CHIKIS

DAGESTANI FIGHTERS. . !

Khabib Nurmagomedov. . !

deep waters.

guts. (ft. islam)

Islam Makhachev. . !

guts. (ft. khabib)

Umar Nurmagomedov . . !

nothing yet . . !

Usman Nurmagomedov . . !

seed.

You think of Khabib, for example, the weight gain came naturally—retirement was no joke, especially after a lifetime of training. Everything about him had filled in softly, and of course, Khabib embraced it without much argument, like a man. As for Islam, however, his weight gain was an entirely new change. A necessary one, in your opinion. 

You think Islam is in a bad mood. It’s not a difficult thing to spot when irritation was etched across his face, the grinding clench of his jaw. Islam just leans forward, invading your space as much as he liked as his unoccupied hand came up to wrap around the nape of your neck, and you can’t believe how strong he really was now, not when he yanks you backwards and eases you onto the bed with perfect control that stops you from slamming your head back. If only your heart didn’t feel like it was going to slam right into your ribcage and, sounding a desperate, frazzled noise, you make a last ditch effort to twist away. No use, again, Islam just holds you in place, keeping you pinned by the neck, while he bullies your thighs apart with the other hand. 

He doesn’t wait, doesn’t even so much as pause, and you try very hard not to yelp when he rather boldly swipes his hand straight down to the soft cradle of your thighs. Eyes widening in mute embarrassment, you rock back and try to squeeze your legs shut to no avail. It proves in the way his hand was curling around your cunt, cradling it in the palm of his hand, and you can’t think straight, much less form a coherent sentence. 

A heedy sigh slips out of you, and you find yourself pressing your hips into the touch of his rough palm—you were such a perfect fit in his hand. Since Islam’s arrival back home from after what he claims was a ‘hard training’ session, he looked more than just a bit disgruntled, kneeling on the bed between your naked legs. Yet the very obvious bead of glistening moisture that runs down the underside of his erection catches in the low lamp light, its steady descent was a testament to show how invested he was at the moment. Islam was doing a very good job at not portraying how affected he was at the moment. 

“Islam.” You say, more quietly than you realize. 

“Be quiet.” Islam softly breathes, practically hissing the words. Pushing up to kneel on his knees beside you, he lets go of your nape, instead, he grabs your ankles and uses them to pull you closer to him. 

You quickly bite down on your lower lip to stifle any other sounds you could make, and you vaguely wonder if you might draw blood, because Islam firmly pressed the heel of his palm into the apex of your mound, purposefully applying pressure. His dark lashes hold no light in any of the tiny fractures, he alternates between squeezing you and grinding over your clit with sure, even twists of his wrists. Islam presses down harder and you resist the choke in your throat that was threatening to make itself known—your eyes take on a dazed, far off quality. Then, he adjusts his hand. 

Your opening is almost obscenely slick with the vicious amount of fluid he caused, Islam groaned quietly as he slowly glided the length of his fingers down your slit smoothly, slowly spreading you apart. You nearly start to protest—but you don’t speak a word, and instead, he cuts you off with a shaky inhale. Islam brings his other hand close to press against your hip, holding you down, while the other tentatively dips inside the softness of your opening. You blindly reach for something to grab onto, but all your fingers could find was the bedsheet and the pillows, which didn’t do much to settle the torturous feeling Islam was putting you through. You jerked and writhed, but he knew what he was doing when he pressed down harder onto your hip, the bruising hold was practically telling you not to move anywhere. 

Islam’s fingers skirt across your inner crease until he finds what he was looking for, the nerves in his hand give a tiny jolt, sending shockwaves of unexpected pleasure shooting through you as he retraces the sensitive area through his touch alone—he’s mumbling something that you can’t quite make out, but it wasn’t really much of your concern. Not at this moment, at least. 

The indelicate friction has you twitching, pointless though it may be, and Islam swats his hand to the curve of your upper thigh. He doesn’t miss the way your thighs flex around his wrist and minutely can’t up to the pressure. 

