⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

Islam x Reader

A Soft Confession: ♡ Islam finally finds the courage to speak the truth his heart has carried for so long.

Unexpected Exposure: ♡ You came to Dagestan to capture his life — but Islam sees more than the camera ever will

Vows in the Quiet Peaks: ♡ Islam takes you to the mountains as he promised. No cameras. Just mountains and the sound of his restraint breaking. (pt.2 of Unexpected Exposure)

Unrestrained: ♡ Islam finally gives in, and you’re completely his

The Moment He Knew: ♡ When you tell Islam you’re pregnant, his calm fighter’s heart turns into something entirely new

His Biggest Win: ♡ His biggest triumph isn’t the belts, it’s you.

Breaking Reins: ♡ He shows you how to ride a horse, but he’s the one you’ve been wanting to mount (🌶️)

Steam Between Us: ♡ In the privacy of running water and fogged glass, Islam and a familiar presence circle a confession neither can keep holding back (🌶️)

Six Weeks of Missing You: ♡ A bath meant for solitude becomes the first place you fall back into each other (🌶️)

Yours without saying it: ♡ Jealousy ruins the “casual” act (🌶️)

Khamzat x Reader

Prescription: Trouble: ♡ He’s battered, bruised, and … absolutely fine. Lucky for him, you’re there to kiss it better

Trouble is Mine: ♡ You’ve been pushing boundaries, but tonight he’s crossing every line and taking the lead.

Midnight Habit: ♡ You said you were done being his secret. He said he could stop calling. Both of you were lying

Trick or Touch: ♡ He found the mask and you found out what happens when he decides to play (🌶️)

Accidentally Yours: ♡ A chance kiss turns fiery when she discovers the stranger is staying at her best friend’s house.

My Little Fighter: ♡ One girl pushes your limits, and Khamzat spends the night pushing his into you (🌶️)

Unspoken Territory: ♡ A secret romance with Khamzat turns tense when Arman provokes his jealousy.

Usman x Reader

More than Safety: ♡ He stepped in to defend you and never stepped away.

Lost time & Baby bottles: ♡ He returns to a child you raised in the quiet he left behind.

Mine in the Spotlight: ㅤ♡ After the roar of victory fades, Usman finds his peace tangled up with you.

Khabib x Reader

English Breakfast Tea: ♡ Early arrivals, English breakfast tea, and an unexpected pull

Umar x Reader

Quietly, He Comes Apart: ♡ The strongest man you know only softens when he’s with you.

Not So Vanilla: ♡ Your sweet, devoted boyfriend was always obedient, you just never tested how far he’d go for you ( 🌶️ )

Baisangur x Reader

Crossing The Line: ♡ A cocky fighter and the woman who keeps him in line turn rivalry into love

Multi Fics

The Triangle Pt1 : Baisangur x Reader x Khamzat

The Triangle Pt2

The Triangle Pt3

The Triangle Pt4

Multi People

The first time Baisangur Susurkaev walked into your gym, every woman in the building noticed.

It was almost embarrassing how obvious it was.

Even before anyone knew who he was, heads turned. Girls paused mid-conversation. One of the receptionists nearly dropped her phone when he smiled at her. He carried himself with this lazy sort of confidence that made people gravitate toward him without thinking, broad shoulders, big yet dark eyes and the unmistakable swagger of a man who knew exactly the effect he had on women.

Within a week, half the girls at the gym had found excuses to linger near him. They’d ask him for help wrapping their hands even though coaches were standing right there. They giggled too loudly at everything he said. One girl offered him her number after a sparring session while another practically melted because he called her sweetheart … once.

And he flirted back with all of them.

Effortlessly.

Carelessly.

Like breathing.

He’d grin down at them while leaning against the cage wall, sweat falling into his eyes as they clung to every word leaving his mouth. He was charming in the most dangerous way possible - not because he tried too hard, but because he didn’t have to try at all.

You refused to become one of them.

Which, unfortunately, seemed to fascinate him.

The first time he called you princess, you nearly rolled your eyes hard enough to pull something.

“Careful with that stance,” he teased from across the mat, bouncing lightly on his feet while wrapping his hands. “One decent kick and you fall over.”

You scoffed, wiping sweat from your forehead. “You talk too much for someone who got submitted by a purple belt last week.”

His grin was immediate. Cocky. Dangerous.

“Difference is,” he said in that thick accent that always seemed to linger in your chest longer than it should, “I let him.”

The confidence he carried outside the cage became something sharper on the mats. He moved like he knew everyone was watching him - fluid, controlled, devastatingly precise. During sparring, people always gathered nearby pretending not to stare while he worked combinations on heavy bags or grappled like it was second nature.

And the attention only fed his ego further.

Especially from women.

You lost count of how many times you’d walk into the gym kitchen and find some pretty thing perched beside him while he sat on the counter drinking water, listening with that amused expression he wore whenever somebody was trying too hard to impress him.

But despite all of that attention, he kept circling back to you.

Always you.

Over the months he trained at your gym, the flirting became routine.

The lingering touches when he corrected your form.

The way he’d stand too close behind you while spotting your deadlifts.

The smirk he wore whenever he caught you staring at him through the mirror wall.

And God, he knew exactly what he was doing.

Everyone loved him, the loud, arrogant ufc fighter with bruised knuckles and effortless charm. He walked around like he owned every room he stepped into, all confidence and sharp edges. Like nobody could truly handle him.

Especially not you.

“You are too sweet,” he’d murmur whenever you snapped back at him. “Too innocent.”

Innocent.

You hated that word.

By then, everyone in the gym had noticed whatever this thing was between you two.

Your friends teased you constantly.

“He likes you.”

“He flirts with everybody.” you’d try and defend.

“Not like this.”

You denied it every single time.

