t quiet in an awkward way but in a comfortable silence.

Then - “You were gone a long time.”

His expression shifted.

“Camp ran longer.”

“I know.”

He looked at you then.

“And?”

You stared out over the rooftops.

“And I didn’t like it.”

The words surprised even you, and honestly you didn’t realise you’d said them out loud but you had.

He stayed still.

You exhaled.

“It’s strange when you’re not here.”

His voice was softer when he answered.

“It’s strange for me when I’m not here too.”

You turned.

His eyes held yours.

“I miss home.”

A beat.

Then quieter—

“I miss you.”

Everything in you stopped moving.

The evening sounds below carried on like normal—plates, laughter, distant voices—but up there the world felt paused.

Like it was waiting.

You swallowed.

“You pick terrible timing.”

He smiled slightly.

“You’ve known me too long to expect better.”

And then you laughed, small and breathless, he did too and before either of you could thing too hard, his hand found yours where it rested between you on the warm stone, it wasn’t dramatic or rushed, just fingers brushing first and then holding, like something that had been reaching for years finally stopped pretending it wasn’t.

And later, when your families inevitably found out, nobody was surprised, his mother smiled like she’d been waiting a decade.

Your grandmother said, “About time.”

Your cousins were unbearable.

And Islam—

Islam only looked at you across the room with that quiet expression he only ever had when nobody else was paying attention.

Like after all the years of arguing, teasing, leaving, returning - he’d somehow ended up exactly where he was supposed to be.

Right beside you.

Not until she’s 30.

-

The late afternoon sun flowed through the kitchen windows in soft golden rays, filling the space with an evening warmth and like always the house was loud in the way only a full house ever could be- someone running upstairs, your youngest fussing from the living room, cartoons playing too loudly in the background while dinner simmered on the stove, and in the centre of it all sat Islam at the dining table, one hand holding open a notebook while the other absently stirred sugar into his tea.

He looked serious, focused because when didn’t he?

At least until your daughter walked in.

“Baba?” and his entire expression changed immediately.

Your eldest, his firstborn, his pride and joy, the girl who had wrapped him around her finger twelve years ago and never once loosened her grip, his first princess- slid into the chair beside him with all the confidence in the world.

“Yes, habibti?”

She leaned against his arm dramatically.

“Can I ask you something?”

His attention now solely on her “Anything.”

You stood at the stove stirring tea while listening with one ear, already smiling to yourself because the way that man answered to anything when it came to her was ridiculous.

She twisted a strand of hair around her finger.

“There’s this boy in my class—“

The spoon nearly slipped from your hand - literally, and across the kitchen Islam froze so completely it was almost impressive.

“…What boy?”

Your daughter didn’t notice.

“He sits two rows behind me in science.”

Islam sat up straighter while you bit your lip hard holding yourself back.

“He said my handwriting is nice.”

Silence, heavy, immediate silence.

You turned just enough to see your husband staring at her like she’d just calmly informed him she planned to move to another planet.

“What did he say?” he asked carefully.

She repeated it casually, reaching for a grape from the fruit bowl.

“He said my handwriting is nice.”

Islam leaned back in his chair slowly and you had to look down at the pot because if he saw your face you’d laugh and you’d laugh out loud.

“And why,” he asked after a long pause, “is he looking at your handwriting?”

“Because he borrowed my notes.”

“Why?”

“Because he forgot to write them.”

Islam folded his arms “Then he should remember next time.”

You covered a laugh with a cough.

Your daughter blinked “What?”

“Nothing,” he muttered. “Eat your fruit.”

She shrugged and hopped down from the chair a minute later, already distracted by something happening in the living room.

“Okay! Thanks Baba!”

“Mm.” and just like she hadn’t come in and made her father look like he’d seen a ghost, she disappeared into the living room.

The second she was gone you burst into laughter, Islam turned to glare at you.

“Don’t start.”

You couldn’t help but laugh harder “You should have seen your face.”

“I know exactly what my face looked like.”

“You looked like she told you she was running away to another planet”

“She’s twelve.”

“She said he complimented her handwriting.”

“He’s still a boy.”

“Exactly.”

He rubbed both hands down his face and you could see the inward battle he was having with himself while you carried the pot over to the table, still grinning.

“She doesn’t even know what she’s saying to you.”

“That’s the problem.”

You slowly sat beside him, lowering yourself carefully with one hand at your lower back, heavily pregnant and moving at snail pace these days.

Islam’s hand immediately found your waist out of instinct, steadying you before you’d even fully sat down, you smiled at the automatic tenderness of it, he kept his palm against your side while muttering under his breath.

“Two rows behind her.”

You laughed again “Islam stop it.”

“He’s watching her write.”

“He borrowed notes.”

“He should take his own notes.”

You rested your chin on your hand.

“You are impossible.”

He looked at you flatly “I’m her father.”

“And?”

“And I don’t trust twelve-year-old boys.”

“You were twelve once.”

“I was exactly why fathers don’t trust twelve-year-old boys.”

That nearly ended you, you laughed so hard your stomach tightened, one hand instinctively going over the curve of your belly.

Islam’s attention snapped down instantly “You alright?”

“Fine,” you said between laughs. “Your child is kicking because even they think you’re dramatic.”

His expression softened immediately as his hand moved from your waist to your stomach, he loved touching you there, even now—especially now—like it grounded him.

His thumb brushed slowly over the fabric while his voice dropped quieter.

“He kicking?”

“Or she.”

“Mm.”

You watched him, the tension from moments ago already fading from his shoulders under your palm.

This version of him always made your chest ache a little.

Strict with the world.

Firm with everyone else and endlessly soft at home.

Especially with his daughters.

Especially with you.

A week later it happened again, this time in the car.

You sat in the passenger seat while Islam drove, your youngest asleep in the back beside your daughter, who was chattering nonstop about school.

“…and then we had art.”

“Mm.”

“And then we had PE.”

“Good.”

“And then Yusuf got sent out because he threw a glue stick.”

Islam’s eyebrows pinched.

“Who is Yusuf?”

“The same boy from science the one I told you about silly”

You slowly turned to the window so he wouldn’t see you smiling because the innocence in her voice was sending her UFC champion of a father into fight or flight mode.

“What did he throw?”

“A glue stick.”

“Why?”

“At Adam.”

“Why?”

“Because Adam took my pencil.”

Islam gripped the steering wheel harder and you pressed your lips together while your daughter continued happily.

“But then he gave me his pencil after.”

Islam’s jaw tightened.

“Why did he give you his pencil?”

“Because mine broke.”

“I see.”

You nearly choked finding some amusement in your husband being this uncomfortable while you were heavily 8 months pregnant.

She sighed dramatically.

“He’s funny.”

Silence.

The kind that made your shoulders start shaking.

“Funny,” Islam repeated.

“Yes.”

You looked over and he looked back at your for a second, his expression was calm, too calm that dangerous kind where he was holding himself in.

Your daughter leaned forward between the seats.

“Baba?”

“Yes?”

“Why are your eyebrows like that?”

You lost it, full belly laughing so hard you had to clutch your stomach for support while your head tipped back against the seat.

Islam exhaled through his nose while your daughter looked between both of you in complete confusion.

“I’m driving,” he said.

“That didn’t answer my question.”

You laughed even harder.

That night after everyone was asleep, the house finally quiet, you found him in your bedroom folding tiny baby clothes fresh from the dryer.

One little sleeper in hand, his shoulders looked tired and tense.

You leaned against the doorway watching him.

“Still thinking about Yusuf?”

He didn’t even look up.

“Yes.”

You snorted “Islam.”

“He threw something at another boy.”

“He’s twelve.”

“He gave her his pencil.”

“Because hers broke that’s a nice thing to do”

He folded the sleeper with far more focus than necessary yet still didn’t get it straight, clear that his mind was distracted.

“She said he’s funny.”

With a sigh you carefully climbed into bed carefully and patted the space beside you.

“Come here.”