Islam uses his index finger to keep your clit exposed, and relies on his middle finger to flick the bundle of nerves back and forth. You’re stiff as a rod at this point, and Islam was the sole cause of it. He draws blood beneath the surface of your clit, before grinding it back down in tight circles. You’ve been overwhelmed, but not like this, not when you were shaking straight down to the very innards of your soul—you rock back into Islam with a loud, heavy exhale that you couldn’t control even if you tried. 

“I told you to be quiet.” Islam says aloud, not slowing down his ministries for even a second. Still his chest tightens at the sight you were, the way your soft lashes flutter and twitch. You’re drowning in pleasure and it’s such a perfect color on you. Islam pushes down on you with even more fervor to make your delicate thighs twitch and splay further apart for him. You screw your eyes shut and bite down on your tongue to silence yourself even as you jut your hips up into the building pressure of his hand—it’s hard to breathe, and your chest is starting to heave as if you had just gone running for miles on end. 

In your eyes, Islam remained as nonchalant and even disinterested about what he was doing as he seemed to expect you to be, and you can’t help but wonder how he as a man can be so unaffected by it even as your aching cunt continues to grow stickier. It almost seems to border on obscene. 

But he maintains his implacable facade. 

A violent shudder suddenly assaults you in a rush, and you bite back a whimper that was low in your throat, deliriously trying to reign your control back in. The involuntary throbbing deep within you starts up again, mirroring the frantic pounding of your heart while your hips weakly twitch with the onset of an orgasm you hopelessly try to stop. Islam leans over you, against your front. Your face feels like it's on fire but you don’t say anything, only sighing softly when he at last has you situated how he wants you to be. Islam quietly tuts at you, turning his head to press his mouth against your hair, a violent tremor slices through you when you feel his lips pursed against the side of your head in a brief kiss—you don’t get the chance to fully process it. 

Dizzy with the surge of arousal that crashed into you with all the force of a ram, you give a weak, twitchy roll of your hips against Islam. “Look at what you did. You soaked the bedsheets.” He spoke against your temple, displacing some of your baby hairs to send them dancing at your peripheral. With a quiet click of his tongue, Islam slides his hand over your mound once again, cupping your cunt with an almost aggravated squeeze, and you quickly turn your head away in embarrassment. Islam is back to his motions from before, you can feel the drag of your clit underneath the petting of his thumb, almost idly drawing it back and forth with a total lack of urgency that was making your head spin. More so than the sharp stabs of pleasure do. 

It was clear that Islam was not going to give you what you wanted. 

“Please. Islam—!” 

There’s a soft hum that comes from his throat, it’s a soft sounding thing, a striking contrast to his person, judging simply by the way he presses his thumb down a bit more firmly. You tip your head back against the pillows, panting up at the ceiling while the waves of yet unrealized ecstasy washed over you, each somehow more powerful than the last. Islam forces his hips inwards a little more, inching your legs further apart even as they trembled fiercely for him, and you think, idly, how lucky you are. To be laid underneath a man like Islam. You’re helpless to do anything except sensitively tremble, and you do so with fervor. 

“Already?” Islam muses, his voice is soft, but it still carries that subtle hint of an edge underneath the surface. Sometimes you can’t believe it, why he would sound like that—softspoken and sweet—when he was so tormenting. 

The firm, weighty pressure of Islam’s thumb petting over your cunt, his other fingers idly tracing along your slit where they were still spreading you. The cresting pleasure was making you writhe on his lap, and your eyelids flutter shut. The size of him, all of him, the weight pressing against you, it was all too much, and it felt like you were drowning in him. “I’ve barely touched you.” Islam continues, unconcerned with the way you twist against him and choke on sputtering gasps. He leans in once again, his nose tracing along that soft, satiny part of your throat that drove him crazy, before pressing his mouth to your hammering pulse. It’s not so much as a kiss. 

“Maybe I should stop. You want to catch your breath?” Islam’s words cut across you, practically slicing across your jugular. A small, boyish laugh leaves his lips. “You’re breathing like you just fought five championship rounds.”