Even when he started waiting for you after class.

Even when he began stealing your water bottle instead of using his own.

Even when he rested his chin on your shoulder one afternoon while watching fight footage on your phone, entirely too comfortable, entirely too close.

He walked around with this impossible certainty that nobody ever told him no. Like every room belonged to him the second he entered it. Like every woman eventually folded for him.

And maybe they usually did.

Just not you.

Which was why he looked so amused whenever you snapped at him.

Like he enjoyed the challenge.

Like he was waiting for the exact moment you’d finally crack.

Tonight’s sparring session had ended late, the gym nearly empty except for the distant sound of someone reracking weights. The air smelled like sweat and rubber mats, your pulse still elevated from training.

Baisangur sat on the bench across from you, shirt tossed over one shoulder, skin glistening under the fluorescent lights. A bruise darkened along his cheekbone, and somehow it only made him prettier.

“You were distracted today,” he said casually.

“I wasn’t.”

“You kept looking at my mouth.”

Heat crawled up your neck instantly.

His grin widened.

“There she is.”

You grabbed your water bottle just to avoid his eyes. “You’re unbelievably full of yourself.”

“Mhm.” He leaned back, spreading his arms along the bench behind him. “But I’m right.”

You should’ve walked away then.

Instead, you stepped closer.

Close enough to see the flicker of surprise in his expression for the first time since you’d met him.

“You think your something special?” you asked softly.

His eyes darkened immediately.

“I know that you think I am.”

The tension snapped tight between you.

He stood slowly, towering over you now, amusement curling at the corner of his mouth like he still believed he was in control of this.

Until your hand slid up his chest and around his neck.

And suddenly he stopped smiling.

“You talk a lot,” you whispered.

His breathing changed.

Barely.

But you noticed.

Good.

“You act like every girl in this gym is supposed to fall apart over you.” You say softly, almost teasing, as your fingers start tracing patterns along his muscles. “Maybe nobody’s ever reminded you that being cocky only works when someone lets you get away with it.”

For the first time, he looked genuinely caught off guard.

Then his eyes narrowed with interest.

“Oh?” he murmured.

You leaned in just enough for your lips to brush near his ear, tightening your fingers slightly around the back of his neck, nails grazing his skin just enough to make his jaw tense.

“You’re so used to girls throwing themselves at you,” you murmured. “I think you forgot what it feels like to be the one chasing someone.”

"You keep flirting back. I keep thinking maybe today's the day you'll actually do something about it."

"Maybe I'm just waiting for you to make a move."

His laugh was low and genuine, his head tipping back. "Malyshka, if I made a move, you wouldn't be able to handle it."

There it was. The same line he'd been feeding you all week, delivered with that cocky tilt of his head and that half-smile that made your stomach flip. He genuinely believed it. You could see it in the relaxed set of his shoulders, the easy confidence in his posture. He thought you were all talk, all sharp glances and loaded comments with nothing to back it up.

The thought made something hot and determined spark in your chest.

You moved yourself closer, close enough that your bodies were now touching. "You talk a big game for someone who hasn't proved anything."

Baisangur's eyes darkened, just slightly. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. "Is that a challenge?"

"It's an observation."

His hand came up, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face toward his. The gym noise faded to a dull hum in the background.

"Careful," he murmured, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "You keep pushing, and I might have to show you exactly what you're asking for."

Your pulse spiked, but you held your ground. "Maybe that's what I'm hoping for."

His smile widened, but there was something sharper in it now. Something hungry. "My place. 30 minutes." He dropped his hand and stepped back, grabbing his gym bag in one fluid motion.

-

The door had barely clicked shut behind you before his hands were on your waist, spinning you around and walking you backward until your shoulders hit the wall. He kissed like he fought - all intensity and control, his mouth claiming yours with a hunger that stole your breath. His stubble scraped your skin, his teeth catching your bottom lip, pulling a sound from you that made him groan against your mouth.

"Told you," he breathed, his hand sliding up to grip the back of your neck. "You can't handle—"

You grabbed his wrist and spun, reversing your positions until his back hit the wall. His eyes went wide with surprise, pupils blowing wide when you pressed your body against his.

"Let me show you how wrong you are."

You kissed him again, harder this time, swallowing the sound he made when your hand dropped to palm him through his joggers. He was already hard, straining against the fabric, and the sharp intake of breath he took when you squeezed made satisfaction curl warm in your belly.

"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back against the wall. His hands came up to grip your hips, but you caught them, pressing them flat against the wall next to him.

"Uh-uh. You don't get to touch yet."

His laugh was ragged, breathless. "You think you're in charge?"

"I know I am."

You dropped to your knees in front of him, looking up through your lashes as your fingers hooked into his waistband. His chest was heaving now, that cocky smile replaced with something raw and desperate.

Just what you wanted.

You tugged his joggers down, freeing him, and his sharp inhale echoed through the quiet room.

You didn't tease. You took him into your mouth in one smooth motion, and the sound he made - somewhere between a gasp and a curse - sent heat pooling between your thighs. Your hand wrapped around the base, working in tandem with your mouth, setting a rhythm that had his hips jerking forward before he caught himself.

"Bozhe," he groaned, his hand flying to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands. You hummed around him, and his grip tightened. "You-you're -"

You pulled back just enough to tongue the tip, tasting the salt of him, before taking him deep again. His thighs were trembling now, the muscles in his stomach jumping each time you swallowed around him. That confident fighter was unraveling before your eyes, and you'd barely started.

He tugged your hair, pulling you off him with a wet pop. His chest heaved as he looked down at you, eyes wild, his control hanging by a thread. "Bedroom. Now."

"But I'm not done- "

"If you keep doing that, this ends too fast." He pulled you to your feet, his hand sliding under your thighs as he carried you down the hall. "And I want to feel you cum around me first."

