I keeping thinking about a scenario with Usman where they have a connection, but she’s not Muslim so his family/friends don’t approve at all but he continues it anyways. She has an encounter with someone from his family and it’s horrible whoever it is is so mean and makes her cry but Usman is so protective and loving/comforting towards her
hello anon i absolutely love this idea and have been wanting to write a story like this for awhile
also im trying to change my writing style because it sounds to formal and ai like for my liking tbh and alot of stories recently that ive written i lowkey hate so this probably looks and sounds different from my other writing but its still me :)
anyways...
usman nurmagomedov x reader
angst & slowburnish
The first time Usman kissed you, it was in the parking lot behind the gym at two in the morning. You'd stayed late watching him drill takedowns with his coach, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead while his body moved with that particular grace that made violence look like choreography. The way he flowed from position to position, all controlled power and precision—it was hypnotic. You'd told yourself you were there to support him, but really you just wanted to be near him, to exist in his orbit a little longer.
When everyone else had filtered out, he'd walked you to your car. The night air was cool against your skin, carrying the faint smell of asphalt and distant rain. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tight with something you couldn't name. The parking lot lights cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tension in his neck.
"You should go home." he said, but he didn't move away. His voice was rough, like the words cost him something.
"I know."
But neither of you moved. The space between you hummed with want, with all the things you'd been carefully not saying for weeks. You could hear his breathing, slightly uneven, could see the way his eyes kept dropping to your mouth and then away, like he was fighting himself.
"I should not..." he started, then stopped. His jaw worked like he was chewing on words he couldn't swallow. "You make things very difficult for me."
"Difficult how?"
He took a step closer. Then another. Close enough now that you could smell him—sweat and soap and something warm underneath. "Difficult like I think about you when I should think about training. Difficult like I want things I should not want."
Your heart was hammering so hard you were sure he could hear it. "What do you want?"
For a long moment, he just looked at you. There was something in his eyes—hunger, yes, but also something darker. Something that looked almost like pain. His hand came up slowly, hesitantly, like he was giving himself time to change his mind. When his palm finally touched your cheek, his skin was rough with calluses, warm against your face.
"This." he whispered. "I want this."
And then his mouth found yours.
He kissed you like this was both the best and worst decision he'd ever made. His other hand came up to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, and you made a sound in the back of your throat that seemed to break something in him. The kiss deepened, became almost desperate. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he was holding himself back even as he pulled you closer.
When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed, and you watched something like grief wash over his features.
"This is..." He shook his head, searching for words in a language that wasn't his first. His thumb traced your cheekbone, tender and almost reverent. "This is not easy thing for me. You understand?"
You didn't understand then. You thought he meant the vulnerability, the risk of letting someone in when your life was measured in training camps and fight nights. You didn't know about the weight he was already carrying, the guilt that would settle between his ribs every time he reached for you. You didn't know that in his mind, he was already asking for forgiveness.
That was three months ago.
Now you know the shape of his body in the dark, the way he prays before dawn when he thinks you're still sleeping, the rough poetry of his broken English whispering things that sound more beautiful for their imperfection. You know he takes his coffee black and bitter, that he watches fight footage the way other people watch television, that sometimes he gets a look on his face like he's somewhere far away, somewhere you can't follow.
What you don't know is that every time he touches you, there's a small war happening inside him.
You're sitting in his apartment—the one he shares with two other fighters, though they're gone this weekend—when you first notice the pattern. His phone buzzes on the counter. He glances at the screen and something shutters behind his eyes.
"I need to take this." he says, already moving toward the bedroom.
You hear the shift in his voice through the door, the way his English smooths out into rapid Avar, the language of his home. The conversation is short, clipped. When he comes back out, his shoulders are rigid, his jaw set.
"Everything okay?"
"Yes. Is fine." He doesn't meet your eyes. "My mother, she just... checking on me."
You want to ask if he told her about you, but something in his posture warns you off. Instead, you reach for his hand. He lets you take it, but his fingers don't curl around yours the way they usually do. He's somewhere else, fighting something you can't see.
It happens again two days later. A call that makes him step outside the gym, coming back with that same distant look. Again the following week, when you're at dinner and his phone lights up with a name you can't read in Cyrillic script.
You're at a small Italian place you both like, the kind with red checkered tablecloths and candles in wine bottles. The food is good, the atmosphere warm, but when his phone buzzes against the table, everything changes. He glances at the screen and you watch his face close off like a door slamming shut.