He did without hesitation the baby laundry long forgotten, not that you were sure he got anywhere with it, the mattress dipped as he sat beside you, and you tucked yourself against his shoulder, your belly pressed warm against his side and he rested a hand there automatically.

“She adores you,” you said quietly.

“I know.”

“She tells you everything.”

“I know.”

“That means we’re lucky.”

With a sigh he nodded and you smiled against him.

“And someday she’ll mention a boy and actually mean something by it.”

He closed his eyes like you’d actually told him bad news “Don’t.”

You laughed softly.

“She’ll grow up.”

“She can grow up at thirty.”

“That isn’t how it works.”

“That’s exactly how it works in my head.”

You tilted your face up to look at him.

“She’s still your little girl.”

He finally smiled then, small, tired and affectionate. “Always.”

A kick landed beneath his palm, he glanced down and then another, his expression softened completely while you covered his hand with yours.

“Good thing we’re having more babies,” you murmured.

His brow lifted “Your idea.”

“Your idea.”

“You agreed.”

“Against my better judgment.”

​khamzat chimaev x reader

A/N: someone requested a Khamzat one shot with finding out your pregnant so I made this, hope you enjoy ( I need to start proof reading my writing lol)

-

The wedding has been loud, almost too loud even for a man like khamzat.

Too much gold, laughter and hands pulling at your cheeks while kisses got pressed repeatedly against both sides of your face until you thought you might disappear beneath it all, and then the honeymoon had been the opposite.

Quiet, warm, just the two of you.

Days melting into each other somewhere far away where time didn’t matter, salt on your skin, his hand always somewhere on your body like he couldn’t quite believe you were finally his wife.

Many lazy mornings tangled in sheets and even more late nights spent awake beneath him, his mouth at your throat, mumbling things against your skin in a voice only you got to hear.

For two weeks, the world had disappeared and then you had to come home and suddenly everyone was back, his family filling the house with noise, movement and children running between legs, sock less feet pounding against hardwood flooring, someone shouting from the kitchen in Chechen while laughter rose over the top of it.

You stood near the counter with a plate that held far too much food for you to consume but his mother insisted you ate, smiling at one of his nieces while she clung to your leg with sticky fingers.

Across the room, Khamzat stood with his brothers and cousins, broad shoulders against the wall, arms folded, watching everyone with that unreadable expression of his that made strangers nervous and people who knew him relax because they understood how much was hidden behind it.

One of the younger boys darted between them and nearly knocked over a drink, his brother caught the cup just in time.

“Too wild” his cousin laughed “that’ll be you next”

His wife snorted “Yeah, give it a year”.

Someone nudged Khamzat in the shoulder.

“When are you two giving us one?”

He laughed under his breath and shook his head “not me”

“Come on”

“I’m serious” he shrugged like it was nothing

“Why?”

“Don’t want a baby just yet”

A few of them laughed, someone made another joke and naturally the conversation moved on.

But you’d heard all of it, and your brain didn’t move on with the joke, your smiled stayed put while his niece was still hanging of your leg, because his mother was asking if you wanted anymore tea and because it felt like someone had punched you straight in the chest “Don’t want a baby just yet” you knew it wasn’t aimed at you, he hadn’t even looked at you when he said it, but you still heard it and it stuck with you.

Two weeks had passed since the comment had been made and had uninvited its way into your brain, nothing drastic changed between you, you both navigated days the same but that comment lingered in your brain.

By the third week you woke before dawn with sweat cooling against the base of your neck while your stomach rolled violently and you barely made it to the bathroom in time.

By the third morning you blamed it all on food poisoning - by the fifth day it was stress induced.

By the seventh day of feeling like your soul had left your body you stood in the pharmacy aisle staring at a box you swore you didn’t need.

The house was silent when you took the test, Khamzat had already left for the gym at the crack of dawn, his coffee mug still in the sink, his hoodie draped over the back of the chair where he’d left it.

Evidence of him everywhere and yet you still waited until the front door shut behind him before taking the box into the bathroom, you could of heard a pin drop, you sat on the closed toilet seat staring at the white plastic stick balanced at the edge of the sink, your heart was beating so fast you were scared you’d vomit again, how could one tiny stick determine your whole future.

You didn’t even realise you were holding your breath until your alarm blared through the silence.

And there it was - two pink lines.

Clear.

Immediate.

Positive.

Your body went completely rigid, no panic, no tears, nothing - just like the whole room had gone silent inside your head, you stood slowly picking the test up with shaking fingers.

Positive, pregnant, his baby.

After the few moments of silent shock your eyes burned instantly and then, as fast as it came - his voice.

“Don’t want a baby just yet.”

You sat back down, hard, the cold toilet lid pressed through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts, fingers tightening around the test - pregnant.

Pregnant.

Married.

Happy.

Everything you should have wanted.

But all you could hear was him laughing with his cousins, that sentence replaying in your mind and your throat tightened painfully.

What if he looked disappointed?

What if he tried to hide it but she saw it anyway?

What if he smiled because he thought he had to?

What if he touched you and reassured you yet all the while wished it hadn’t happened now?

Khamzat had always been decisive, certain, once he made up his mind that was it, it wasn’t cruel or done in a toxic/ controlling way it was simply who he was, he moved through life like he knew exactly where he was going and suddenly you felt like you’d stepped into a future he hadn’t chosen.

By the time the front door opened an hour later, the test was wrapped in toilet paper and shoved beneath the bathroom bin.

You stood in the kitchen now pretending to cook and he noticed immediately - he always did.

He dropped his gym bag beside the door and frowned “You okay?”

“Fine.”

His eyes narrowed “You sick again.”

“No”

“You’re pale”

“I said I’m fine”

He said nothing back to you after that, just watched you which was worse.

Over the next two days you barely ate.

Barely slept.

Barely looked at him.

And khamzats patience - usually endless with you- began to fray.

By the third night he walked into the bedroom and found you folding the same towel for the second time.

His jaw tightened.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Stop saying that.” He stepped closer now “you think I don’t see you avoiding me?”

“I’m not avoiding you”

“You don’t eat, you don’t sleep, you don’t talk to me?”

“I’m tired”

“From what?”

As soon as he said it, it landed wrong and it stung.

Your hands paused mid fold and he saw it immediately but it was too late.

“What’s does that mean?” You asked quietly setting the towels down.

He exhaled hard running a hand over his face “That’s not what I meant.”

“No? Because it sounded like it.”

“Talk to me.” And it almost broke you because men like Khamzat didn’t beg.

“I don’t want to”

His voice got sharped now, “Then tell me why.” patience gone completely.

“Because I can’t”

“Why?”

“Because I’m scared!!”

The room went silent and his expression shifted instantly.

“What are you scared of?”

“I’m pregnant”

Silence - complete silence.

His face emptied like his brain had genuinely stopped functioning.

You could hear your own breathing, the pulse in your ear beating almost as fast as your heart.

“What?”

“I’m pregnant.”

He stared at you and then actually smiled.

Small at first, disbelieving but then slowly bigger, his eyes lit up in a way you’d never seen before, not even on your wedding day.

He let out a breathless laugh and looked at the floor like he was trying to process it.

“You’re pregnant?”

Tears rolled down your face now, “yes” the emotions becoming too much for you.

“With my baby?”

You stared at him like he’d lost his mind for a second, half angry, half devastated.

“Yes, Khamzat. Your baby.”

He laughed in disbelief again, stepping toward you like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

And without even thinking you took a step back - which stopped him instantly.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore “I heard what you said” his smile faded “At the family dinner”

Confusion flickered across him “what?”

“You said you didn’t want children right now.”

There it was- out in the open.

Understanding hit him all at one, you saw the exact moment, and suddenly he looked wrecked.

Your voice cracked “All I could think about was you hearing this and wishing it wasn’t happening.”

His face softened completely it made your chest ache and he stepped closer, slowly this time.

“Come here.”

You shook your head, your emotions whirling through your body at 100mph.

