husband islam who grows his hair out for you…

everyone has started to question why islam has decided to let his har grow; even his beard is getting ridiculously untamed. everyone in the gym has started to tease him, but all he does is push the sweat-dripping hair back and continue on. it’s not like him. for most of his life, islam kept a tight buzz atop his head because he simply did not have the time to take care of it, nor did he want to.

but all of that changed when isu realized his sweet wife likes to pull it. oh yes, you, his polite and respectful wife had a thing for pulling her husband’s hair until he winced. and to be quite honest, islam would do anything to keep you happy. so, he decided to let his hair grow for a little bit.

and your husband is so so generous, so, he decided to give you more than just a couple inches of hair.. he gave you the full length of his cock too. with your knees pressed to your chest and your back pressed to the couch, isu gave you exactly what you’ve been begging for. the noises are filthy, but not as filthy as the rhythm of his hips snapping into your soaked and worn out pussy.

she’s dripping all over the fabric of the couch but that’ll be another day’s work. right now, islam is much too busy with you. the mating press he has you in makes you feel so much more of him and of course he knows it. he can feel the way you squeeze him like a vice, can hear the sound of your arousal coating his dick every time he pushes back into your dripping hole. he loves it.

he especially loves the death grip you have on his hair. your fingers card through the short locks just briefly before you squeeze. it’s all you can do to contain the overwhelming amount of pleasure he’s making you feel. he doesn’t mind either; in fact, he’s bringing his head down for you so it’s easier to reach. your other hand somehow finds its way to his beard, where you use this leverage to pull him down into a sloppy kiss. it’s just a small something you use to connect with him even further.

all the while, islam’s long cock hits the tip of your cervix for the umpteenth time in just a couple of minutes. the feel of him has you spiraling, your heat convulsing around him. but you want more, you need more, and so does he. he buries his sweaty head into the crook of your neck. his hot breath fans over your skin, dampening it further. with fingers still hidden in his dark locks, you pull him back to see his handsome face twisted up in pleasure. he’s like a work of art, eyebrows knitted together in concentration and lips parted in heavy breaths of air.

“woman.. please,” his tone is strong, somewhere between frustration and concentration. and maybe your grip is too tight, but you know your husband is a strong man. he can take it.

you let go of his beard, but the grip you have on his hair is the only thing grounding you back to earth. you simply can’t let go. and if you did, what else was going to get him making those sweet sounds of pleasure and agony? you pull again, harder than before, until he grunts and pushes his forehead into yours. he shuts his eyes, letting himself get consumed by the feeling of you all around him.

a new sense of urgency fills isu. his hips pound against you harder. his nails dig into the back of your knees. he folds you onto yourself with more pressure than before. that’s when the heat starts to creep up your chest, burning your insides like a damn forest fire. islam is so lost in his own overwhelming sensations that he doesn’t realize yours until that grip on his hair tightens even further.

he groans in russian, his voice like gravel. but by then it’s too late, and your tight hole is already milking him for everything he’s worth. it doesn’t take much; just a few more shallow and staggered thrusts before he’s giving your pussy what she wants.

this has been on my mind seeing all these vids of him looking massiveee in his camp 😫😫

OMG YES

thanks for the request anon and sorry if you have requested from me i literally have like 8 requests rn im getting to them okay 🙏

islam makhachev x reader

smut- size difference, power dynamic (kinda), and slightly possessive, islam soft dom, reader sub

authors note: when i saw this in the request box i got really excited lowkey 😭🙏 but i hope you enjoy :)

The door opens and you hear his familiar footsteps, but when Islam walks into the bedroom, you do a double-take.

He's massive.

You knew he'd been bulking up at welterweight for this camp, but seeing him in person is something else entirely. His shoulders seem broader, straining against his tight black t-shirt. His arms look thicker, veins prominent along his forearms and shoulders. Even his neck looks more muscular, and when he turns to set down his gym bag, you can see how his back has filled out.

"You are staring, myshakla" he says, catching your gaze. There's amusement in his dark eyes as he walks toward where you're sitting on the bed. "What you looking at?"

"You're... you look different," you manage, feeling heat creep up your neck.