The bedroom was dim, the afternoon light filtering through half-closed blinds. He pushed you onto the bed, following you down, his weight settling between your thighs as he kissed you deeply, the combination made you arch up against him.

But you weren't done proving your point.

You planted your hand on his chest and pushed, rolling him onto his back, straddling his hips and pinning his arms above his head. "Not so fast," you whisper, grinding down against him. "You think you can handle me? Let's see who breaks first."

Baisangur bucks up, attempting to flip the script, but you lean in and bite his lip hard, rolling your hips to rub your pussy along his covered cock. He groans, and you feel him twitch. You release his wrists only to strip off his shirt, then yours, pressing your breasts to his chest while you wrap your fingers around his length, stroking slowly. "Look at you, so eager."

"Last chance to admit you can't handle me," you whispered against his lips.

His laugh was strained, desperate. "Malyshka, I've been handling women like you since- "

You sank down onto him in one smooth motion, and his words dissolved into a broken moan. You didn't wait for him to adjust. You moved, rolling your hips in a way that made his head fall back against the pillow, his fingers tightening on your thighs.

" Fuck ," he groaned, his accent thickening. "Just like that"

His hands reach for your throat in a bid for control, but you catch them and guide one to your breast instead, the other between your legs to rub your clit. "Touch me where I say."

You bounce harder, pussy squeezing his cock with every drop, walls fluttering as pleasure builds. Baisangur's breaths turn ragged, his attempts at dominance crumbling into moans. "Fuck, you're so tight."

You leaned down, biting the curve of his neck. "Who's in charge now?"

He answered by thrusting up into you, hard and deep, and the cry that tore from your throat surprised you both. His grin returned, sharp and knowing, as he planted his feet on the mattress and set a brutal pace that had the headboard slamming against the wall.

You tried to regain control, to set your own rhythm, but each thrust sent sparks shooting up your spine. His hand came up to grip your throat - not squeezing, just holding, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. The dominance in the gesture made something white-hot coil in your belly.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough. Your eyes met his, and he grinned, sweat beading on his forehead. "You wanted to prove something? Prove you can take it."

You rose to the challenge, matching his pace, grinding down each time he thrust up. The room filled with the sounds of skin against skin, of mingled breaths and desperate moans. He released your throat to grab your hips, guiding you faster, harder, his own groans growing louder with each movement.

You felt your climax building, that tightness winding in your core, and from the way his thrusts were growing erratic, he wasn't far behind. The power you felt in that moment, the knowledge that you were pushing this strong, confident man to the edge - was intoxicating.

"Come for me," he growled, his thumb finding your clit again. "Show me how good I feel inside you."

And just like that, you shattered, crying out as your release crashed through you. He followed seconds later, burying himself deep and groaning your name like a prayer.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing hard. His arms wrapped around you, loose and lazy, and you felt his lips press against your forehead.

"Okay," he admitted, still panting. "Maybe you're a little more than I expected."

You smiled against his skin. "Just warming up."

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest and into yours. "Is that a threat or a promise?"

You giggled, letting your fingers drift lightly over the bruises scattered across his chest and shoulders. The room had gone quiet around you both, filled only with uneven breathing and the occasional soft sound of him trying - and failing - to stop staring at you.

You caught him doing it again and smirked.

“What?” you asked casually.

His eyes dragged over you slowly before he let out a quiet laugh under his breath. “You planned this.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Planned what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely toward you, toward himself, toward the complete destruction of his ego. “You liked making me lose my mind.”

“Please,” you murmured. “You practically walked into this yourself.”

His hands immediately found your hips again, like he physically couldn’t stop touching you now.

Cocky smile gone.

No teasing remarks.

No smug little comments.

Just him completely ruined for you.

And honestly?

You liked him better this way.

The first thing you notice about him is that he doesn’t look at you.

Not really. Not the way men always do.

Not with greed glazed over their eyes like honey left too long in the sun. Not with practiced charm or thinly veiled obsession. Not with the desperation of powerful men who think wanting you badly enough means they deserve you.

Men usually stare at you like they’ve discovered religion. Like one smile from you would alter the course of their lives permanently.

You’ve spent years learning how to navigate it all gracefully. Smiling at the right moments. Laughing softly. Touching a wrist here, a shoulder there. Just enough warmth to keep everyone enchanted without ever letting anyone close enough to touch the real you.

The annual charity gala in Abu Dhabi is drowning in gold light and expensive perfume. Diamonds flash at every turn. Politicians, athletes, royalty, actors, every powerful person on earth packed beneath one glittering ceiling pretending they care about philanthropy when really, they care about being seen caring.

You mastered rooms like this years ago.

Every inch of you is engineered tonight: silk black gown hugging your figure like a second skin, old Hollywood waves falling over one shoulder, makeup soft enough to appear effortless while costing an entire team three hours of labor.

People orbit you naturally, they always do.

Directors lose their thoughts mid-sentence when you smile at them. Billionaires offer private islands after a single dance. Princes have proposed … Actually proposed.

You declined all of them.

Because the truth is humiliating.

No man has ever touched you.

Not truly.

Not because you couldn’t have anyone you wanted, but because no one has ever made you want them back.

Until him.

You arrive fashionably late because your team insists upon it. Cameras flash the second you step out of the car. Your name ripples through the crowd before you’ve even entered the building.

You’re used to that too.

By the time you reach the ballroom, people are already turning toward you. Conversations pause. Men straighten instinctively. Women glance over with careful expressions that balance admiration and envy.

Your publicist leans close enough to murmur, “You’re trending already.”

You barely hear her.

Because across the room, standing near the back beside Khabib Nurmagomedov, is a man looking painfully out of place.