He stepped closer anyway, hands finding your waist - warm and steady.

“Look at me.”

And you did.

“I remember saying that.” He admitted “But you didn’t hear everything.”

“ what else was there to hear?”

“I said I didn’t want a baby just yet because back then it wasn’t a real.” His thumb brushed tears softly of your cheek “It was people joking, asking questions, making place for us.”

He leaned his forehead on yours gently.

“This.” His hand slid carefully across her stomach “This is real.”

You broke completely at him saying that, a sob escaped you before you could stop it and instinctively he held you tighter.

“When I said not yet.” He mumbled, “I meant not yet because people expected it from us, but with you…”

He placed a gentle kiss on your forehead.

“With you…it’s our child…”

Another kiss landed on your temple this time, his hand still resting gently on your stomach.

“This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You couldn’t help but cry against his chest while he held you there in the middle of your bathroom, one hand at the back of your neck and the other still resting over the place your baby already existed.

Can confirm I’ll do both😂 khamzat acc isn’t my favourite fighter if you will but I found it so much easier to write for him that anyone else which I didn’t think I would so I’m up for writing more on him xx

Couldn’t agree more - hope you like xx

Umar Nurmagomedov x Reader

A/N: hi guysss feel like I haven’t opened my tumblr for like 3 weeks I’ve been so busy but I have the next week off so hoping to get through all the requests 🫶🏽 ngl I haven’t proof read this one to the fine detail but enjoy 🫶🏽

-

The hotel room was quiet except for the dull hum of traffic somewhere below the windows, and not a peaceful quiet, it was the kind that felt heavy.

Umar stood near the small table by the window, shoulders tense beneath a black compression shirt still darkened with sweat from training. One hand rested on his hip while the other scrolled through something on his phone - messages from coaches, probably. Fight schedules, interviews - more obligations. 

You sat at the edge of the bed, fingers curled around a paper cup of tea you’d made almost twenty minutes ago, which had already gone cold. 

“You should sleep”, you said softly.

“Mmm.” he didn’t even look up. 

The response wasn’t rude, and that almost made it worse; it just felt distracted, automatic, as if he’d answered without actually hearing you. 

Finally, he tossed the phone onto the table with a quiet clatter and dragged both hands down his face, exhaustion written into every movement. Training had gone bad today- you didn’t need anyone to tell you that, you’d sensed it immediately when he walked back into the hotel suite earlier with two coaches speaking in low Russian behind him. 

One of them hadn’t looked happy, and neither had Umar. 

He moved towards the bathroom, stopping only long enough to grab a bottle of water.

“You ate?” he asked.

The question caught you off guard slightly, “yeah.”

He nodded once, then left the air between you both to sit in silence.

It had only been the first day of fight week, and already you felt out of place and even though you knew this week was stressful for everyone here, even more so for Umar himself, you didn’t even feel needed.

The fight had been last minute - almost impulsive. Umar usually preferred keeping you far away from fights entirely, away from the chaos, cameras and pressure that seemed to wrap around him every single time. 

Now you understand why.

Every room you entered this week felt tense. Every conversation sounded sharp around the edges, coaches whispering, phones constantly ringing, managers knocking on doors, and Umar - God.

Even exhausted, he carried pressure differently than everyone else. 

He got quiet, colder, every emotion locked itself somewhere deep behind his ribs where nobody could reach it. 

The bathroom light flickered on, bright against the dim hotel room, and then the door shut with a soft, firm click, and finally, alone, you exhaled slowly and looked down at your untouched tea.

Maybe coming here had been a mistake, not because he didn’t love you, but because this version of him didn’t seem to have room for anything except the fight. 

Stream curled from the bathroom behind him, as the door opened, he looked exhausted in a way sleep probably wouldn’t fix - eyes shadowed, jaw tense, shoulders heavy with tension he refused to let go.

He barely glanced toward the bed before reaching for his phone again - another message, another sigh muttered under his breath in Russian.

“Everything okay?” You asked carefully.

A beat of silence and an almost unheard “Yes.”

The answer sat awkwardly between you.

He finally looked over after you didn’t carry on the conversation, like he’d realised how false it sounded, and his expression softened for half a second.

“Just coaches” he mumbled “Too much talking.”

You gave a small nod even though that clearly wasn’t all of it.

He crossed the room slowly stopping just in front of you, up close you could see the bruising already forming along his cheekbone from sparring earlier, faint purple shadows blooming beneath his skin.

Without thinking, you reached for him and his body reacted before his mind did, shoulders tightening instinctively at the movement, the tiniest thing.

But it still made your hand pause mid air for a second.

His expression changed immediately after, guilt flickering across his face.

“Sorry” he said quietly, voice rougher now “Head hurts”

“It’s okay”

But something about it stung anyway.

You let your hand fall back into your lap, and looked down at the blankets instead - the room slipped into a quiet hum again.

Outside, somewhere far below the hotel windows, sirens echoed briefly through the city streets before fading into nothing.

Umar sat down on the edge of the bed with a deep exhale, elbows resting on his knees, his phone stayed clutched loosely in his hand, like he physically couldn’t put fight week down even for a second.

“You didn’t have to come.” He said suddenly.

Not cruel, not angry, which somehow made it worse.

Your eyes lifted slowly towards him.

“I know.”

He rubbed his hand over his face again, clearly frustrated with himself before he even tried explaining.

“That’s not—“ he stopped, jaw tightening “I just mean this week is bad timing.”

The words landed heavier than he intended.

You could tell by the way his shoulders stiffened immediately afterwards.

But he didn’t take them back - just bad timing, as if you were another complication added to an already failing week.

You swallowed carefully and forced a smile “Okay”

His head lifted at your tone this time, and for the first time all night he actually looked at you properly and maybe that was the problem.

Because exhaustion stripped him too bare sometimes, made him easier to read than he wanted to be.

The frustration, the pressure, the fear underneath it all - not fear of you but fear of the fight, of camp had been going more wrong than it had right, of expectations, of loosing.

His gaze dropped away first.

“I have training early tomorrow.” He said quietly.

A dismissal- gentle but still one.

You nodded again, and reached over to with the bedside lamp off, darkness settled between you both instantly, a few seconds later you felt the mattress dip beside you as he finally laid down, leaving careful space between you both.

Not far - but not close either, and somehow the distance felt much bigger than a few inches.

The alarm went off at five.

Umar shut it off immediately before it could ring a second time, already sitting up before you’d even opened your eyes.

The room was still dark.

For a moment you just watched him quietly beneath the blankets as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, head lowered like he was preparing himself for the day before it had even had a second to start.

He rubbed both hands over his face before standing up, moving silently around the hotel room gathering his belongings for training.

Shorts.Hand wrap.Extra shorts. Black hoodie - everything mechanical, practiced, like he’d done this so many times his body no longer fully needed him awake for it.

“You should sleep more.” He mumbled when he noticed you watching, his voice sounded softer in the mornings - less guarded.

You pushed yourself up slightly against the pillows “What time did you even fall asleep?”

He shrugged - which probably meant two hours at the most.

“Nervous?” You asked gently.

That finally earned your attention, not offended exactly but surprised you’d said it out loud.

Fighters hated that word - especially fighters like Umar, he looked down at the question and without looking back to you answered “Need better training today.”

Not a full answer but still a response.

You studied him quietly for another second before pulling the blankets back and sliding out of the bed.

“what are you doing?” He asked immediately.

“Making coffee”

“You don’t have to wake up.”

“I’m already awake.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but didn’t have the energy for it.

The tiny hotel kitchenette filled with soft sounds while you moved around making coffee neither of you really wanted, behind you Umar stayed quiet.

The silence around you wasn’t comfortable but also not uncomfortable either just fragile, you handed him a cup carefully, his fingers brushing yours briefly when he took it.

“Thank you.” He said, quieter this time.

It was such a normal thing, such a small thing but it felt like the real first moment you’d had since arriving.