He stops in front of you, and from your seated position, he seems even bigger. He reaches down, tilting your chin up with one calloused hand. "Different how?"

"Bigger," you admit quietly.

A slow smile spreads across his face. "yes is true. I am up to 81 kilos now. You like?" He flexes his arm deliberately, the bicep swelling under the sleeve. "Feel."

Your hand seems small against his arm as you reach up to touch. The muscle is rock-solid under your fingers, warm and unyielding.

"Is good, no?" His accent thickens slightly, the way it always does when he's pleased with himself. "Coach say I look like different person. More strong. More big." He moves closer, standing between your knees. "Your so small now, compared to me."

"I'm the same size I've always been," you protest, but your voice comes out breathless.

"No, no." He shakes his head, reaching down to wrap both hands around your waist. His fingers nearly meet at your spine. "Feel how strong I am now, no? When I lift you, is so easy. Before, you had small weight. Now? You is like feather to me. The camp, the training—I am different man now."

"Islam—"

"Shh." He sets you back down but doesn't step away. Instead, he pulls his shirt over his head in one smooth motion, and your breath catches. His torso is a landscape of defined muscle, his abs more pronounced than you remember, his chest broader. "This is what you wanting to see, yes? Why you staring when I come in?"

You can't deny it, so you don't try. Your hands move to his chest almost involuntarily, exploring the warm skin, the hard planes of muscle. He's always been fit—he's a professional fighter—but this is different. This is more.

"You like touching me?" he murmurs, covering your hands with his own. The size difference is stark—his hands dwarf yours completely. "Is okay. You can touch. I am yours." He pauses, then adds with a possessive edge, "And you are mine."

He guides your hands down his torso, over his abs, to the waistband of his track pants. "All of this, is for you. I get big and strong, come home to my wife." His voice drops lower. "You know what else get big?"

Your face flushes hot. "Islam..."

"What? Is true." He's grinning now, clearly enjoying your embarrassment. He takes your hand and presses it against the growing bulge in his pants. "See? Everything is bigger now. You think you can handle?"

"I—" You're not sure what to say. The size of him is evident even through the fabric, and a thrill of nervousness mixed with arousal runs through you.

"Your not sure," he observes, reading your expression. "Is okay. We find out together." He cups your face with both hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks. "But I think maybe is too much for you. Maybe my little wife is too small for big husband now."

"I'm not too small," you argue, but it sounds weak even to your own ears.

"No?" He raises an eyebrow. "We see about that."

He kisses you then, deep and possessive, one hand sliding to the back of your neck to hold you in place. Not that you're going anywhere—you're melting into him, your hands clutching at his shoulders for balance. When he pulls back, you're breathing hard.

"Lay down," he commands softly, and you obey without thinking.

He follows you onto the bed, covering your body with his, and the weight of him is incredible. He's careful not to crush you, holding himself up on his forearms, but you can feel the solid mass of him, the heat radiating from his skin.

"See?" he murmurs, looking down at you. "You disappear under me. So small, so..." He searches for the word. "Delicate. Like I could break you."

"You won't," you whisper.

"No, I won't. I take care of what is mine." His hand slides down your side, over your hip. "But I like this. I like how small you are. How I can do whatever I want with you."

To demonstrate, he grasps your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head. You test his grip experimentally and find you can't budge at all. His fingers wrap completely around both your wrists with room to spare.

"You see? Is easy for me. You are like doll in my hands." His free hand roams over your body, possessive and exploring. "My doll. My wife. Mine."

"Yours," you agree breathlessly.

"Mine." He releases your wrists to pull at your clothes, and you help him, suddenly desperate to feel his skin against yours. When you're finally bare beneath him, he sits back on his heels to look at you, his gaze hungry and appreciative.

"Every time, is like first time. You are so beautiful." His hands span your waist again. "And so small. Look—" He positions his hand over your stomach, fingers spread wide. "My hand cover all of you here."

You squirm under his touch, arousal building steadily. "Islam, please..."

"Please what?" He's teasing now, you can hear it in his voice. "Please touch you? Please fuck you?" His broken English somehow makes the crude words even more affecting. "You want me to fuck you?"