He silences it without answering, but the damage is done. The easy conversation you'd been having about his upcoming fight dies in the space between you.
"You can take it." you say quietly. "If you need to."
"No. Is not important." But his jaw is tight, and he's gripping his fork like it's done something to offend him.
You try to restart the conversation, asking about his training camp, about the new technique his coach has been drilling. He answers in monosyllables, pushing pasta around his plate without eating. The silence stretches, becomes uncomfortable. You can feel him pulling away even though he's sitting right across from you.
The drive home is worse. His hands are tight on the steering wheel, and the streetlights cast moving shadows across his face. You want to reach for him, but something stops you. The air in the car feels heavy, pressurized, like before a storm.
"Usman" you finally say, unable to bear it anymore. "Talk to me. Please."
He's quiet for so long you think he won't answer. Then: "Is complicated."
"I know it's complicated. But you keep shutting me out."
"I am not—" He stops, exhales hard through his nose. "I do not want to shut you out. Is just... family things. You know how it is."
"I don't, actually." Your voice comes out smaller than you intended. "My family is three states away and mostly communicates through occasional text messages. I can't imagine what you're dealing with, but I want to understand. I want to help."
He pulls into his parking spot but doesn't turn off the engine right away. In the dim light from the dashboard, you can see the conflict playing across his features.
"You cannot help with this," he says finally, and there's something almost like grief in his voice. "This is... is my thing to carry."
"It doesn't have to be."
He turns to look at you then, really look at you, and what you see in his eyes makes your chest ache. Want and guilt and something desperate.
"Come inside," he says quietly. "Please."
In his apartment, he's careful with you in a way that feels new. He takes your coat, hangs it up with more attention than necessary. Offers you water, tea, anything, like he's trying to delay whatever comes next. You can see him gathering himself, trying to find words in a language that isn't his first for feelings that might not have words in any language.
"I am sorry," he says finally, standing in the middle of his living room like he doesn't know what to do with his hands. "For tonight. For being... distant. Is not fair to you."
"You don't have to apologize for having feelings."
"But I do. Because you deserve better than this. Better than me being..." He gestures vaguely, frustrated. "Half here, half somewhere else."
You close the distance between you, reaching up to touch his face. His eyes close at the contact, and you feel him lean into your palm like he's starving for it.
"I don't want better," you tell him. "I want you. All of you, even the complicated parts."
Something breaks in him then. He pulls you against him, his arms wrapping around you so tight you can barely breathe. His face presses into your neck and you feel him shudder.
"You are important to me," he says against your skin, his accent thicker with emotion. "You are... everything. You know this, yes?"
"I know."
"Good. Is good you know this."
He kisses you then, and there's a desperation in it that wasn't there before. Like he's trying to prove something to himself, to you, to whatever invisible force keeps pulling him away. You kiss him back with equal intensity, trying to close the distance that's been growing between you, trying to tell him without words that you're not going anywhere.
When he makes love to you that night, it's different. Slower, more deliberate, like he's memorizing every inch of you. His hands shake slightly as they trace your skin, and when he looks at you, there's something raw and unguarded in his expression that makes your heart hurt.
Afterward, he holds you so tight it almost hurts, his face buried in your hair, his breathing uneven against your neck.
The answer comes on a Thursday afternoon when you're least expecting it.
You're at the grocery store, the mundane kind of errand that feels almost absurdly normal given the strangeness that's been creeping into your relationship. You're debating between two brands of olive oil when you hear a voice behind you, accented and sharp.
"Excuse me. You are Usman's... friend?"
You turn. The woman standing there is small, barely reaching your shoulder, but she carries herself with the kind of authority that makes her seem much larger. She's wearing a hijab in deep burgundy, her face beautiful and severe, her eyes the same dark brown as Usman's. You know immediately who she is.
"I'm his girlfriend," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "You must be—"
"I am his mother." She doesn't offer her hand. "We need to speak."
Your heart is hammering against your ribs. "Of course. Would you like to—"
"Here is fine." Her English is better than Usman's, more practiced, but no less direct. "I will say what I need to say, and then you will listen."
People are starting to glance over, sensing the tension. You want to suggest going somewhere private, but the look on her face freezes the words in your throat.
"My son is good Muslim boy" she begins, and each word lands like a stone. "He pray five times every day since he is small child. He fast during Ramadan. He honor his family, his faith, his people. You understand this?"