Then his phone buzzed again and the softness disappeared almost instantly.

He checked the message, jaw tightening immediately, Russian filled the screen too quickly for you to follow fully, but you caught enough words to be able to understand the tone.

Coach.

Conditioning.

Not good.

Umar muttered something under his breath before locking the phone again harder than necessary.

“What happened?”

“Nothing”

The lie came automatically this time.

You watched him drain half the coffee in one swallow before grabbing his bag next to the door and suddenly while watching him you understood something.

He wasn’t shutting you out because he didn’t want you here… he was shutting you out because things were going wrong.

The hotel room was dim when he came back, it was past midnight now.

You looked up immediately from where you were sitting against the headboard, laptop forgotten beside you the second you saw him.

God he looked exhausted, not just tired but worn down, the bruising along his cheekbone had darkened noticeably since earlier, a cut near his lip now barely cleaned properly, his hoodie hung from his shoulder as he stepped inside, movements slower than usual like every part of his body hurt.

For a second neither of you spoke.

Then you couldn’t help yourself “How bad was it.”

Umar shut the door quietly behind him “Fine.” The automatic answer sounded weaker this time.

He tossed the bag onto the floor harder than necessary before sitting heavily on the edge of the bed with a tired exhale, elbows braced against his knees.

Up close you could see redness across his knuckles, something in your chest twisted painfully, so without any words you slid off the bed and disappeared briefly into the bathroom.

Umar looked up only when you came back holding the small hotel first aid kit, his expression tightened immediately “You don’t need to do that.”

You ignored him completely, stopping in front of him and gently lifting his chin toward the light.

The cut on his lip was worse than you thought.

“You’re bleeding again.”

“I’m okay.”

“You keep saying that.”

That finally made him go quiet and for once he didn’t pull away when you sat beside him, the mattress dipped slightly under your combined weight as you soaked a cotton pad with antiseptic, Umar stayed still beside you, forearms resting heavily on his thighs, exhaustion practically radiating off him.

When you touched the cut on his lip he hissed slightly.

“Sorry”

“It’s fine.”

But his eyes squeezed shut anyway.

The room stayed quiet except for the soft sounds of you moving carefully around him.

No cameras, no coaches, no reporters asking questions, just this.

“You should sleep,” you murmured while pressing ice gently against the bruise beneath his eye.

A humorless laugh escaped him quietly.

“Coach would love that.”

Your gaze flicked toward him. “They’re being hard on you.”

Umar stared at the carpet for a long moment before speaking.

“My timing is bad.”

The admission came quietly. Reluctantly, like he hated saying it out loud.

You stayed silent, letting him continue if he wanted to.

Another pause.

“Everything feels wrong this camp.”

There it was, not anger, not arrogance. Fear.

The kind he probably never let anyone see.

Your chest tightened painfully at how tired he sounded.

“You’re still allowed to struggle sometimes,” you said softly.

His jaw tightened immediately.

Fighters hated that too, struggle, weakness, doubt.

You softened your voice further. “It doesn’t make you less good.”

Umar finally looked at you then, really looked at you, and suddenly the exhaustion in his expression cracked just enough for something vulnerable to show through underneath.m

“I don’t like you seeing me like this.”

The confession barely rose above a whisper.

You swallowed hard.

“Like what?”

Another long silence.

“Not in control.”

God. That hurt.

Because suddenly the entire week made sense.

The distance.

The coldness.

The shutting down.

He wasn’t pushing you away because he didn’t want you there, he was trying to hide how badly everything felt like it was slipping out of his hands.

Carefully, you moved the ice pack away from his cheek and set it on the nightstand.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you said quietly.

Something in his expression shifted at that.

Small.

Almost invisible.

But enough.

Enough that when you leaned closer this time to check the cut on his lip again, he didn’t tense away from your touch, instead, exhausted beyond pride now, he let his forehead rest briefly against your shoulder with a slow exhale and for the first time since arriving at fight week, he let himself stop holding everything up for a second.

The evening after, the fighter hotel buzzed with noise.

Coaches moved through the lobby in clusters, media teams crowded near elevators, and somewhere across the room someone loudly replayed highlights from an earlier press conference on a laptop.

You sat tucked into one corner of the lounge area with a bottle of water in your hands, half listening to the chaos around you, Umar had been pulled into interviews almost forty minutes ago.

At first he’d looked back toward you every few minutes.

Then less.

Then not at all.

You understood it logically.

Fight week consumed him.

Still, sitting alone in a room full of people made the ache in your chest settle back in quietly.

“You look bored.”

The voice startled you slightly.

You looked up to find another fighter stopping beside the couch, friendly grin already in place. Someone from an earlier card — recognizable enough that you’d seen him around the hotel all week.

“A little,” you admitted with a small laugh.

“That bad?”

You smiled despite yourself. “You all make fight week seem very stressful.”

He laughed, dropping into the chair across from you casually. “Because it is stressful.”

The conversation stayed easy after that, nothing flirtatious, just normal.

He asked where you were from, whether this was your first fight week, joked about how every fighter became unbearable during weight cuts.

And for the first time all day, you relaxed enough to laugh properly.

Across the room, Umar noticed immediately.

One second he was answering another interview question.

The next, his eyes lifted past the cameras.

Straight to you.

The fighter sitting across from you leaned closer slightly while talking, saying something that made you laugh again.

Umar’s expression hardened almost instantly.

Not dramatic.

Subtle.

But enough that one of the coaches beside him glanced over curiously.

His answers afterward became shorter.

Sharper, distracted, you didn’t notice at first.

Not until the conversation across from you abruptly stopped.

The fighter’s eyes had lifted somewhere over your shoulder.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

Confused, you turned slightly.

Umar stood there beside the couch.

Silent.

Freshly showered after media obligations, black hoodie pulled over broad shoulders, hands tucked into the front pocket while tension rolled off him in waves.

He didn’t look at the other fighter first.

He looked at you.

“You done?” he asked quietly.

Not rude.

But clipped enough that your stomach tightened immediately.

The other fighter stood almost instantly, suddenly very aware of the atmosphere shifting around him.

“I’ll see you around,” he said lightly before disappearing back toward the elevators without another second wasted.

Silence settled the second he left.

Umar’s jaw flexed once.

“You looked busy,” you said carefully.

His eyes flicked toward where the fighter had walked away before returning to you. “Who was that?”

The question came too quickly.

Too casually and suddenly you understood.

A strange mix of disbelief and irritation sparked inside your chest.

“You’re jealous?”

His expression flattened immediately. “No.”

The denial was instant.

Which basically answered the question.

You stared at him for another second before standing slowly from the couch, grabbing your water bottle.

“You don’t get to act jealous after ignoring me all week.”

The words landed harder than you intended, or maybe you did intend them but Umar’s face changed immediately.

It wasn’t anger it was something worse.

Guilt.

“I’m not ignoring you.”

You laughed softly under your breath, exhausted now more than upset. “Okay.”

That one word clearly hit him harder than arguing would have.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “What does that mean?”

“It means you barely look at me unless something’s wrong.”

“That’s not true.”

“You told me I shouldn’t have come.”

The second the words left your mouth, silence dropped heavily between you.

Because there it was.

The thing you’d been carrying around all week.

Umar stared at you for a long moment, realization slowly settling into his expression.

And for the first time since fight week started, he looked genuinely worried.

The elevator ride upstairs was painfully quiet.

You stood near the mirrored wall with your arms folded loosely across your chest while Umar remained beside the doors, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, tension carved into every line of his body.

Neither of you looked at the other, the silence wasn’t angry anymore- that would’ve been easier but this felt heavier than anger.

When the elevator opened onto your floor, you stepped out first.

Umar followed a second later.

The hotel hallway stretched long and muted around you, soft lighting reflecting against dark carpet while distant voices echoed somewhere farther down.

You reached the room first, swiping the keycard harder than necessary before pushing the door open.

Umar shut it quietly behind you both.

Still silence.