Broad shoulders. Dark suit. Thick beard. Hands clasped in front of him like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth.

He looks at the room with open disinterest.

Then his gaze lands on you.

Your breath catches slightly.

Not because he’s handsome, though he is, devastatingly so in a harsh, masculine way - but because he doesn’t react.

No widening eyes.

No recognition.

No fascination.

He glances at you for exactly one second before looking away again.

“Who is that?” you ask quietly.

Your publicist follows your gaze immediately. “Islam Makhachev.”

“The fighter?”

“Mhm. Khabib dragged him here apparently.”

Islam.

The name settles strangely inside your chest.

You spend the next few hour pretending to socialise while secretly looking for him between conversations. Every time you glance over, he either looks bored or vaguely irritated by the entire event.

Including you.

Especially you.

It bothers you more than it should.

Eventually your annoyance outweighs your pride.

You cross the ballroom toward him.

The crowd parts instinctively. People always make space for you. Conversations quiet slightly as you approach, curious to see who’s captured your attention.

Islam notices you only when you stop directly in front of him.

Tall enough that you have to tilt your chin upward slightly. Dark eyes steady and unreadable. A faint scar near his eyebrow. Hands large enough to make the glass in his grip look small.

Up close, he’s even more handsome.

He waits for you to speak.

“You’re Islam.”

“Yes.”

His voice is deep. Calm. Almost blunt enough to sound rude.

You wait for recognition.

It never comes.

“And you are…” he says after a pause.

You blink slowly.

Surely he’s joking.

But his face remains completely serious.

“You don’t know who I am?”

“No.”

Your ego physically recoils.

Nobody says no to that question.

You stare at him for a moment before laughing softly in disbelief. “That’s insane.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Should I know?”

“You’ve never watched a movie?”

“I watch movies.”

“And none of mine?”

“I don’t know which are yours.”

You cannot remember the last time someone made you speechless.

You’re used to being desired before being known. Used to men speaking to your face while staring at your body. Used to compliments so constant they stopped feeling real years ago.

But hearing him say it aloud feels strangely ugly.

Islam watches your silence with faint suspicion, like he’s already regretting this conversation.

“Well,” you say finally, “that’s deeply humbling.”

“Hm.”

Your eyes narrow immediately.

“Hm?”

“Yes.”

“What does hm mean?”

“It means nothing.”

“No, it definitely means something.”

For the briefest second, amusement flickers across his face.

“You ask many questions.”

“And you answer them badly.”

“You’re still asking.”

The nerve of him.

You should dislike him instantly.

Instead, something dangerous sparks alive inside your chest.

For a second the tension shifts.

Then Khabib returns before either of you can say another word.

“There you are,” Khabib says. “You met?”

“She’s famous,” Islam replies flatly.

You narrow your eyes.

Khabib looks between you both and immediately senses danger.

“Oh no.”

-

Days later you are back in Paris finishing filming one of the most anticipated movies of the year, working eighteen-hour days, surrounded by world-class actors and directors.

Yet every quiet moment drifts back to him.

His eyes, his voice.

You become mildly obsessed.

Which is horrifying.

Then six weeks later you run into him again.

Not by accident.

You’re back in Dubai for a luxury brand event when Khabib casually mentions Islam will be there too.

You pretend indifference while changing outfits six times.

Pathetic.

The event is held on a rooftop overlooking the city skyline. Music hums softly beneath conversations.

You spot him instantly.

But this time he notices you first.

And scowls.

Your heartbeat quickens anyway.

“You,” he says as you approach.

“You say that like I’m a disease.”

“Maybe.”

“That’s incredibly offensive.”

“You survived.”

You fold your arms. “You dislike me very much for someone who doesn’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

“Oh?”

“You like attention.”

“I’m an actress.”

“You enjoy making people obsessed with you.”

You laugh once, sharp. “That’s not my fault.”

“It is when you encourage it.”

The accusation catches you off guard.

“You think I encourage it?”

Islam gives you a look.

Your temper flares instantly. “Men deciding to lose their minds over me isn’t something I control.”

“But you benefit from it.”

The words sting because they’re partially true.

You built an empire off allure. Mystery. Fantasy.

Still.

“You judged me before even meeting me.”

“And you care too much what strangers think.”

Your eyes narrow. “You are unbelievably irritating.”

“And yet you keep talking to me.”

Damn him.

You step closer before thinking better of it.

“You know what I think?” you say softly.

Islam’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.

“What?”

“I think you enjoyed not knowing who I was.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone else acts insane around you.”

“And you wanted to be different.”

“No.” His expression hardens. “I wanted to be normal.”

Something in your chest shifts painfully.

Before you can answer, another man interrupts - an actor you vaguely know.

“There you are,” he says, touching your waist casually. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”

Islam’s entire demeanor changes.

Not jealousy. Disgust at the hand on your waist. You notice immediately, so does the actor.

“She was speaking to me,” Islam says evenly.

The actor blinks. “Right. Sure.”

His hand remains on you.

Islam looks at it.

Then at him.

And suddenly the actor removes it.

You stare.

The actor laughs awkwardly and excuses himself quickly.

Silence settles.

Your pulse pounds strangely.

“You didn’t like that,” you murmur.

Islam’s jaw tightens. “He touched you like you belonged to him.”

“And?”

“And I disliked it.”

The honesty in his voice burns straight through you. For one reckless second you imagine what those hands would feel like on you instead. Heat floods your stomach so fast it almost frightens you.

You turn away abruptly.

This is bad.

Very bad.

-

“You’ve changed.” Your best friend says, over breakfast in London three weeks later.

You lower your sunglasses. “What does that mean?”

“You’re distracted.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re obsessed with that fighter.”

“I am not obsessed.”

“You watched his fight at six in the morning.”