"Yes, I—"
"No. You do not understand." Her voice drops lower, more dangerous. "You cannot understand, because you are not one of us. You are not Muslim. You do not know what it means to carry this faith, to live by these rules. And you are taking my son away from all of this."
"That's not—I would never—"
"You think because you do not mean to, it makes difference?" Her eyes are blazing now. "Every day he is with you, he moves further from Allah. Every day he chooses you, he sins. He knows this. You see how it tears him apart, yes? You see how he suffers?"
You think of all those distant looks, the phone calls he takes in private, the way he sometimes holds you like he's afraid you'll disappear.
"He is good boy," she continues, relentless. "But you make him weak. You make him forget who he is, what he owes to his family, to his faith. In our community, people talk. They say Usman has taken up with American girl, non-Muslim girl. They say he has lost his way. Do you know what this does to our family? The shame you bring to us?"
"I love him," you manage, and your voice cracks on the words.
"Love." She says it like a curse. "You think love is enough? Love that makes him choose between his soul and his heart? This is not love. This is selfishness. If you truly cared for my son, you would let him go. You would let him find good Muslim woman, someone who can share his faith, who can raise his children in proper way. Someone who does not make him betray everything he believes."
Tears are burning behind your eyes now, but you refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of her.
"He will never marry you" she says, and this might be the cruelest cut of all. "Even if he thinks he wants to, he cannot. His family will not accept it. His community will not accept it. And deep in his heart, he knows this is wrong. He knows he is sinning every day he stays with you. You are making him choose between his family and you, between his faith and you. What kind of woman does this to man she claims to love?"
"I never asked him to choose—"
"But he must choose anyway. This is what you do not understand. There is no middle ground here. There is no compromise. Either he is good Muslim, or he is with you. He cannot be both." She steps closer, and you can smell her perfume, something floral and foreign. "You are corrupting him. You are leading him away from righteous path. And when he realizes this—when he understands what he has lost because of you—he will hate you for it. He will hate himself. Is this what you want for him?"
The tears come then, hot and shameful, spilling down your cheeks in the middle of the grocery store while Usman's mother watches with something that might be satisfaction or might be her own kind of pain.
"Leave my son alone," she says quietly. "If you have any decency, any real love for him, you will end this. You will let him go back to his life, his faith, his family. Before you destroy him completely."
She turns and walks away, her back straight, her hijab disappearing around the corner. You stand there among the olive oils and balsamic vinegars, crying in front of strangers, your whole world tilting sideways.
You don't remember driving home. You don't remember walking up the stairs to your apartment, unlocking the door, collapsing on your couch. You just remember the words, playing on loop in your head.
You are corrupting him.
He is sinning every day he stays with you.
He will hate you for it.
You think about all the times he's pulled away after his phone rings. The guilt that flashes across his face sometimes when he reaches for you. The way he never posts about you on social media, never mentions you to his teammates, keeps you carefully separate from the rest of his life.
You thought he was protecting you from his family's judgment. You didn't realize he was protecting himself from his own shame.
The worst part is that she's right. You can see it now, all the pieces clicking into horrible place. You're not Muslim. You don't understand his faith, his culture, the weight of expectations that have shaped him since birth. You've been so focused on how much you love him that you never stopped to consider what loving you might cost him.
His soul, his mother said. You're making him choose between his soul and his heart.
What kind of love demands that price?
You're still sitting there, staring at nothing, when your phone buzzes. It's Usman.
Training done early. Can I come over?
You should say no. You should end this now, cut him loose before you do any more damage. But you're selfish enough, weak enough, that you text back: Yes.
He arrives twenty minutes later his hair still damp from the shower. The smile on his face dies the moment he sees you.
"What happen?" He closes the apartment door, moving to you in two strides. "Why you crying? Who hurt you?"
And that's what breaks you completely, the immediate protective fury in his voice, the way his hands cup your face like you're something precious. Because you know now what this costs him. You know the war he's been fighting alone.
"Your mother," you whisper. "I ran into your mother."
Every muscle in his body goes rigid. His hands drop from your face. "What she say to you?"
"The truth." Your voice is hollow. "She told me the truth."
"No." He's shaking his head. "No, whatever she say, is not—"
"You're Muslim, Usman. I'm not. And every day you're with me, you're going against your faith, your family, everything you believe in. She's right. I've been selfish. I've been making you choose—"
"Stop." The word comes out harsh, almost angry. "Stop talking."
He drops his head into his arms, hands in his hair, and you can imagine the storm building behind his eyes. When he finally stops, finally looks at you, his face is raw with something that looks like agony.