You set the water bottle down on the counter and moved toward the window automatically, wrapping your arms around yourself tighter.

Behind you, Umar exhaled slowly.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

His voice was quieter now.

Tired.

You stared out at the Vegas lights below. “Then how did you mean it?”

No answer immediately.

Because there wasn’t a good one.

“I knew this week would be bad.”

You turned then, frustration finally slipping through properly. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“And what does that have to do with me being here?”

Umar rubbed a hand over his face hard enough to show how exhausted he was getting from this conversation already.

“Everything is…” He searched for the words visibly. “Wrong right now.”

Training.

Pressure.

Expectations.

Fear.

All the things he still couldn’t fully say aloud.

But you could see every unspoken word sitting behind his eyes anyway.

“You think I can’t handle it?” you asked softly.

His head snapped up instantly. “No.”

Too fast.

Too honest.

The answer came from instinct.

And somehow that hurt worse too.

Because if it wasn’t about you handling it— then it was about him.

Umar looked away first, jaw tight.

“I don’t like you seeing this part.”

Your chest tightened slightly. “Seeing what?”

His laugh this time sounded humorless.

“This.” He gestured vaguely toward himself “The bad camp. Me angry all the time. Coaches unhappy. Everything.”

For a moment the room went quiet again.

Then finally “You know what the worst part is?”

His eyes lifted cautiously toward you.

“You keep acting like loving you only works when things are good.”

The words hit him like a physical blow.

You saw it immediately in the way his expression shifted.

Because suddenly this wasn’t about fight week anymore.

Or jealousy.

Or stress.

It was about the fact he genuinely believed he had to hide every ugly part of himself to keep from becoming a burden.

Umar swallowed hard once before speaking carefully.

“That’s not what I think.”

“But it’s what you’re doing.”

Silence.

Long enough that you wondered if he’d shut down again completely.

Then finally, quieter than before “I don’t know how to do this when everything feels bad.”

God.

That one nearly broke you.

Because there it was again beneath all the frustration - Not coldness but fear.

Failure terrified him in ways he didn’t know how to survive gently.

You stared at him for a long moment before crossing the room slowly, Umar stayed perfectly still when you stopped in front of him, close enough now to see exhaustion written beneath his eyes again.

“You don’t have to be perfect for me,” you said softly.

His breathing visibly slowed.

For a second he just looked at you like he didn’t quite know what to do with that.

Then finally, carefully this time his hands settled against your waist, not confident in fact almost hesitant like he still wasn’t fully sure he deserved the comfort.

“I’m trying,” he admitted quietly.

And honestly?

Khamzat Chimaev X Reader. 

A/N: At the end. 

-

The arena sounded different when it was his night, and you didn’t mean that in a big-headed way just because he was your husband; you noticed it every single time. It wasn’t just louder- it was heavier, like the entire building carried this constant undercut of anticipation whenever Khamzat was fighting. People didn’t watch him casually; even the crowd that hated him watched, waiting for the chaos,for the violence. 

That energy followed him everywhere, even backstage. 

Security moved faster, UFC staff on high alert, the constant buzz of his team growing louder every time a fight ended and his got closer, and through it all he stayed strangely calm, not relaxed, never relaxed but clear.

You noticed immediately during warm-ups. Usually, there was this restless edge to him before walkouts, something barely contained underneath the furface. He paced more. Talked more. The energy rolled off him in waves. 

Tonight, though?.

It didn’t play out that way; he was quieter, more focused in a way you hadn’t really seen before, not emotionally distant from you; if anything, it was the opposite, like he’d finally stopped fighting himself.

You sat off to the side for a while; the coaches moved around, the final instructions being wrapped up between last-minute combinations and pad work. And every now and then his eyes found yours automatically, and every single time it made your stomach flip, because you still didn’t know what had shifted in him after that conversation earlier, but you could tell it had. 

The final call came faster than expected.

One minute there was noise and movement around you, and the next the room changed immediately. 

“ Alright, let’s go- it’s time.”

This was it, the moment. 

People grabbed bags. Coaches straightened up. Someone killed the television in the corner. The bass from the area outside flew into the room now that someone had opened the door. 

While people filtered out of the room, he stayed one step behind. 

He stepped towards you without hesitation, no cameras here, no performance, no audience, just you and him. 

His hands settled at your waist, grounding himself there for half a second before leaning his forehead lightly against yours. 

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

The question caught you off guard because he was about to walk into a cage and fight for his life, yet still somehow he was asking about you. 

You nodded slowly “I’m okay”

“You stay close tonight.”

Your brows pulled together slightly “I always do.”

A small, barely noticeable smile pulled at his lips “I know.”

And something about the way he said it made your chest tighten in the best way, because he knew you were there for him now, not lingering in doorways. 

Your little moment couldn’t go on forever.

“Time” came from his head coach, who’d popped his head through the door slightly. 

Khamzat stepped back from you, shoulders rolling once as the fighter returned visibly to the surface. 

But something softer stayed underneath it now. 

You could see it in his eyes. 

Your leg bounced in your seat, of course, you were in his corner, one row behind the team, he always said it was for your protection in case anything ever happened cage side. 

The walkout felt unreal from the moment the music hit and the lights dimmed. 

The arena exploded instantly, the sound physically piercing your ears, people either screaming for him or against him - there was never an in between. 

To everyone in that arena who didn’t know him on the level that you did, he looked completely locked in, head forward, jaw set, focused, the version of him the world knew best- but you knew him well enough now to see the difference. 

There was no anger in him, no recklessness, no need to prove something. 

For the first time since you’d known him, he walked towards the fight looking like a man who already  understood exactly who he was outside of it. 

The fight itself was violent from the opening second. 

Sean Strickland came forward, talking immediately, jawing at him between exchanges exactly like everyone expected. The crowed errupted with every strike that was thrown, and the energy in the arena became suffocating. 

But Khamzat looked terrifyingly composed tonight, not emotional, not reactive, just sharp - every movement carried intention behind it now. 

By the third round, Strickland's pressure had started fading slightly under the pace Khamat forced onto him. Takedowns. Pressure against the cage. Constant forward movement. The crowd grew louder every second as momentum shifted completely. 

When the final horn sounded, the arena erupted instantly. 

The decision barely even mattered by that point; everybody already knew. 

Khamzat stood in the centre of the cage, heaving, sweat dripping from his face, slowly mixing with the blood dripping from his eyebrow while the referee lifted his arm into the air. 

And for one brief second, surrounded by noise, lights, cameras and chaos, his eyes found yours. 

Not the crowd, not the commentators - you. 

The arena was still shaking with the noise by the time they handed him the microphone.

You could feel it in the atmosphere around the cage, in the way the commentators leaned forward slightly, in the crowd's chanting his name, waiting for whatever madness usually came next.

Because this was what Khamzat Chimaev did.

He won fights violently, grabbed microphones, made hairs on the back of people's necks stand up and said things that immediately became headlines by morning. Half of the audience was waiting for him to call someone out, the other half was waiting for him to threaten somebody- either way, everyone expected chaos. 

Khamzat stood in the middle of the octagon, chest still rising heavily from the fight, blood and sweat catching lights while the noise around him rolled endlessly from every direction. 

When he raised the microphone to his mouth, the arena instantly got louder. He smiled first; that alone made people cheer even louder than before because now they thought it was coming, the usual Khamzat madness. 

He glanced briefly towards Dana white near the cage side, then towards the crowd again, shaking his head like he was trying to catch his breath enough to speak properly.

“Alhamdulilah”, he started, voice rough from the fight ”Thank you, everybody”

The crowd roared again - he smiled slightly.

“I smash this guy.”

Sean Strickland, still leaning against the cage nearby, lifted his hands sarcastically like, yeah, alright.

Khamzat pointed towards him briefly “He talk too much”, he said, still breathing hard “Always talking.”

Even Sean laughed at that, and the tension in the room loosened instantly. 