"Yes," you mutter.

"But I am so big now," he says, mock-concerned. "And you is so small. Maybe is not good idea. Maybe I hurt you."

"You won't hurt me."

"You are sure?" He's removing his pants now, and when he's finally naked, your breath catches. He wasn't exaggerating—everything about him seems bigger, more imposing. "Because I think maybe is too much. Look at you, look at me. How this is going to work?"

"It'll work," you insist, reaching for him.

He catches your hands, pinning them again. "Maybe we need to check first. Make sure you are ready for me." His hand slides between your thighs, and you gasp at the contact. "Ah, you are wet already. You like when I talk about how big I am? When I say you are too small?"

You can't form words, just nod desperately.

"I think you like very much." He slides one thick finger inside you, and you arch against him. "Even my finger is big for you. So tight, myshakla. How you going to take all of me?"

"I can," you manage. "I will."

"We see." He adds another finger, stretching you, and the sensation is overwhelming. His fingers are thick and calloused, and he knows exactly how to use them. "You are squeezing me so tight. Like you don't want to let go."

"Don't stop," you plead.

"I don't plan to stop. I plan to fuck my wife until she cannot walk tomorrow." His voice is rough with desire now, the teasing giving way to genuine need. "Until everyone at gym know that Islam take care of his woman. Until you are marked all over as mine."

He withdraws his fingers and positions himself between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against you. The size of him is intimidating, and he sees the flicker of nervousness in your eyes.

"Is okay," he soothes, his voice gentler now. "I go slow. I take care of you. Always I take care of you." He pushes forward incrementally, watching your face. "Breathe, myshakla. Relax for me."

You try to relax, but the stretch is intense. He's patient though, working himself in slowly, giving you time to adjust. His jaw is clenched with the effort of holding back, sweat beading on his forehead.

"So tight," he whispers. "So perfect. Made for me, only for me."

"Only you," you agree, gasping as he sinks deeper.

"No one else get to have this. No one else get to see you like this." He's fully seated now, and you feel impossibly full. "You are mine. Say it."

"I'm yours," you breathe.

"Again."

"I'm yours, Islam. Only yours."

He begins to move, slow and deep, and you moan at the sensation. "Good girl. Take all of me. I know is big, I know is almost too much, but you take it anyway. Because you are my wife and you are made for me."

His pace increases gradually, and you wrap your legs around his waist, trying to pull him closer despite the overwhelming fullness. He responds by hitching your legs higher, changing the angle, and you cry out.

"There?" he asks, hitting that spot again. "Is good there?"

"Yes, yes—"

"I feel you getting close," he observes, one hand sliding between your bodies to where you're joined. "You going to come for me? Going to come on my cock?"

You're beyond words now, just nodding frantically as the pressure builds. His thumb finds your clit, circling with practiced precision, and that's all it takes. You shatter around him, crying out his name, your body squirming and clenching tight.

His rhythm starts to falter. "Just like that. Squeeze me, show me how you take all of me, how small you are." He thrusts harder, chasing his own release.

His movements become more urgent, more desperate, the careful control slipping as he gets closer. You feel him thickening inside you, his breathing ragged against your neck, hot and uneven. "You feel so good, so tight around me—" His voice breaks on the words, rough and strained.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, and you feel his teeth graze your skin, not quite biting but marking you nonetheless. His hands grip your hips firmly, holding you exactly where he wants you as he drives deeper, and harder. The bed frame creaks with the force of his thrusts.

Then he's there, his whole body going rigid above you. He finished with a deep groan that seems torn from his chest, burying himself as deep as physically possible. You feel the pulse of him inside you, the warmth flooding you, and the sensation is overwhelming. His fingers dig into your flesh as he shudders through it, your name falling from his lips in broken syllables mixed with Russian you can't understand.

The weight of him settles over you gradually as the tension drains from his muscles. He's trembling slightly, his heart hammering against your chest so hard you can feel it echoing your own racing pulse. For a moment he stays buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping for air in the same rhythm.