You stab violently at your fruit.

She smirks. “You like him.”

“I hate him.”

“Even better.”

You groan.

Because maybe she’s right.

Islam infuriates you constantly.

He ignores your status completely. Challenges you at every opportunity. Sees through performances you didn’t even realise had become instinct.

And worst of all -

He makes you want things.

You’ve spent your entire adult life untouchable. Desired but distant. Worshipped but emotionally unreachable.

Then Islam looks at you for five seconds and suddenly you’re imagining his hands, his mouth, his weight pressing you against walls.

It’s maddening.

Especially because he barely seems to like you.

At least, not consistently.

Some days he tolerates you. Some days he argues with you until your blood boils. Some days he stares at you too long before abruptly leaving the room.

You never know which version you’ll get.

But every version affects you.

Deeply.

Meanwhile, several thousand miles away, Islam is developing his own problem.

“You are liking her pictures now?” Khabib says in disbelief.

Islam nearly chokes.

“I did not.”

“You did. You accidentally liked three.”

“It was mistake.”

Khabib laughs so hard he almost falls off the couch.

Islam grabs his phone back immediately, glaring at the screen.

Your Instagram is dangerous.

Every photo somehow feels too intimate. Red carpets. Film sets. Blurry late-night pictures posted by friends. Videos where you laugh unexpectedly and look softer than you ever do in interviews.

He tells himself he dislikes everything about your world.

Then he finds himself watching one of your movies alone in his hotel room at two in the morning.

Then another.

Then another.

By the fourth film, Khabib walks in, stares at the television, and bursts into laughter so violent Islam considers murder briefly.

“You are finished,” Khabib announces.

“Be quiet.”

“You love her.”

“I do not.”

Khabib points at the screen where your character is crying dramatically. “Then why you watching romantic movie alone?”

Islam glares murderously. “Leave.”

-

The next time you see Islam is in America again.

A UFC event is happening in Las Vegas that weekend, and because both of you are now publicly attached to the same international charity campaign, Khabib insists you attend with them.

You suspect he’s doing it intentionally.

You arrive at the arena dressed semi casually for once, corset, jeans, minimal makeup.

Islam notices immediately.

And stares.

You pretend not to notice the way his eyes linger slightly too long.

“You came,” he says.

“You invited me.”

“Khabib invited you.”

“And you didn’t object.”

A pause.

“No.”

Something warm blooms in your chest.

The night becomes strangely easy after that.

You sit between them during the fights while Khabib explains techniques excitedly. Islam occasionally leans closer to explain something quieter, his voice low near your ear.

Every time he touches your arm accidentally, your pulse jumps.

At one point you laugh at something Khabib says, and Islam just… watches you.

Not casually.

Not absentmindedly.

Like the sound affects him physically.

You catch him staring.

He looks away immediately.

Which somehow makes it worse.

After the event ends, the three of you walk back toward the hotel through the warm Vegas night. Khabib conveniently disappears as you reach the lobby, answering a phone call, leaving you alone beside Islam.

The silence between you feels heavier now.

Charged.

“You enjoyed yourself?” he asks as you walk towards the rooms.

“I did.”

“You were nervous at first.”

“You noticed?”

“I notice everything about you.”

The words hit so hard you almost stumble.

Islam seems to realise what he admitted a second too late because his jaw tightens immediately afterward.

“You are very different outside Hollywood,” he says quietly.

“So are you.”

A faint smile touches his mouth. “No.”

“Yes.” You glance at him carefully. “You pretend you dislike me.”

His eyes meet yours instantly.

“And you pretend you do not enjoy when I do.”

Your breath catches.

The hotel lights glow above you, soft - reflecting against the floor of the corridor, but suddenly all you can focus on is him beside you.

The heat of him.

The tension.

“You really hated me at first,” you murmur.

Islam exhales softly through his nose. “I tried.”

“Tried?”

“You represent everything I avoid.”

“Which is?”

“Attention. Fame. Men behaving stupidly around you.”

You laugh quietly. “And yet here you are.”

“Yes,” he says darkly. “Unfortunately.”

The honesty in his voice ruins you.

You stop walking.

Islam stops too.

For a moment neither of you speaks.

Outside the windows, cars pass nearby. Vegas glows around you. Somewhere in the distance people are shouting drunkenly.

But all you can hear is your heartbeat.

“You watched my movies,” you say suddenly.

His expression changes instantly.

“Khabib told you.”

“He told me you watched four in one night.”

Islam closes his eyes briefly like he’s reconsidering his friendships. A smile breaks across your face before you can stop it. “You stalked my Instagram too?”

“That was accidental.”

“You liked three pictures.”

“I hate Khabib.”

You laugh softly again, and this time Islam looks visibly affected by the sound. His gaze drops briefly to your mouth. The air changes immediately.

“You should not smile at me like that,” he says quietly.

“Like what?”

“Like you know what you do to me.”

Your pulse stumbles violently. Because maybe you do know now.

Islam steps closer slowly.

Close enough that warmth radiates from him.

“You are dangerous,” he murmurs.

“You’ve said that before.”

“Yes.” His eyes darken. “It became worse.”

Your breath catches.

Nobody has ever looked at you the way he does right now.

Not like a fantasy.

Not like a trophy.

Like a problem he desperately wants anyway.

Islam’s hand lifts slowly toward your face before resting carefully against your jaw.

Large.

Warm.

Gentle.

The contact sends shockwaves through your body.

His thumb brushes your cheek once.

You lean into it without thinking.

Islam inhales sharply.

Then suddenly his restraint fractures.

He kisses you.

It’s rougher than you expect at first, not painful, just intense, like he’s been holding himself back for too long and no longer remembers how to do it properly.

Your hands clutch instinctively at his jacket.