And for a second, it looked exactly like everyone expected, another classic post-fight speech, thank you to the coaches, the camps, the fans - but then his expression changed.

He looked down at the canvas for a brief second before speaking again.

“You know…” he said slowly, “My whole life…fighting.”

The arena quieted a little.

“I come here; I fight everybody. I win belts. I make money.” he shrugged one shoulder tiredly “Good life”

People were listening now because something in his tone felt different, less adrenaline, more honesty. 

Then he smiled suddenly, small and crooked in that very him kind of way.

“But brothers…” he laughed under his breath. “Enough now.”

And the crowd reacted instantly, confused laughter rippling through the arena, even the commentators paused.

Khamzat looked towards his team at the cageside.

Then his eyes found you, and your stomach dropped because suddenly you understood.

“I think…” he said slowly, “This is my last fight.” 

For one second, the arena genuinely didn't process it; the noise dipped slightly, confusion spreading more slowly than the sound itself.

Then everything just exploded. 

“WHAT?!”

“No way-”

“He’s joking”

Dana white look stunned.

The commentators started talking over each other immediately, even inside the cage, Sean turned his head like he was trying to figure out if this was real. 

Khamzat just laughed, like everyone else being shocked was the funniest thing in the world. 

“No, listen”, he said, waving one hand carelessly as if that would bring down the shock of what he’d just said “I’m serious.”

The crowd got louder, and his smile spread wider.

“I fight my whole life, brother. Wrestling, training, cage, everything”

Then, very simply: “Now I want to go home.”

Your chest suddenly felt like a car was resting on it, painfully tight because he wasn’t looking at the crowd anymore; he was looking at you. 

“I have.” He paused briefly, searching for the English.

Then he grinned wider.

“I have baby to make” 

The entire arena LOST IT.

The crowd screamed louder than when the final horn was blown, the commentators completely broke, even Sean Strickland bent forward laughing against the cage, and Dana white looked like he physically aged five years in real time. 

Khamzat was laughing too now, shaking his head while the noise became completely uncontrollable around him. 

But underneath the humour- underneath the ridiculousness of the way he said it- there was truth sitting there so openly it knocked the breath from your lungs. 

Because you understood what he actually meant.

Not just a baby.

Not just a family.

Home.

You.

A life he could finally stay inside of instead of constantly leaving behind. 

And standing there in the middle of the cage, surrounded by thousands of screaming people, he looked lighter than you’d seen him in months. 

Like he’d finally stopped splitting himself between two futures. 

The crowd still didn’t fully believe him, and you could hear it.

People were laughing, shouting, assuming this was just another wild Khamzat moment that would disappear by next week.

But then he handed the microphone back calmly.

No dramatic emotional speech, no huge farewell, no tears.

Just done.

Like the decision has already been made long before tonight. 

Before stepping away, he looked towards you one final time, and despite the arena, the lights, the cameras that looked - it felt devastatingly private, and the tears cascading down your cheeks were proof of that.

Because after weeks of tension, fear, distance and trying to figure out whether love could survive the life built around fighting, he’s answered the question himself.

A/N - hehhehhee I loved that ending - like I said, my chapters got deleted and there were actually more in this story, but I genuinely couldn’t remember them all, but i do remember having this as my ending, so here it is, hope everyone's enjoyed this (why does a small part of me want to see them after this lol )

Khamzat Chimaev X Reader. 

You were convinced fight week was worse than actual fight night.

Not just mentally but physically too. 

By the time the weight cut started, Khamzat became quieter in a way most people didn’t understand. The louder parts of him disappeared first. The joking didn’t stop completely, but it came down a step. The energy dulled down into something sharper and more internal; every movement started looking deliberate because he simply didn’t have the energy to waste. 

It was the only time you could visibly see the cost of everything he did.

And every single fight since you first met Khamzat, you’d been there without fail, not in front of cameras, not publicly, just there. 

In the room while he cut weight, sitting quietly while everyone else moved around him, handing him towels,water, listening when he wanted to talk and silent when he didn’t, sometimes he wouldn’t speak at all during those last brutal days.

The hotel felt colder during fight week.

Maybe because everyone inside it was running on nerves and exhaustion. 

People moved constantly through the corridor - coaches, nutritionists, media staff. Doors opening and closing on a constant rotation. 

You’d gotten used to it over the years; usually you moved through it easily, and you belonged there as much as anyone else. 

This time, though,  you hesitated outside the room, and you weren’t even sure why. 

You’d come upstairs automatically after one of the later sessions, your body following habit before your mind caught up. But when you reached the door, something inside you stopped. 

The muffled noise from inside drifted through faintly - voices, movement, someone laughing quietly and suddenly you felt strangely uncertain standing there. 

It hit you then how different the last few weeks had been between you both. How carefully you both moved around each other. How aware have you grown of giving him space even though he’s told you he didn’t want it? 

So instead of walking in like you normally would, you stayed outside just for a minute, you told yourself.

You leaned lightly against the wall, arms folded loosely, staring down at the hotel carpet while your thoughts spiralled into thoughts you couldn’t stop- maybe your presence would complicate things further? Maybe he needed to focus more on comfort? maybe- 

The door opened suddenly. 

One of the team stepped out, a face that had been around for years. He stopped in his tracks at the sight of you lingering awkwardly. 

“Oh”, he said, “Why are you out here?”

You straightened slightly “Nothing, I was just-”

“You not coming in?”

Your mouth opened briefly before closing again “I didn’t want to interrupt”

The look he gave you made it obvious he didn’t understand that answer at all, and before you could explain further, he glanced back into the room “Khamzat,” he said casually, “your wife is standing outside.” 

Immediately, you heard movement inside.

Then- 

“What?” The response came fast, sharp, with confusion more than anything else. 

A second later, Khamzat appeared in the doorway, already looking at you like the situation didn't make sense to him. 

The exhaustion from the cut stood out more than anything. His face leaner, eyes slightly shadowed, shoulders heavy with dehydration and fatigue. But the second he saw you standing there instead of beside him, his expression tightened. 

“Why you outside?” he asked immediately, and for some reason you felt like a child who’d been caught doing something they shouldn't have been doing. 

“I just didn’t want to-”

“No”, he cut you off, genuinely confused now “Why you outside?” 

For a second, you just stared at him because the answer felt too obvious to you now, even if it clearly didn’t to him. 

You glanced briefly past him into the room. The coaches, the noise, the movement. 

“I thought maybe you’d want space”, you finally admitted. 

The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them; the reaction was immediate. 

Not anger, something sadder than that. 

Khamzat stared at you before shaking his head once like the idea itself irritated him “Come here.” 

You stepped forward automatically, and the moment you were close enough, his hand landed lightly around your waist, guiding you fully into the room. 

“You think I want you outside?” he asked, closing the door behind you. 

Your shoulders lifted slightly in a helpless shrug: “I don’t know.”

He looked at you like that answer physically offended him.

“You know”, he said immediately; there was no hesitation in it, no uncertainty, just fact. 

The room around you had gone quieter now, everyone else suddenly very interested in giving the two of you privacy without making it obvious. 

You looked up at him, propley, taking in how exhausted he looked up close. The tension in his body. 

“You look awful,” you said softly. 

A tired laugh escaped him at that, rough around the edges but real. 

“Thank you” 

“I mean it affectionately.”

“Very nice wife.”

You smiled despite yourself, and for the first time in weeks, the tension between you eased naturally instead of awkwardly, just a little. 

Khamzat studied your face for a second longer, his expression softening in a way that only ever happened to you. 

Then quieter “You are always here.”

Your chest tightened slightly because you knew what he actually meant. 

Your apart of this. 

You belong here.

Why are you acting as if you don't?

You went quieter now- softer: “I didn't want to distract you.”

“You never distract me “

The response came so fast, so certain, that it caught you off guard. 

Because underneath all the tension, all the fear, all the conversations that neither of you knew how to solve yet - there was still this. 

Still, he instinctively reaches for you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. 