"You want to know truth?" His voice is rough, breaking on the edges. "I tell you truth. Yes, I am Muslim. Yes, my family, they do not approve. Yes, every day I am with you, I feel..." He presses his fist against his chest. "Here. I feel guilt here. Like something heavy, always pressing."
The words sink like stones in your stomach.
"When I pray," he continues, and he's not looking at you anymore, staring at some point past your shoulder, "I ask Allah for forgiveness. For being with you. For wanting you. For choosing you over what is right in my faith. Every prayer, I ask this. And every time I finish praying, I come back to you anyway."
"Usman—"
"No, you listen now. You want truth, I give you truth." He finally meets your eyes, and the pain there nearly destroys you. "My whole life, I am good Muslim boy. I do everything right. I pray, I fast, I honor my parents. I follow all rules. And then I meet you, and suddenly..." He makes a helpless gesture. "Suddenly all these rules, they feel like cage. Suddenly I want something I should not want. Someone I should not want."
"Then why?" Your voice breaks. "Why are you with me if it causes you so much pain?"
"Because I love you." The words come out fierce, almost angry. "Because when I am with you, I feel more myself than I ever feel before. Because you see me—not fighter, not good Muslim boy, not son who must make family proud. Just me. Just Usman."
He crosses back to you, drops to his knees in front of the couch so you're eye level. His hands find yours, gripping tight.
"You think I do not know what this cost?" he says. "You think I do not understand what I am giving up? My mother, she call me every day. She tell me I am breaking her heart. My father, he will not speak to me anymore. My friends from home, they say I am losing my way. And they are right. In eyes of my faith, I am sinner. In eyes of my family, I am disappointment."
Tears are streaming down your face. "Then let me go. Let me go so you can—"
"No." His grip tightens. "You do not understand. I carry this guilt, yes. Every day, I carry it. But I carry it because I choose to. Because you are worth it. Because this—" he gestures between you, "—this is worth it."
"Your mother said you'll hate me eventually. That you'll realize what you've lost and—"
"My mother is wrong." His voice is steel now. "My mother, she think faith is about following rules, about doing what family says, what community expects. But faith is also about what is in here." He touches his chest again. "And in here, I know what I feel for you is not wrong. Cannot be wrong."
"But your religion—"
"My religion teach me that Allah is merciful. That Allah is compassionate. That Allah knows what is in every heart." His English is fracturing under the weight of his emotion, words coming faster, less careful. "I do not believe Allah want me to be miserable. I do not believe Allah want me to give up person who make me feel complete. Maybe I am wrong. Maybe I will answer for this someday. But this is my choice. My sin, if it is sin. Not yours."
"I don't want to be the reason you lose your family."
"You are not reason. They are reason. They choose to turn away because I do not do what they want. This is their choice, not yours." He reaches up, brushing tears from your cheeks with his thumbs. "I am sorry I do not tell you before. About guilt, about struggle. I think... I think I can fight this battle alone, keep you separate from all this pain. But I cannot. And you deserve to know truth. You deserve to know what you are getting with me."
"What am I getting?"
"Man who loves you more than he fear anything else. Man who will choose you, even when choice is hard. Even when it cost everything." His voice drops to a whisper. "Man who is scared, yes, but who is more scared of losing you than of losing anything else."
He drops his forehead to meet yours, now you breathe the same air.
"I cannot promise this will be easy," he says. "My family, they may never accept you. My community, they will judge. And I... I will still struggle sometimes. I will still feel guilt. This is part of who I am, part of how I am raised. But I promise you this: I will not leave you. I will not choose them over you. Even if it is hard. Even if it is scary. Even if everyone tell me I am wrong."
"That's not fair to you."
"Fair?" He almost laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Nothing about this is fair. Not fair that I must choose between family and love. Not fair that my religion and my heart are at war. Not fair that my mother say terrible things to you, make you cry. But this is what we have. This is our reality. And I choose to face it with you, not without you."
You pull back enough to look at him properly. His eyes are red, his face wet with tears, and he's never looked more beautiful or more broken.
"Are you sure?" you whisper. "Are you really sure?"
"I am sure of nothing except this: I love you. And I will keep loving you, no matter what anyone say. No matter what it cost." He brings your hands to his lips, kisses your knuckles. "You do not corrupt me. You do not lead me astray. You make me brave enough to choose my own path, even when path is difficult. This is gift, not curse."
