stella

i have a lot of relatives in dagestan and still go there for holidays even tho my family moved. and i live in dubai now, and it’s a well-known thing that a lot of muslim guys (esp in the emirates / caucasus muslim circles) do stuff on the dl. but as far as i know, islam is not like the rest. a lot of stuff said about the team can be true in general, but islam specifically gets unfairly grouped in.

i think islam was influenced a lot by the nurmagomedovs in how religious he looks + how he presents himself, because when i first saw pics of his family i genuinely didn’t even think they were muslim.

they all have socials but they’re private now. dagestan ppl LOVE to gossip, unfortunately. i followed them way back before they moved to ig and “rebranded.” his wife is like 27–28 i think, she was already training in a hospital years ago (idk how degrees work there tho). they dated for a few years, then got married, and they have 3 kids. the only one w a strictly arranged marriage is zuba.

no one in his family really covers or seems super religious, and honestly islam himself is not that conservative off camera. even w pressure from khabib’s father and other very religious ppl around him, he refused an arranged marriage and dated who he wanted before getting married. hes one of the few that did that in that camp. his wife covers but she’s very fashionable, and i think she’s a family doctor.

people think their wives are always at home but that’s not true at all — they’re almost always with them, w friends and other relatives, super supportive. they’re just very private.

hey guys i’ve been lurking in ufc tumblr for way too long, ive decided to start posting my own fics, this one is about u and islams first night tg, hope u like it!!

also i dont like using y/n so im just going 2 use a diff name for every story but ya enjoy!

The ballroom had begun to fade into a softer kind of chaos, laughter thinning, music drifting toward its last notes. Ayla stood near the hallway leading to the elevators, her gown a pool of lace at her feet. The air still smelled of roses and cake, but beneath it she could sense the end of celebration, the quiet waiting for what came next.

Islam turned beside her, his black tuxedo tailored to perfection, one hand lightly on her lower back. When he offered his arm, she hesitated only a heartbeat before wrapping her hand around it. They walked out together, step by slow step. The hem of her dress whispered against the marble, her pulse loud in her ears. Islam slowed to answer the relatives and friends that congratulated him, weaving her through the ebb of the crowd. She kept her gaze trained down, following the pattern on the crystal floor to avoid thinking about the amount of eyes that were surely watching them.

Now, as the elevator carried them to the penthouse suite, Ayla's heart hammered against her ribs. 'You look beautiful,' Islam murmured once, his voice low, his accent curling around the words. Ayla’s throat tightened. She looked up at him, caught for a second by the steadiness in his eyes; dark, calm, and disarming. She tried to smile but it came out shy, uncertain. Her fingers tightened around his arm as the doors opened to the suite.

The new environment only amplified her nerves; the large room was quiet, the celebration a faint echo below.The suite was vast and hushed, the city lights below stretching like scattered jewels. Warmth radiated from a tall glass fireplace, casting a glow across to the king size bed heavy with pillows, and the looming headboard. Everything was white, from the sheets, to the walls, to the view of the snow on the faraway mountains. Ayla's stomach twisted. This was it-the wedding night. Stories from cousins painted sex as a painful duty, something women endured for their husbands. She believed it, deep in her bones. How could it not hurt, with a man like Islam, built like a warrior?

Islam moved to shut the blinds, giving her space. Ayla drifted a few steps forwards to sit on the bed, her train trailing behind her like a ghost. Through the wide window, she watched as a flurry of snow moved towards the distant landscape. For a moment, she let herself stare, her breath slowly calming. She felt him before she heard him. Islam’s footsteps were quiet across the thin carpet, deliberate but unhurried. When she turned, he was loosening his jacket, setting it across the armchair. The black fabric caught the glow of the flames, his white shirt open at the collar. 'You must be tired,' he said softly.

Ayla nodded vaguely, slipping off her heels and sitting back, pulling a thick fur blanket up to her chin. The gown's bodice restricted her breathing, but she couldn't bring herself to change. Lying there, she stared at the ceiling, her body rigid. The quiet pressed in, too large, too heavy, and she found herself staring at the ceiling, rigid beneath the weight of her own thoughts.