Then his hand moved carefully to the side of your face, rough fingertips warm against your skin despite how drained he looked. 

“Don’t wait outside again,” he said softly. 

Not controlling.

Not demanding. 

Just honest.

And for the first time in weeks, when he pulled you gently against him, neither of you hesitated first.  

Khamzat Chimaev X Reader. 

A/N - I posted earlier, but guys :(((( I’d acc completed this story and was just tweaking it while putting them out, but I woke up today, and TWO of my stories, including this one, have bloody deleted from my phone - I genuinely feel sick lol so I'm trying to remember how I acc played this story out but enjoy :00

—  

You’d expected it to explode after the press conference, but it didn’t, and, surprisingly, that was worse.

There wasn't a huge argument in the car, no shouting, no dramatic confrontation waiting for you. The tension settled into something different between you both, heavier, quieter, sitting in spaces where it was always comfort. 

Khamzat drove home with one hand gripping the steering wheel and the other resting in his own lap. Normally, it was on your thigh; his jaw looked so tight you were scared he’d crack a tooth, and you knew he was replaying the night in his head. The clips were probably already online by now. People making jokes out of a situation that had never been meant for anyone else to hear. 

But neither of you mentioned it.

You stared out of the window instead, watching Dubai blur past in streaks of white light and reflection, and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t know how to reach him. 

And it hurt because usually it was easy, that had always been the thing between you. 

No matter how loud he was publicly, how chaotic his energy became around other people, with you, there had always been softness underneath it like when he came home loud, full of too much energy from taining you always knew how to settle him, he used to joke about it constantly “My storm calmer.” he’d call you, cheesing like it was funny and at first you thought he was teasing but then you realised he actually meant it. 

Now, though, the silence between you felt far from that, far from calm; it wasn’t hostile or cold, just careful. 

The days after that became strangely robotic. 

Khamzat threw himself deeper into camp almost immediately- earlier mornings, later nights, more travelling between gyms, more people around him constantly, like every spare piece of him seemed to disappear into preparation, and you could tell he was doing it partly because he didn’t know what else to do with the tension bubbling inside of him. 

Training made sense to him.

Fighting made sense to him.

Pressure made sense. 

But this?

The quiet uncertainty between the two of you? That didn’t.

You noticed it most at night: he’d come home exhausted, body sore, mentally somewhere else entirely, but still trying in small ways that almost made it harder to watch. His hand brushed your back as he passed you in the kitchen. Asking if you’d eaten. In bed, he still pulled you against him like it was muscle memory. 

What made it worse was the fact that your own feelings had started betraying you, too. 

At first, the conversation about children had not been so much off-putting to you, but you knew the weight it would carry, the sacrifices it would bring, and, of course, you wanted children with Khazmat, but right now, when any day a call could come and flip your life upside down- that’s what you tried to stress.

You’d convinced yourself that not wanting a baby now came from protecting both of you from something difficult. 

But now… now there was another layer to it, one you didn’t expect. 

Sometimes you’d catch yourself thinking about stupid little things accidentally. What he would be like with a little girl who looked just like him, what your son would inherit besides the chaos and intensity, whether your child would have his eyes or your smile.

And every time those thoughts appeared, you pushed them away immediately because they felt dangerous, but suddenly it wasn’t: I don't want this. It was - I want this, but I'm terrified of what it would cost.

Sean Strickland had turned into something visible, something ugly and public, but underneath the disrespect, there had been truth sitting, waiting for both of you to look at it properly. 

A week later, the tension finally cracked, not loudly, just honestly. 

Khamzat came home late again, shoulders heavy with exhaustion, duffel bag dropped by the door harder than intended. You were curled up in bed, listening to him make his way through the quiet and dark house. 

For a second, he just stood there, in the doorway to your bedroom, and something in his expression shifted.

“You don't wait for me anymore,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“When I come home” His voice was calm, but it wasn’t hard to hear the strain. " Before you wait”

Your chest tightened immediately because you hadn’t even realised you’d stopped doing it; before, no matter how late it was, you’d stay awake for him, curled under a blanket pretending to watch something until he came through the door. 

Lately, though, you’d started drifting off accidentally. Pulling away without meaning to. Protecting yourself from missing him before he’d even left. 

“I didn’t realise”, you admitted softly. 

Khamzat stood there and stared at you for a second before sitting down heavily beside you, elbows resting against his knees, frustration radiating off him in waves.

“You think I chose this?” he asked suddenly. 

Your heart sank because there it was again - that confusion, that desperate need for you to understand he was trying. 

“I know you don't”

“No”, he shook his head sharply “You say that, but then you look at me like…” he stopped, visibly struggling to explain himself properly “Like I'm already gone.”

The silence again felt enormous because he wasn’t entirely wrong.

You swallowed hard, looking down at your hands for a second before speaking” I think I started preparing myself for it”, and the honesty in your voice startled you. 

He visibly stilled beside you, and you could feel him looking at you now, fully focused. 

“I think”, you continued carefully, “I started trying not to need so much from you.”

You felt it immediately in the air that changed between you; you knew he didn’t like the comment- to Khamzat, he was the man of the house; he cared for you, protected you; he felt like it was his job for you to need him. 

Khamzat leaned back slowly, one hand dragging over his face as frustration, guilt and exhaustion collided together across his expression. 

“That’s not what I want.” 

“I know” 

“But you still do it.”

“Because I don’t know what else to do”, you admitted quietly.

That finally broke something open between you both because it was the first time either of you had stopped trying to sound reasonable.

You looked at him then properly, and for the first time in weeks, he looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with training camp. 

Not physical exhaustion.

Fear.

Real fear.

And somehow that hurt worse than the arguments ever could have. 

Disclaimer: This is all purely fan fiction. I don't know these people personally, and I'm not trying to impersonate anyone. 

Khamzat Chimaev X Reader. 

A/N - hiii guys hope everyones enjoying, i love the ending of this chapter, so enter Sean Strickland :)

—

After the call about the fight, everything moved quickly, just like it always did when the contracts were signed. 

Training schedules tightened, calls came more often, and media requests stacked up before he’d even ended the first week of training. 

Yes, you’d gone through it before, but it still changed things: him leaving earlier than usual, coming home late, conversations cut short because his attention was needed elsewhere. You had to remind yourself it was just temporary, what his world looked like when things ramped up, you knew that, and you’d always accepted it. 

The house felt quieter, lonelier. You found yourself sitting with your phone in your hand more often than you liked, not because you needed to check anything but because the silence felt heavier without something or someone to fill it. 

You didn’t complain, you never did, but that didn’t mean it didn’t affect you, and he noticed the change in you before you said anything - of course, he did. 

With Khamzat, he could physically see it, not verbally. You didn’t interrupt him when he was busy anymore, didn’t pull him into conversations when he was focused on something else. You gave him space without being asked, stepped back slightly in a way that was subtle - but there, and for him that felt worse. 

The house had been quiet since 6am that morning, you’d tried to fill the silence throughout the day, but it didn’t work. It wasn’t the same - he came back later than usual, the energy around him still sharp from training. He expected to find you where you usually were, expected the same rhythm but instead you were quieter, sitting back slighlty, not completely distant - but not reaching for him the way you normally would. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and your reply was too easy, too quick: “Nothing.” 

Khamzat wasn't one for beating around the bush “You pull back”, he said, not a question but a statement. 

You shook your head slowly, “I’m not pulling back” 

“You are”, he insisted, his voice tightening just slightly. “You don't talk the same, you don't-” He stopped, frustrated, like he couldn’t find the exact words for what he was feeling. 

You looked away for a second before meeting his gaze again “I’m just… giving you space” 

Immediately, you knew that it had landed wrong. 

“I don’t want space”, he said. 

“I know, but you don’t have time not to have it.” 

Silence. 

That was the first time it had been said out loud, and his expression shifted instantly. “I make time”, he said, and you could see the frustration building. 

“You’re trying”, you answered gently, “I see that… but this is your life, and right now it’s a lot.” 