Islam makes a low sound against your mouth that nearly destroys your ability to think.

Then his hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer.

The sudden possessiveness of it sends heat rushing through your entire body.

He kisses you deeper.

Slower this time.

More dangerous.

One of his hands slips upward along your side before settling against your ribs, fingertips pressing lightly through your clothes.

Your breath catches sharply.

Islam immediately pauses.

His forehead rests against yours as he studies your face carefully.

“What?”

You can barely breathe.

“It’s just…” Your voice comes out smaller than intended. “I haven’t done this before.”

Silence.

Islam pulls back slightly. “Kissed?”

You nod once, embarrassed suddenly. “Anything.”

His entire expression changes.

Not judgment.

Not disbelief.

Something softer.

Almost unbearably gentle.

“You are serious?”

“Yes.”

You brace yourself for confusion. Questions. Shock.

Instead, Islam’s thumb strokes slowly across your cheek.

And somehow that tenderness affects you more than anything else tonight.

“You do not have to be nervous with me,” he says quietly.

Your heart feels dangerously full.

“I want to,” you whisper. “I just… don’t know anything.”

A long silence settles between you. Then Islam steps closer again until his forehead touches yours.

“I know,” he says softly.

Your breath trembles.

“And I will be gentle with you.”

The promise settles deep beneath your skin.

Then Islam kisses you again - Slower this time. Like he intends to savor every second, searching, nothing like the aggression everyone expects from him in the cage. This is different. This is patient. His other hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer, and you feel the hard planes of his chest against you. He smells like clean sweat and expensive cologne, and something underneath that's just him.

Your pulse kicks up. You've imagined this moment more times than you'd ever admit, but the reality is different - more overwhelming, more intimate. His hands are rough from years of training, scarred knuckles catching on your skin, but his touch remains careful. Reverent, almost.

He walks you backward, until you hear the hotel room door click open behind you, and suddenly the noise of the evening, the roar of the arena, the press of bodies, the endless interviews fades into muffled silence.

Your heart pounds against your ribs. You can feel Islam standing close behind you, his presence warm and solid, and you realise the moment you’ve been waiting for, for months, may finally be here.

You got so lost in the moment you didn’t realise you was fully inside his room until your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you sink down, looking up at him.

He's still fully dressed in his event clothes, and you're suddenly aware of how small you feel sitting before him.

But there's no fear, just anticipation humming through your veins.

"Tell me if you want to stop," he says, kneeling between your legs. His palms slide up your thighs, warm through the thin fabric of your jeans.

"We go slow. Whatever you want."

"I want-“ You swallow. "I want you."

His eyes darken. "Say it again."

"I want you, Islam."

He exhales like you've given him something precious.

He leans forward, kissing you deeply as his hands find the zipper of your jeans. He pulls them down inch by inch, and then starts to work on your corset. The cool air hits your bare skin, and you resist the urge to cover yourself.

"Beautiful," he breathes, and the word lands somewhere deep in your chest. His eyes travel over you, slow and appreciative. "So beautiful."

He lowers you onto the mattress, following you down, and his mouth traces a path from your lips to your neck, your collarbone, lower.

His tongue circles your nipple, and you arch into the sensation, fingers tangling in his dark hair.

"Vrone," he murmurs, the Russian slipping out. "Perfect."

He continues his descent, pressing open-mouthed kisses across your ribs, your stomach, along the curve of your hip. His hands slide your panties the rest of the way off, leaving you bare beneath him.

He sits back on his heels to look at you, and you watch him take you in, his breathing noticeably heavier.

"You're certain?" he asks one more time, and something in your chest clenches at the care in his voice.

"Stop asking," you say, pulling him down to you. "I'm sure."

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and you feel his hand slide between your bodies, his fingers finding your slick heat.

You gasp into his mouth as he circles your clit with slow, deliberate pressure, building you up with expert patience.

"Feel how ready you are," he groans against your lips. "All for me."

"All for you," you echo, and he makes a rough sound low in his throat.

He positions himself above you, and you feel the blunt pressure of him at your entrance. He pauses, searching your face, his dark eyes intense with restrained desire.

"Breathe for me," he instructs softly. "I've got you."

You exhale shakily as he pushes forward, slowly, giving your body time to adjust. There's pressure, a brief stretch that eases as he holds still, letting you get used to the feeling of him. His forehead presses against yours, his breathing ragged.

"Okay?" he asks, voice strained.

You shift your hips experimentally, and the friction sends sparks through you. "Please."

He begins to rock, gentle and unhurried, each thrust deliberate. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your soft sounds as he builds a rhythm that makes your toes curl.

The tension you've carried for months, the sharp words and stolen glances transmutes into something sweeter, something that feels terrifyingly close to affection.

"You feel incredible," he rasps against your neck. "Like you were made for me."

"Maybe I was," you whisper back, and he groans, his pace quickening just enough to make you gasp.

His hand slides between your bodies again, finding your clit, and you feel yourself climbing toward something, something bright and inevitable.

He watches your face as you come undone beneath him, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

"That's it," he praises, voice rough with wonder. "That's it, malyshka. Let go."

You shatter, and he follows you over the edge moments later, burying his face in your neck as his hips still.

The silence that follows is filled with heavy breathing and the soft rustle of sheets.

He rolls to your side, pulling you against his chest.

His heartbeat drums steady and strong beneath your ear. Neither of you speaks for a long moment, letting the weight of what just happened settle.

"I don't hate you, you know," you say finally, quiet and sincere.

His chest rumbles with a low laugh. "I know. I don't hate you either."

His arms tighten around you, and you realise the game is finally over.

Umar loves you in a way that makes people jealous without even realising it.