"Myshakla" he breathes, the endearment soft and reverent. Slowly, carefully, he shifts his weight to his forearms, caging you beneath him but not crushing you. His thumb traces your cheekbone with surprising gentleness given how roughly he'd just taken you. "You okay? I was not too rough?"

"I'm perfect," you assure him, your voice hoarse.

He lifts his head to study your face, dark eyes searching for any sign of discomfort. What he finds instead makes his expression soften into something achingly tender. "Yes, you is perfect. My perfect little wife." He brushes damp hair from your forehead, his touch feather-light. "Even if you is too small for me."

You swat at his chest weakly, and he catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "I'm not too small. I took all of you just fine."

"This is true," he concedes with a tired grin, pressing kisses to your knuckles. "You take me very good. Better than good—but tomorrow, when you is sore and cannot walk straight, you remember—I tell you I am too big."

"Worth it," you murmur, tugging him down for a kiss. It's slow and deep, lacking the urgency from before but no less intense. You taste the salt of sweat on his lips, feel the scratch of his stubble against your skin.

He hums contentedly against your mouth. "Yes, is worth it. Always is worth it with you." With careful movements, he withdraws from you—both of you gasping at the sensitivity—and rolls to his side, immediately pulling you with him. You're tucked against his chest, your head fitting perfectly under his chin, his arms wrapped around you like he's afraid you might disappear.

His hand splays over your hip, thumb stroking idle patterns on your skin. "You is mine, and I am yours. This is how is supposed to be," he murmurs into your hair, and there's something almost vulnerable in his voice, a softness he only ever shows you in moments like this.

"This is how it's supposed to be," you agree, already feeling drowsy in the cocoon of his warmth, surrounded by the scent of him—sweat and skin and something uniquely Islam.

"Sleep now," he whispers, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. "Tomorrow I train again, get even more big and strong. Then I come home and we do this again. And again. And again." His chest rumbles with quiet laughter. "Until you beg me to stop."

"Never," you mumble against his skin.

"Good. Because I never want to stop." His arms tighten around you. "You is everything to me, you know this? My wife, my home, my heart. Everything."

The confession makes your chest ache in the best way. "You're going to make me cry," you whisper.

"No crying. Only sleeping. Only being happy with husband who love you very much." His lips brush your forehead again, then your closed eyelids, your nose, your cheeks—soft kisses scattered like promises across your face.

As you drift toward sleep, you feel him pull the blanket over both of you, cocooning you together. His hand never stops its gentle stroking, and you hear him murmur in rhythmic words you don't understand but recognize as endearments, as prayers, as love made audible.

You're his, and he's yours.

The size difference that he loves to tease you about, the strength he uses to hold you close, the possessiveness that makes you feel cherished rather than caged—you love it all. You love him.

18+ Islam Makhachev x Reader - keep the mask on ⋆˚࿔

Islam hadn't realised that you've never seen him in his full winter gear despite him going skiing and horse riding often during the cold seasons, and he didn't really give second thoughts about it - until he's standing in your kitchen, gloves on, mask in hand. Your eyes are wide, but your expression was hard to read.

"You wear all this when you're out?" you mumble. There's a pause, and he nods, raising his eyebrows expectantly. you point at the mask. "That too?"

Islam looks down, turning the garment in his hand. "Yes" He sighs, "Always"

"Well, put it on," you say with a small smile after a moment, "I wanna see you wear it." Islam furrows his brows slightly in confusion, but he obliges you nonetheless. You bite your lip in anticipation, feeling heat snaking down your belly, and he notices the shift in your face.

He pulls the mask into place, and stares down at you through the eye slit. The way he tilts his head makes your stomach tighten; You picture him appearing like this when he returns home after a long day out, and your skin gets hot. He notices your sudden silence, and feels a pinch of smugness tug at his lips.

"You like the mask принцесса?" he asks, but his voice is lower than before, more gravelly. the way you're looking at him has his pants tightening over his cock, and he can see your chest rising and falling faster. "Are you scared?" he pauses, studying you, but there's a glint in your eyes he knows all too well. He steps towards you, his movements heavy under the weight of his gear.