Islam stood at the minibar. He poured two glasses of water, his movements slow, the sound of running water broke the silence for a moment before he shut it off, setting one glass down and taking the other with him. 

'You’re wound up,' he said as he approached, his tone calm but firm, not accusing, simply stating what was obvious. He handed her the glass, fingers brushing hers, then sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly beneath his weight. Ayla's throat worked before she found her voice. 'I’m sorry if I’m not... what you expected,' she whispered, eyes flicking up to his. He held her gaze for a long moment. 'You don’t need to apologize,' he said, voice low, even. Islam's brow furrowed. He set his glass down, studying her. The way she lay there, over the covers like a barrier, her shoulders tense, it wasn't exhaustion. He'd seen fear in the octagon, the subtle tells of an opponent bracing for impact. But this was different, intimate. 'You're exactly what I expected,' he said softly, shifting closer. 'My wife. Beautiful and strong.'

Under the covers' edge, Ayla's nails dug into her palms, the sharp pain a distraction from the dread pooling in her gut. She didn't want to disappoint him, this man who'd chosen her despite his fame. But the thought of him undressing her, of his body pressing into hers, it terrified her. Would it tear her apart? She bit her lip, confused by the warmth his touch sparked, even through fabric.

He noticed the flinch, the way her knuckles whitened. Gently, he pried her hand open, revealing the crescent marks on her skin. 'You know you can tell me anything, right?' His voice was calm, probing without pressure. Ayla's cheeks burned. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...' she murmured, pulling her hand away but not harshly. Islam didn't push. Instead, he lay beside her, propped on one elbow, mirroring her position without crowding. 'We don't have to rush anything tonight’. He watched her breathe shallowly, her chest rising and falling too quickly. The fear was clear now: not of him, but of what came next. He'd heard tales from his own family, how some women approached their first time with dread.He took her hand once more, massaging the tense muscles gently. 'No apologies. We're in this together.' His thumb traced circles on her palm, soothing the sting. Slowly, he guided her hand to rest on his chest, letting her feel the steady beat of his heart. 'See? Just us. No rush.' Ayla's confusion swirled - why was he so patient? She expected demand, not this tenderness from a man she knew could kill her in a second. 

Minutes passed in a more comfortable quiet, the city's lights twinkling through the window. Islam shifted, his free hand tracing lightly down her arm to her waist, over the gown’s fabric. Without a pause, he shifted her closer, and her head came to rest against his shoulder. The warmth of him seeped through, loosening some of the tension that had held her so rigidly. But there it was, the freeze, the nails biting deeper. Islam paused, piecing it together. The stories clicked: pain, fear of the unknown. She thought it would hurt, that he'd force something brutal. His jaw tightened, not in anger, but resolve. He'd show her otherwise, with care. 

'It's okay,' he murmured, kissing her forehead. 'Let me help you relax.' He didn't undress her yet, instead letting his fingers dance lightly over the gown's skirt, inching toward her thighs. Ayla's breath hitched, but she didn't pull away, caught between fear and curiosity. 'You're okay.' He assured her, his touch feather-light as he reached the hem, slipping under just enough to caress her knee. Skin on skin sent a shiver through her, not entirely unpleasant. He watched her face, reading every micro-expression. When she tensed, he stopped, waiting. Gradually, he coaxed her legs to part slightly, his hand gliding up her inner thigh, stopping at the edge of her underwear. Ayla's world narrowed to that point of contact. Her nails dug crescents anew, palms aching, but his voice anchored her. 'Breathe with me,' he said, demonstrating slow inhales. She tried, her confusion mounting - why did his touch feel like sparks instead of pain? Islam's fingers brushed the cotton fabric of her panties, a gentle stroke over the center. She gasped, body arching involuntarily. 'See? Just a touch.' He kept it light, rubbing in slow circles over the cloth, feeling the warmth building beneath. No pressure, no invasion - just reassurance. 