It’s in the little things. The way he automatically reaches for your hand when you cross the street. The way he remembers exactly how you take your tea without asking. The way he looks at you like you hung every star in the sky yourself.

Being loved by him feels safe. Warm. Certain.

You never have to question where you stand with Umar. He tells you he loves you at random moments, kisses your forehead every morning before training, and acts like spending time with you is the highlight of his entire week.

He worships you openly, shamelessly. If you mention wanting something once, he remembers it. If you have a bad day, he’s already ordering your favorite food and pulling you into his chest before you even explain what happened.

And sex with him?

It’s good. Really good.

He’s attentive, patient and careful with you, like you’re something precious. He kisses every inch of you like he’s grateful for it. Makes sure you finish first almost every time. Whispers how beautiful you are against your skin until you’re melting beneath him.

But lately…

You’ve started wanting more.

Not because he’s lacking - God, he’s perfect - but because sometimes it feels too careful. Too soft. Predictable. You know exactly how the night will go before it even starts: slow kisses, gentle hands, sweet praise, lazy aftercare while he strokes your hair.

Comfortable.

Vanilla.

And tonight, with Umar stretched beside you on the couch, one arm around your waist while some random movie plays in the background, the thought won’t leave your head.

You glance up at him.

He notices immediately, because of course he does.

“What?” he asks softly, thumb brushing over your hip.

“Nothing.”

His eyes narrow a little with amusement. “You’re thinking too loud again.”

You laugh quietly, but your stomach twists with nerves.

Umar pauses the movie instantly. Full attention on you now.

That’s another thing about him. You never have to compete for his attention.

“What’s wrong, malyshka?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say quickly. “I just… wanted to talk to you about something.”

The concern on his face melts into something gentler. “Okay. Talk to me.”

You sit up slightly, tucking your legs beneath you. Suddenly the room feels too warm.

“It’s awkward.”

He smiles a little. “You know you can tell me anything.”

“I know.”

And you do know. That’s what makes this harder somehow.

You hesitate before finally blurting, “Do you ever feel like we always do the same things?”

Umar blinks. “Like… in general?”

“In bed.”

The silence after that isn’t uncomfortable - just surprised.

His eyebrows lift slightly, and then he’s sitting up too, giving you his full attention like this conversation matters more than anything else.

“Oh.”

You rush to explain before he can misunderstand.

“Not because it’s bad,” you say quickly. “It’s not bad at all. You’re literally amazing, Umar. I just…” You chew your lip. “I think I want to try new things. Maybe be a little less… normal?”

He watches you carefully, expression unreadable for a second before his hand slides over yours.

“You’re bored?”

The question sounds more worried than offended.

Immediately you shake your head. “No. Not bored with you.”

His shoulders relax a little.

“I just think maybe I want us to be more adventurous,” you admit quietly. “And I didn’t know how to tell you without sounding ungrateful.”

Umar stares at you for a long moment before exhaling softly through his nose.

“malyshka,” he murmurs, almost laughing. “You could never sound ungrateful.”

You feel some of the tension leave your body.

“I just didn’t want you thinking you weren’t enough.”

His expression changes instantly at that - soft and almost offended on your behalf.

“Not enough?” he repeats. “You think I’d hear my girlfriend say she wants to explore more with me and somehow take that badly?”

“Well…”

He reaches up, cupping your jaw gently.

“I worship you,” he says simply. “If there’s something you want, I want to hear it.”

The sincerity in his voice makes heat creep into your face.

“And honestly?” he adds, thumb brushing your cheek. “I’ve thought about it too.”

Your eyes widen. “You have?”

A small grin pulls at his mouth.

“Yeah.” His gaze drops briefly to your lips. “I just didn’t know if you’d be comfortable with it.”

Something electric settles between you then.

A shift.

You can feel it in the way his eyes darken slightly. In the way his hand tightens on your thigh just a little more possessively than usual.

“Stand up,” you say.

Umar blinks. A half-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, the one that usually precedes some gentle, teasing remark about you being bossy. But the smile doesn’t quite land. Something in your voice has stripped the humor from the room.

“Stand up,” you repeat, and this time you rise with the words, closing the small distance between you.

He stands, posture perfect from years of training, and yet there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his expression that you’ve never seen before. Not fear. Something closer to anticipation mixed with the vertigo of unfamiliar ground.

Your hands find the hem of your own shirt first. You pull it over your head in one fluid motion, and his gaze drops, instinct, pure reflex, to the black lace cupping your breasts. His lips part slightly. A breath escapes him that’s louder than the documentary ever was.

“Tonight,” you say, reaching behind your back to unclasp the bra, “I’m in charge.”

The straps slide down your shoulders. The lace falls away. Umar’s throat works visibly as he swallows.

“What does that mean?” His accent curls around the English words, softening their edges.

“It means you don’t touch unless I tell you to. It means you don’t speak unless I ask you something.” You step closer, close enough that the heat from his chest radiates against your bare skin. “It means you’re going to get on your knees.”

The words hang in the air between you. Umar’s jaw tightens. For a long, suspended moment, you wonder if you’ve pushed too far too quickly - if the proud fighter in him will balk at being told to kneel in his own living room.

Then his knees bend.

The carpet muffles the sound of him sinking down, but you feel it in the floorboards, a small seismic shift in the balance of power. He looks up at you from this new angle, and something has already changed in his face. The confident set of his mouth has softened. His eyes are wider, darker, full of a question he won’t voice because you haven’t given him permission.

“Good,” you murmur, and the word lands on him visibly - his shoulders drop a fraction, tension bleeding away. “Now your shirt.”

He pulls it off without hesitation. The fighter’s body emerges: shoulders carved from hours of grappling, a torso laced with lean muscle, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing below his waistband. You circle behind him slowly, letting your fingertips trail across the back of his neck, down the ridge of his spine. A shiver chases your touch.