He stepped closer again, “You think I not here?” and you could see the confusion on his face. 

Your head shook, “No, I think you're doing everything you can”

“Then what?”

You couldn’t help but hesitate “This is what I meant, before. When we talked.”

He stilled, and you could see the penny drop. 

“You said you’d do both”, you continued, “and I believe you want to, I really do - but this”, you gestured around you, not at the room but around the wheels that were now in motion “, this is what it looks like.”

He didn’t respond because he knew. 

“I'm not angry, I'm not upset with you,I just see it clearly now”

This felt worse than you both screaming at each other, because you weren’t accusing him, you were just…right.

“You think you alone?” he said quietly. 

A big sigh left your body; you knew it had to be said: “I think I would be, sometimes, and I don’t want that, not for me and not for a baby.” 

The truth now sat between you both, heavy, unavoidable.

He ran a hand over his face, the tension finally snapping “I do everything” he said, “I train, I fight, I come back - I’m here.” 

“I know you are” - you didn't want him to think that way, “but you can’t be everywhere”, you replied. 

For the first time, he didn’t push back. 

— 

The fight only made it worse.

The lead-up to Strickland wasn’t quiet. It never could have been. The tension between them was immediate, loud, messy in a way that infected everything. 

Press conferences turned into arguments, interviews weren’t interviews anymore, they were who could wind the other up the most, and you watched it all unfold, but that didn’t mean you could ignore what it meant. 

The moment that stuck came during a press conference, the room moved in a way it always did- microphones, cameras at every angle, people on stand by - just in case. 

You were there, off to the side, trying to stay out of it, trying not to let it get to you the way it was starting to. 

Sean Strickland was already in it - loud, pushing, saying whatever came to his mind in a way that he knew held no concequences.

“Mannnn, you talk about eveyrthing”, he said, smirking, “ fighting, life - what’s next?” 

Khamzat didn’t hesitate “ I do everything,” he replied.

Strickland laughed at this, turning his body to face Khamzat. “Yeah? Everything.”

Then with a grin that didn’t sit right:

“What about that baby you were talking about? Your wife’s not pregnant yet, right? You need help or what?”

The room shifted immediately, and your whole body went rigid. 

Khamzat didn't laugh, didn't brush it off - he went still, completely still.

Even Dana white glanced towards the extra security that were strategically placed aound the room. 

The kind of still that meant something had already snapped beneath the surface. 

This wasn't just disrespectful - it was your point, thrown into the worst possible space, out loud, in public, everything you’d been trying to explain quietly in your safe space - reduced to a joke. 

Khamzat leant forward, his expression unreadable but his presence heavy, controlled in that dangerous way. 

“You talk too much”, he said. 

Strickland smirked, unfazed.

“I’m just saying- big talk, man. You sure you got time for all that?”

That was it, that was the line. Because now - it wasn’t just about him, and you knew it. 

You saw it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his shoulders squared slightly, the way the air around him shifted completely.

But you also knew - he wasn’t just reacting to Strickland, he was reacting to what had already been said behind closed doors, and suddenly everything felt louder, messier and more complicated than it was before, because now it wasn’t just something you said quietly in private. 

It was real, and now it was in the eyes of everyone. 

Khamzat Chimaev X Reader.

-

It started, as most of his ideas did, with absolutely no warning.

You were sitting beside him, half-paying attention to whatever he was doing on his phone, when he suddenly leaned close, his shoulder bumping into yours. 

“Look”, he said, bringing the phone up to your face. 

You glanced, lazily at first, still not paying much attention until you couldn't actually make out what was on the screen. 

“What is that? “ 

He didn’t answer immediately, just watched your reaction with full seriousness, like he was waiting for you to understand  

“Our baby”, he said, like it should have been plainly obvious. 

You stared at him - then back at the screen - then at him “That is not a baby”

“Yes, it is”, he said, completely convinced “, I make” 

You looked at the photo again, and you genuinely were a bit terrified. The app had merged your faces together in a way you couldn't really make out - features slightly off, proportions all wrong, and it did actually make you chuckle “You did not make that,” you said. 

“I did see look”, he said, tapping the screen, “Eyes like you, face…strong” 

You actually laughed, covering your mouth for a second. 

“Strong??” 

He nodded, completely serious, “Yes, very strong” 

When your laughter had died down, you couldn’t help but give him a look of concern “I'm worried about you…” You had to say it because this was something different entirely. 

“Why?”

“Because you think it’s real” 

“It will be”, he said - and that was worse. 

Over the next week, it became a recurring conversation. He’d randomly bring it up, showing you a different app he’d used this time - even talking about how he was reading the reviews for this one, completely convinced he was proving a point. 

“This better”, he said one afternoon, forcing his phone in your direction. 

“No”

“You're not even looking”, he huffed. 

“I don't want to”, you replied. 

He brought the phone back into his own space, staring for a second, “You scared”

You laughed because you genuinely couldn’t fathom what had happened to your husband “I'm scared for our future if that’s what you think we’re having.” 

He didn’t laugh, just shook his head gently “You say maybe”, he reminded you, like you'd given the green light, when you really hadn’t. 

You closed your eyes briefly - that word had ruined everything. 

But underneath the comments and the silly apps on his phone, something had shifted, and it wasn’t hard to notice.

In the way he looked at you when you weren't paying attention. He’d always liked to be close to you, but now it seemed to linger a couple of seconds longer than before. You felt like he was already imagining something that hadn’t happened yet, and you genuinely didn’t know how to control the situation. 

It wasn't overwhelming in a way that you were stressed, it was just there - hard to ignore and before you didn’t entertain a single thought to the idea but for some reason that night and khamzat was at a late night training session, you had the house to yourself and you sat there, letting a thought or two creep in and you found yourself smiling “Maybe…” you muttered under your breath. 

You were getting ready for bed by the time he returned, skin care routine completed, Stanley Cup filled with ice-cold water on your bedside, you could hear him making his way through the house, checking the doors were locked, lights being shut off and just before he reached room to join you his phone rang - you didnt hear the full conversation but you picked up on his tone, it changed quickly, from normal - to focused - to serious. 

By the time he hung up, he appeared in the doorway of your bedroom with a look of composure but slight excitement.

You looked at him “What is it?”

A pause. 

“Fight “ that made you sit up “What fight?” 

He hesitated for half a second, not because he didn’t want to say it but because he knew what it meant. 

“Sean Strickland.” The name landed immediately. 

Not just another fight, not just another opponent, a big one, a loud one, the kind that didn't just stay in the cage, it came with everything: media, attention, pressure. 

You looked at him without saying a word, “I take”, of course he did, that was never a question when those phone calls came through. 

But it didn't stop that feeling. 

Training camps.

Travel.

Interviews. 

Everything would pick up again, everything pulling him back into that world at full speed, and it wasn't like you hadn’t been here before because you had - numerous times - it’s just that without realsing, everything you’d just talked about - everything that he wanted and what you were warming up to the idea of had something standing in front of it, and he noticed your shift immedietly. 

“You think again”, he said. 

You shook your head quietly, “No”, but it wasn't that simple; he could read you.

“I don't want you to feel like you have to choose”, you said quietly, “between this and…. what could be.”

That got a reaction out of him immediately, “I don’t choose”, he said firmly, “I do both.”

You held his gaze, “It’s not always that easy” You could tell he wanted to interrupt you “You’ll be gone a lot, and it’s going to be intense this time.” 

“Yes”, he replied, and then he looked at you, really looked at you, and the silence clung to both of you, then quieter, “You think I forget about you?”

That wasn't what you said, but it’s what he heard. 

“No”, you took his hand in yours, “I just don’t want to lose this.”

He exhaled slowly, his hand tightening aroud yours, “You dont loose’ he said. 

And you belived him, and without saying it out loud, you both knew you werent worried about the change that was to happen over the coming weeks, you’d done it before and survived, but it was about that tiny little idea, that word “maybe."