Ayla's eyes fluttered shut, the fear fracturing as sensation bloomed. It didn't hurt; it tingled, a warmth spreading low in her belly. 'I'm sorry if I'm... reacting wrong,' she whispered, voice breathy, nails easing their grip. 'Nothing wrong about this.' His rubs grew firmer, tracing the outline of her folds through the dampening fabric. He could feel her arousal seeping through, her body responding despite the mind's hesitation. Islam leaned in, capturing her lips in a soft kiss, deepening it as his hand worked magic. Tongue met tongue tentatively, her confusion melting into tentative exploration. The sensation pulled her in, her hips tilting subtly toward his hand despite herself. A soft whimper escaped her lips, barely audible, as his fingers began rubbing slow circles over the cloth. The friction ignited something deep inside, her pussy warming and dampening the fabric. Islam kept the rhythm steady, his thumb pressing lightly against her clit through the panties, feeling the nub swell under his touch. 'There you go,' he whispered, his voice a soothing rumble. She almost wanted to apologize, to explain away the way her breath came in shallow pants, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, another soft whimper slipped out, her hands fisting the sheets as if to anchor herself against the rising tide of arousal.

She kissed back, hands unclenching to clutch his shirt. The rubbing intensified, his thumb pressing against her clit through the underwear, circling with precision born of patience. Ayla whimpered, hips shifting toward his touch. The fear lingered, but curiosity won, her body unfurling like a flower under the sun. 'That... feels...' She trailed off, apologetic even in pleasure, 'I didn't know.' A flush crept down her neck, and she turned her face into the pillow, hiding the way her lips parted in silent ecstasy. Islam chuckled softly, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her temple. 'Let me show you more.' He didn't remove the panties yet, keeping the barrier for her comfort. His fingers delved along the seam, rubbing up and down, mimicking what would come later. As minutes stretched, the rubbing coaxed her toward the edge. Islam's free hand cupped her breast over the gown, thumbing the nipple to hardness. Ayla moaned, nails now scratching lightly at his arm, not in fear, but need. Islam held her steady, his free arm pinning her gently against him. 'You're doing so well,' he praised, his rubs turning firmer, circling her entrance where wetness soaked through. He kissed her temple, then her jaw, murmuring encouragement.  'Islam…’ she stammered, face buried in the pillow, arousal flushing her skin. He nipped her earlobe, his rubs unrelenting. 'More?' She nodded, tears of overwhelmed sensation pricking her eyes. He obliged, pressing harder, until her body shattered—climax crashing over her in waves, soaking her underwear as she cried out softly, body convulsing in his arms. He held her through it, whispering praises, until the aftershocks subsided. 'There you go. So beautiful when you come.' Islam slowly withdrew his hand from between her thighs, his fingers slick with her release, and he brought them to his lips, tasting her essence with a low groan of approval. 

She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, a flush still staining her cheeks, but exhaustion was already creeping in, pulling at her limbs like weights. He shifted closer, his arm sliding around her waist to support her as she slumped against the pillows. 'You did so well, мой голубь,' he murmured, his voice a gentle anchor in the haze of her fatigue. Her eyelids fluttered, fighting to stay open, and she let out a soft, apologetic mumble, her hand reaching weakly to clutch at his shirt. ‘Let's get you out of this dress, you need your sleep.' His tone was soft but firm, that underlying command easing any hesitation she might have felt. 

He sat up slightly, helping her to lean forward as his hands moved to the zipper at the back of her gown. The sound of it parting was quiet in the dim room, the now cool air kissing her skin as he peeled the fabric away from her shoulders. Ayla shivered at the exposure, but it was more from the sudden chill than fear, her body too relaxed to tense up. She lifted her arms obediently when he guided her, letting him slide the gown down her torso, over her hips, and off her legs in one smooth motion. He gathered the discarded dress and set it aside, then reached for a soft robe from the nearby closet, draping it over her bare form.

'There,' he said, tucking the edges around her like a protective cocoon. He eased her back down onto the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. Her eyes were nearly closed now, lashes fanning against her cheeks, but she managed a small, grateful smile, moving to kiss his hand in silent thanks. Islam lay beside her, his body a warm barrier against the world, one hand resting lightly on her hip over the robe.