“No, you are not scared,” he mumbles, his mask hovering inches from your face. your hands instinctively rest on his chest—broader under his jacket somehow—as you search his black mask, your cheeks burning as heat settles between your legs. He brings a gloved hand to your jaw, gripping it firmly. “Not scared at all.”

જ⁀➴

Islam groans, his black mask peering down at his cock disappearing inside your cunt, glistening with your fluids each time it slips out.

You're bent over the kitchen counter, your belly flush against the cold stone as he fucks into you from behind, and you can't control the moans that fall from your lips each time he snaps his hips. He has your arms pinned behind your back with one hand, the other planted firmly around your neck, squeezing softly. He leans forward, bringing his masked face next to your ear.

"You like it like this, Hard. Rough. Yes?"

You can't reply, but the way your pussy tightens around him is all the answer Islam needs. He uses the hand around your neck to tug you back until you're forced to look at him and the look on your face makes his cock twitch.

His rough hands against your soft skin, his length driving into you, his deep voice, his eyes watching your face contort-it's all going straight to the coil in your belly, which threatens to snap at any moment.

Islam can feel you clenching around his cock, and he knows you're close. The look on your face is priceless— a mix of delirium and elation-and the sounds you're making are sure to get you both dirty looks from the others in the morning. His pace is relentless as he splits you open, indulging in your fantasy to the fullest. "You going to come for me kуколка?" he asks, knowing the answer already.

Maybe it's the venom laced in the sweet names he's calling you, or maybe it's just the thrill of being fucked by this new version of your loving husband-either way, it's all it takes for you to cum around his cock, hard. He squeezes your neck just enough to make your orgasm rip through you like lightning, your body shaking against his massive frame with every convulsion of your cunt.

"Блядь, малышка" Islam gasps, his hips stuttering. you're gripping his cock so tight that his own release follows soon after yours, pumping you full of his cum. he lets out a rolling groan as he thrusts into you until he's empty, releasing your neck and letting your body relax beneath him on the kitchen counter.

He pulls out of you slowly, watching his load dribble out of your glossy, swollen pussy and down your bare thighs. His breathing is laboured as he pulls off his mask and drops it on the counter beside you. You feel the weight of his body against your exposed back as he leans down over you to press a sweet kiss to your head, running his hands along your sides soothingly.

"Isu?" you sigh, your voice raw and breathless. "You need to wear that more often."

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: islam x female reader ˎˊ˗

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : ♡Jealousy ruins the “casual” act

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝑺𝑴𝑼𝑻 18+ 𝑴𝑫𝑵𝑰 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.5k

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐞: okayyyy, I’ve decided I need to be responsible and write some requests before I throw myself into part 5 of The Triangle because why do I have requests sitting in my inbox collecting dust from a year ago? it’s starting to feel criminal. anyways!! thank you for this request anon, I started writing it as soon as I posted pt4 and I really enjoyed it, so hopefully you guys do too! -`♡´- requests are always welcome, I genuinely love hearing your little scenarios living in your heads <𝟑 .ᐟ

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: masterlist┃requests open! ♡⸝⸝

────୨ৎ────

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 - Islam and the others decided to travel to Greece for a friend's wedding. His friend, Alexander, mentioned the tradition, Tsifteteli. The traditional dance in Greek weddings or festivals. It included belly dancing, so he had to brace the Muslim men to see women in Bedlah.

𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨 - idk alot

𝙑𝙤𝙘𝙖𝙗𝙪𝙡𝙖𝙧𝙮 - Bedlah - the iconic, two - or three-piece costume worn in traditional Middle Eastern and Egyptian cabaret belly dance.

Tsifteteli - an improvisational rhythm and belly dance native to Anatolia and the Balkans, particularly popular in Greece.

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜 - sexual things. Dry humping. Little religious guilt

𝘼 / 𝙉 - I was writing this as i was going to get my new phone, so the ending is a little rushed! Sorry. Also, Islam is a little submissive in here. He is a little based like frei malthus sorta.

Seven hours. Seven hours of a grueling flight.

Islam was fucking exhausted. So fucking exhausted. More exhausted than training, and that was saying something.

Even though he was just sitting down, he felt like he trained until he passed out. His back hurt, even if his friend sent a private jet just for Islam, Khabib, Amru, and a few others. The seats were comfortable but not as comfortable as his bed back home.