"Your mother said you can't marry me."
Something flashes in his eyes—determination, defiance. "My mother do not decide who I marry. I decide. And if I want to marry you someday, I will marry you. Maybe not in mosque, maybe not with family blessing. But I will marry you anyway, if you want this."
"I want this," you say, and you've never meant anything more. "I want you. All of you, even the complicated parts. Even the parts that are scared and guilty and torn. I just... I don't want to be the reason you lose everything."
"You are not reason I lose anything. You are reason I gain something worth fighting for." He stands, pulling you up with him, wrapping his arms around you. "We will figure this out. Together. Maybe someday my family will understand. Maybe they will not. But I cannot live my life trying to make everyone else happy while I am miserable. I try this already. Before you. And it was killing me slowly, this life where I do everything right but feel nothing."
You bury your face in his chest, breathing him in—sweat and soap and something uniquely him. "I'm scared."
"I am scared too." His lips brush your hair. "But I am more scared of life without you. So we be scared together, yes? We face this together."
"Together," you echo.
He pulls back, tilting your chin up so you're looking at him. "I need you to understand something. This guilt I feel, this struggle—is not your fault. Is not your responsibility to fix. This is my journey, my battle with my faith and my family. You do not need to carry this for me."
"But I want to help—"
"You help by being here. By loving me even when I am complicated, even when I come with all this baggage. This is enough. You are enough." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "My mother, she is wrong about many things. But most wrong about this: you do not make me weak. You make me strong enough to be honest about what I want. Strong enough to choose my own path. This is not weakness. This is courage."
"Doesn't feel like courage."
"Courage never does. Courage feel like fear you do anyway." He manages a small smile. "You think I am not terrified right now? I am terrified. But I am here anyway. With you. Where I want to be."
You kiss him then, tasting salt and sorrow and something that might be hope. When you break apart, he rests his forehead against yours.
"We will be okay," he murmurs. "Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But we will be okay. I promise you this."
You want to believe him. You want to believe that love is enough, that choosing each other is enough, that you can build something real despite everything stacked against you. And maybe you can't believe it completely yet, maybe there's still doubt curling in your chest like smoke. But you believe in him. In the way he's holding you like you're the only solid thing in a shifting world. In the way he's choosing you despite the cost.
"I love you," you say.
"I love you too." He says it in English first, then in Avar, the words soft and foreign and beautiful. "More than I know how to say in any language."
That night, he stays. He doesn't leave when his phone buzzes with another call from home. He doesn't pull away when the guilt creeps in. He stays, solid and warm beside you, his hand finding yours in the dark.
"You are thinking too loud," he murmurs. "I can hear your thoughts from here."
"Sorry."
"Do not be sorry. Tell me what you think about."
You're quiet for a moment, trying to find the words. "I'm thinking about how much you're giving up for me. And I'm thinking about how much I love you. And I'm thinking about how those two things shouldn't have to exist together, but they do."
"Yes," he says simply. "They do. This is our reality. But you know what else is our reality? This." He squeezes your hand. "Us. Together. Choosing each other. This is real too. Maybe more real than anything else."
"Do you really think we can make this work?"
"I think we can try. I think we can fight for it. And I think that is all anyone can do—try, and fight, and hope it is enough." He shifts closer, his breath warm against your temple. "I will not lie to you. This will be hard. There will be more days like today. More people who do not approve, who say cruel things. More moments when I struggle with guilt, when I question everything. But I will not question you. I will not question us. This is one thing I am certain of."
You turn in his arms, finding his face in the darkness. "I'm certain too."
"Good." You can hear the smile in his voice. "Then we have something to hold onto when everything else feel uncertain."
Outside, the city hums with its usual nighttime symphony—distant sirens, car horns, the muffled bass from someone's stereo. Inside, in this small pocket of space you've carved out together, there's just the two of you. Two people from different worlds, different faiths, different everything, choosing each other anyway.
It's not a fairy tale. There's no neat resolution, no promise that his family will come around or that the guilt will disappear or that this will be anything other than complicated and messy and hard. But it's real. It's yours. And maybe that's enough.
Maybe love doesn't have to be easy to be worth it. Maybe courage doesn't have to feel like courage to be real. Maybe choosing each other, again and again, despite everything—maybe that's the whole point.
"Sleep now," Usman whispers. "Tomorrow we face everything together. But tonight, we just be here. Just us."
"Just us," you agree.
And in the darkness, holding onto each other like lifelines, that's exactly what you are.