From this angle, you can see the slight flush creeping up the back of his ears.

You retrieve your discarded bra from the floor. The fabric is still warm from your skin as you gather it in your hands, then drape it over his wrists, which hang at the small of his back. Realisation dawns in the stiffening of his posture.

“Put your hands behind your back.”

He does. The submission of it - Umar Nurmagomedov, who bends other men into pretzels for a living, offering his wrists to be bound by lingerie, sends a pulse of heat straight through your core. You wrap the bra straps around his wrists, once, twice, knotting the elastic gently but firmly. It won’t hold against real resistance. That’s not the point.

The point is that he won’t because your in control.

You come around to face him again. His bound hands force his shoulders back, thrusting his chest forward. The posture is almost ceremonial - a man presented for judgment. His breathing has gone shallow, each inhale sharp and quick.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband of your jeans and push them down slowly, watching his face the whole time. The denim pools at your ankles. You step out, leaving only the black lace of your panties between you and the cool air of the apartment.

Umar makes a sound. It’s small, entirely involuntary - a whimper caught somewhere in the back of his throat. His lips press together immediately, as if he could call the noise back.

“Did you just whimper?” You tilt your head, feigning curiosity.

The flush that crawls up his neck is answer enough.

You hook a finger under the elastic of your panties, pulling the fabric down inch by excruciating inch. The dampness that clings to the lace as it peels away tells its own story. Umar watches, transfixed, as you step free and gather the delicate fabric in your palm.

“Open your mouth.”

His eyes snap up to yours. For one heartbeat, two, the old Umar flickers there - the one who leads, who decides, who dictates the pace. Then it gutters and goes out.

His jaw drops.

You fold the panties into a neat square of black lace and press it past his lips. The fabric fills his mouth, and you can see the exact moment the taste registers, the slight widening of his eyes, the flare of his nostrils as your scent hits him. A muffled groan vibrates through the gag.

“Quiet now,” you say, stepping back to admire your work.

He’s a vision. Hands bound behind his back, mouth stuffed with your panties, kneeling on the living room carpet with his arousal straining obscenely against his sweatpants. The great fighter reduced to a pleading, whimpering supplicant.

You settle onto the couch in front of him, spreading your legs wide. The leather is cool against your bare skin. Umar’s gaze drops immediately to the exposed wetness between your thighs, and another sound escapes him - higher this time, needier, a whine that the gag can’t fully contain.

“You want to taste?”

A frantic nod. His bound hands flex uselessly behind him.

“You want to make me cum?”

Another nod, more desperate. His hips shift forward unconsciously, seeking friction that isn’t there.

You lean back against the cushions, letting your thighs fall open another inch. “Then show me.”

He shuffles forward on his knees, awkward with his hands tied, still magnificent in his desperation. The first touch of his mouth is the heat of his breath ghosting across your inner thigh.

You slide the soaked lace panties from his mouth just long enough for Umar to drag his tongue through your folds.

When his tongue finally finds your sweet spot, flat and broad and achingly warm, lapping at your clit with desperate strokes. - your head falls back against the couch.

His groans vibrate against you, but you don't let him linger. You stuff the panties back between his lips, muffling him completely, and order him up. "Couch. Now."

He obeys, chest heaving as you guide him onto the sofa.

“Good boy,” you breathe, and the sound Umar makes in response is something between a sob and a prayer.

Still restrained, he sits back, thick cock standing rigid and leaking in his joggers. Slowly you make your way down his body, kissing his neck, abs, and V line before hooking your finger into the waistband and setting him free.

You straddle him without hesitation, sinking down onto his hard length in one fluid motion. Your pussy stretches around him, walls clenching tight as you start to ride - hard, relentless rolls of your hips that grind your clit against his base with every movement.

Biting into the side of his neck, you leave marks while your hand wraps lightly around his throat, squeezing just enough to make his eyes flutter. “Such a good boyfriend for me.” you murmur, bouncing faster, pussy creaming down his shaft. The intensity builds quick; your orgasm hits sharp and sudden, body shuddering as you pulse and gush around his cock, riding through the waves without slowing.

It's too much. Umar bucks wildly, the bra restraint snapping under his strength. His hands break free, one cracking across your ass in a sharp smack that echoes.

In a blur he flips you onto your back on the cushions, pinning your wrists this time as he drives back inside with brutal force.

He fucks you like he's lost control, hips snapping deep and fast, cock pounding your soaked pussy.

One hand closes around your throat, squeezing firmer while the other pinches and twists your nipples, rolling the sensitive peaks until you cry out. "Fuck" he growls around the panties still in his mouth, voice muffled but filthy.

He spits them out, unable to contain himself. "Gripping me so tight, creaming all over my cock. You love using me don’t you"

Your legs lock around his waist as he rails harder, choking you just right, the mix of pain and pleasure sending sparks through your core. He releases one nipple to rub your clit in rough circles, dirty praise spilling out nonstop. The pressure snaps - you come again, pussy spasming and squirting around him. Umar follows with a guttural moan, burying deep as his cock throbs, flooding you with hot cum that leaks out around his sloppy thrusts.

He collapses over you, both of you panting, the air heavy with sweat and sex.

Neither of you speak for a long moment.

Then he lets out a breathless laugh against your neck.

“What on earth just happened to us?”

You smile weakly into his skin, too exhausted to answer properly.

Because whatever tonight was, it changed something.

The carefulness between you is gone now, replaced with something hotter, deeper - a new kind of trust. And judging by the way Umar keeps pulling you closer like he physically can’t stand having space between you, he feels it too.

His lips press softly to your forehead.

“malyshka,” he murmurs, voice rough and completely wrecked, “you have no idea what you started tonight.”

You can’t wait to do it again.