Nonetheless, the jet finally landed in Athens. He sat up and cracked his back, the bones popping noise echoing in the silence. He let out a grunt as he stood up, stretching his legs and arms.

"That was a long flight.." Khabib finally spoke, grabbing his suitcase. Islam nodded once. Amru and Tagir were still in deep sleep, the sounds of soft snoring accompanied by a low volume russian show on an iPad.

"Alexander said that there will be people to take us to his home." Islam said, putting his headphones in his bag. He yawned, clearly still exhausted. The attendant opens the door to the outside, the warm wind immediately hitting the men. Amru and Tagirs eyes opened, letting out a grunt.

"Wake up. We're in Athens." Khabib said, gently shaking Amru's shoulder. Islam grabbed his backpack, then suitcase. He stuffed his phone in his pocket before stepping outside. It was bright today. He steps down the stairs, his shoes finally hitting the solid ground. He looked around, seeing a black limo waiting for the men. He squints his eyes in the sun and walks over to the vehicle.

A middle-aged man steps out and opens the door for him. Islam mutters a quick thank you in heavily accented Greek. He slides in, putting his stuff next to his legs. Soon after, Khabib and the others step into the limo, sitting wherever.

────୨ৎ────

They finally arrive at Alexander's home. It was massive, to say the least. It was a giant mansion, surrounded by beautiful plants. Alexander steps out the giant doors, greeting them with a giant grin.

"As-salamu alaykum." Khabib said as he climbed out the limo, walking towards the other man and pulling him into a hug.

"How was the flight?" Alexander asks, his accent thick as he speaks. "Exhausting. What do you call it..uh..jet lag!" Khabib exclaimed with a chuckle. Alexander began to lead the other men inside, showing them around. When it finally reached where Islam was staying, Alexander warned him.

"My sisters room is next door. The walls are sort of thin, so dont be too loud. She gets very irritated fast." Alexander said in a hushed tone, as if his sister could hear. Soon enough, Islam was unpacking his stuff into the closet. He was going to be in greece for a few weeks, so he had to pack more than usual. He laid on the fluffy bed, relaxing into the mattress. He fell asleep quickly due to how exhausted he was.

The next morning was quiet. He was one of the first to wake...other then Alexander's sister. You.

Islam stepped out his room in sweatpants and a white tee. He stretched as he looked around. He caught a glimpse of you as you headed downstairs to do whatever. Even if it was just your back, his breath caught. He sighed before joining you downstairs, hopefully to at least meet you, but you were already out the house.

Later that day, Alexander invited the men to join the wedding planning. Alexander was marrying into a family, a rich one at that.. so everything had to be perfect. They were at a wedding venue, everything almost set up despite a few other things. The wedding was in two days, so they had little time to spare.

"I want that over there." A feminine voice rang out as the men stepped in. "No! Those are the wrong flowers! Who said to get Strawflowers!? I am the one planning the wedding for my sister-in-law. Not my brother!" The voice snapped. Islam, Khabib, and the others looked slightly startled by the yell, but Alexander looked completely fine.

"Y/n, calm down." He called out to you. You just turned around and gave him the nastiest look known to humanity.

"I had to stop my practice for this bullshit, ilíthios." You snarled out as you approached him. You began to spew insults in Greek at him. Alexander just stood there as the other men watched. "And you brought random men!?" You said loudly, glaring at Alexander while gesturing to Islam and the others. While Khabib, Tagir, and Amru looked confused, Islam looked mesmerized. Like he was in a trance.

You were beautiful, beautiful enough to capture Islam's attention. He just awkwardly stood there as his eyes studied every part of you. Your voice was beautiful, music to his ears. Even if you were spewing out insults and curses in a language he knew little about.

"What are you looking at? Like a fish out of water." You said sharply, glaring at Islam. Islam immediately got pulled out of the trance, muttering an embarrassed 'sorry'. You just rolled your eyes before you turned back to yell at the people moving the stuff.

See.. Islam disliked women who were timid, unlike Khabib, whose wife was timid and shy. Islam preferred women who were more loud, who weren't afraid to raise their voice. Like you. It's been a while since he's seen a woman like you.

"Make yourselves useful and move stuff around. Alexander, watch them. I need to go practice." You said sharply as you pick up your jacket and car keys.

Islams eyes followed your figure out, watching silently. Amru elbowed him in the side, breaking his trance. "Focus." Amru murmured before going to help.

────୨ৎ────

Soon enough, the day came. It was seven o'clock, and the wedding was just starting to be filled up by family members and friends. The whole place was beautiful. Islam was sitting down at a table, silently drinking water. Khabib and the others mingled with the crowd, introducing themselves. Islams eyes searched everywhere for you, but to no surprise, he couldn't find you.

Soon after, Alexander and his wife were officially married. People began to clear out the dance floor, people sitting at tables or at the food table. Islam was confused, wondering why people were filtering out before the lights began to die down.

'To Kokkino Foustani' by Eleftheria Arvanitaki began to play. Multiple women in Bedlah began to fill out to the floor, getting in position. Then.. you came out. You stood write in the middle. You looked ethereal. The soft light highlighting the jewelry that dangled from your black top. Multicolored waist beads hung from your tanned waist. Your bottom completely black other than the white threads keeping the fabric together. You and the other women began to move their hips in time with the beats to the song, the dance sharp but also flowy.

You stood still, though, clearly waiting for your cue. Islams eyes stayed on you, completely in a trance. Soon enough, your body began to move, your hips moving in time with the beats of the song. The jewelry hanging from your top and bottom, making a soft jingling noise. You locked your eyes onto his, and he immediately looked away. Despite being a ufc champion, he easily got flustered. His heart racing in his chest.

"Little crush?" Khabib murmured in Islam's ear with a cheeky grin. Islam immediately shot up with an embarrassed look on his face. Islam looked back to you, and you were still dancing.

Fuck. You looked beautiful.

Like an angel. He'd never seen anything like it. Not like the usual women back in his home country. Soon enough, the dance was finished, and the other dancers dispersed into the crowd. You walked towards your brother and his wife. You were joyus as Islam watched you, completely in love, even if he didn't know you.

"Sister.. someone is staring at you." Your brother murmured with a grin, gesturing towards the lovestricken Islam a few feet away. "He probably likes you. Go talk to him." Your brothers wife said softly. You nodded before strutting over to Islam, his eyes locking with yours. He swallowed, sweat slightly beading on his forehead.

"U-uh... Hi?" He stuttered out, looking like a nervous fish out of water. You chuckled, finding him cute. "My name is Y/n. You must be the infamous Islam Makhachev?" You said softly, your Greek accent thick. "You know me?... fuck, you know me.." He murmured beneath his breath, before looking back at you and nodding. His eyes glance down at your cleavage, immediately looking away in embarrassment.

"You got a wife, pretty boy?" You murmured softly as you sat next to him, crossing your legs. "No." Islam stated as he stared down to the ground. "No kids?" You murmured again, your fingers twitching as if you wanted to reach out. Your eyes studied his face silently, like you wanted to trace your fingers over his scars. Over his bordered lips. "Look at me." You said softly, yet firmly. His eyes immediately shot up, eyes staring into yours.

Despite being a UFC world champion, he was so fucking nervous around women like you. Beautiful. Smart. Tagir and Amru sensed the tension, snickering as they left Islam alone with you. Islam looked panicked. He didn't know what to do.

"Was my performance good?" You asked innocently, almost like you knew what you were doing to him. He nodded shakily. His palms felt sweaty. He hated that feeling. He felt a shiver run down his spine as your finger traced circuls into the back of his hand.

He knew this was wrong. Two completely different religions. He's Muslim. He should control himself more..but around you...he couldn't help but feel free. He reluctantly pulled his hand away, swallowing. His Adam's apple bobbed gently. You smirk slightly, knowing he's going to be a challenge.

"Fair enough." You whispered out, your breath hot against his skin. You stood up, but not before leaving a small peck on his cheek. Your lipstick left there. He sat frozen, and Khabib, Tagir, and Amru watched with a small smirk on their faces but surprise in their eyes. You strutted off to the other dancers, and Islam just watched in shock.

"Did she just kiss your cheek?" Khabib asked in low Russian, staring at him. All Islam could do was nod weakly.

Later that night, Islam was lying restlessly in bed. He couldn't get you off his mind, and he hated that. He already prayed hundreds of times. Why can't he get the sinful woman out of his mind? He sat up, reaching over to grab the Quran he packed, but his hand stopped halfway. He heard your door open, so he listened silently. He heard your footsteps go downstairs, and Islam couldn't help but stand up. He quietly opened his door and stepped out. His covered foot hitting the hardwood floor.

He steps one food at a time down the stairs, swallowing at each creak it made. He finally reached the bottom and snuck over to the kitchen, silently looking for you. He saw you at the counter, making a sandwich. You wore baggy sweats with a hoodie, contrast to the outfit that revealed your skin earlier today.

"Do you need something?" You asked quietly as you spread the sauce on the bread, focused. "N-no!" Islam quickly said, panicked at being caught. "Y'know, you're not very quiet." You chuckled out as you turned around, biting into the simple sandwich. "Really? I thought I was being quiet." He said out softly in a joking tone, his Russian accent thick.

You just chuckled, shaking your head softly. "Why'd you follow me down?" You asked softly as you finished your sandwich quickly. Staring at him with those eyes of yours. He swallowed nervously, his throat now suddenly dry. "I-I...do..Do not know. I just did." He answered honestly,

You step towards him once, then twice. Until you're right in front of him. He was about 4 inches taller than you, so you had to look up at him slightly. The moment felt tense. Like the air was choking not just you but also him. Finally, you caved in and leaned in, pressing your lips against his. He felt stiff for a second before his shaky, big hands held your waist, pulling you against him. Your hands held the back of his neck as your tongue slid against his in a desperate dance. You let out a small whimper as Islam's hands gripped you tighter, like he was scared it was just a dream.

You push him against the wall softly, and he lets out a gentle groan. You swallowed the noise in the kiss, finally breaking it. Your breath was fast and heavily, like Islams. You rest your forehead against his, eyes staring into his. ".. Can I kiss you again?" You asked quietly, and Islam just leaned in, kissing you with more intensity. He held the back of your neck as his tongue slid against yours again. He kissed you like it was the best thing to him, and in that moment? It was. His other hand began to grasp at anything. His hand met the ending of your hoodie, pulling away, silently asking to take it off. His eyes were soft, low. He was begging.

You nodded shakily, and Islam practically ripped it off you. You were wearing nothing but a sports bra beneath it. He swallowed sharply before he leaned in and kissed your neck, gently nipping. You let out a gentle moan. He was worshipping your body like it was the most divine thing on earth. Whispering soft begs and praises into your soft skin.

"You're so pretty.."

"Thank you..."

"I need you.."

Soft whines into your skin, like he was yearning just to feel you. He left small hickies on your neck and collarbone, like he was starving. He slid one hand to cup your ass, the other to keep you against him. He began to helplessly grind his hard-on against you.

"Please, Malyshka... I need you.." He whined out into your ear, his rough stubble rubbing against your soft skin. He began to thrust, effectively dry humping you. It was making you unbearably wet. "Fuck... Malyshka..I'm close..." He whimpered against your skin, like a whiney puppy. Despite being a grown man, he was extremely inexperienced in sex, so he could cum easily. His thrust began to grow erratic. You were about to cum too, just at the sight of him. Teary-eyed, slightly messed up hair, whining. You loved the sight.

When he finally came, he let out a whiney groan into your shoulder, his cock shooting out stripes of semen into his boxers, soaking the spot. He pants harshly against your skin, chest heaving like he just ran a marathon.

"Y/n.." He murmured softly, wrapping his arms around you like he would die if you weren't close to him. You just led the sensitive Islam to the bathroom to clean him up, wiping away the cum off his skin. You put the dirty clothes into the laundry and started a warm bath for him. He soon climbed into it and gave you those pleading eyes. Like begging you to join him. You sighed before stripping, climbing into the bath with him. The water splashed around the two bodies.

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.