Just like that, the hand on your cunt retreats, and Islam sits up, pulling away altogether to leave you shamelessly askew, he instead resorts in favor of latching both palms onto the soft give of your inner thighs and keeping them spread while you frantically twitch. Islam watches, soft eyes moderately hidden beneath sharp, dark brows. No longer teetering right on the precipice, he finds it funny to watch you be forced back a pace or two. All you can do is look at him, longingly, in the promise of oblivion beyond with yearning and desperation. You want something, but you’re not allowed to have it. Islam was the kind of lover who—like a tide receding and swelling—fed into the momentum.

You had underestimated just how foul of a mood Islam truly was in. 

After he had silently studied you for a long moment, eyes swiveling up to regard your face when you shuddered against him, drinking your expression. He finally dragged his gaze away from your face to regard the state he had left you in. 

“Islam.” You murmur in disappointment, frowning at him imploringly. He pulls his hands away to rest them at your waist.

Islam kept his pelvis slotted comfortably tight in the cradle of your body, muscles slightly twitching whenever he moved, the outline of toned abdominals shifting just under the skin. He briefly leans down once again, a shudder racing through your spinal strut once he pressed his new weight atop of you, bare chests pressing into one another. The feeling of a heartbeat is something precious—Islam’s heartbeat was your sanctuary—but you find it hard to focus on his rhythm when he claims your mouth in a much more demanding kiss. He rolled his pelvis against your cunt, and you huff as those curling tendrils of pleasure thread through your abdomen, winding your sensitized nerves into something even tighter. 

Islam pulls away to shift his attention away from your lips, the soft buzz of his hair tickles against the nape of your neck just so, seconds before he places a brief, lingering kiss to the jut of your shoulder. Following the gentle slope, he gradually makes his way up to the base of your neck one lingering kiss at a time, as if measuring the length of your throat with his lips only. 4 kisses in length, then 5, then 6. Still, he ghosts over your quickened pulse. It felt like you were going mad over having him in such terribly close proximity like this, it wasn’t helping your resolve in the slightest. Through Islam’s affection, his hands remain stationary around your waist, as if to keep you from demanding reciprocatory attention from him. These hands do not roam about to explore your body any further than what Islam could touch with his mouth, he’s just holding you in place, cradling you there against him. 

It’s exactly what you expect from him when he was in a bad mood, a lover who seemed perfectly content to just take whatever he wanted without remorse; and you have to suck in a slow, faltering breath to steady yourself when he works his way back, a hot path up the curve of your jaw now. 

Then, Islam’s hands start to move again. 

First, they slide upwards from your waist to tauntly rake down your front, leaving the faintest of warmth across your flesh before they drag back down to paw over the curve of your hips. Islam pauses there to give you another tight squeeze, fingers pressing into the flesh but not in a manner that could bruise you. The threat of it is there though, that silent fact that he could easily hurt you if he really wanted to—but he doesn’t do it. Instead, Islam just eases his hold on you enough to palm over your thighs, down and then straight back up the back of them, until his splayed fingers finally press into the underside of you. 

The heat that rushes to your face is a familiar one, Islam doesn’t grant you enough time to protest before he is sitting back up again. 

Large hands smooth their way back to the dip of your navel, thumbs tracing the outskirts of your slit, before shamelessly spreading you open. You suddenly feel extremely lightheaded, and it wasn’t just because of the waft of cool air against your most intimate of areas—but the knowledge that Islam was looking at you with this expression of complete uninterruption. The picture Islam paints kneeling between your legs is lurid and provocative, shameless and yet tantalizing in the worst possible way. 

“Turn around.” Islam says this to encourage you, but it's fruitless to move in your current state. So the solution is to manhandle you, just as easily as any other opponent in the octagon. 

It’s unmistakable, from the distinct sound of the mattress softly creaking. The suddenness of him shifting you onto your knees makes your heart lodge itself into your throat, and you can’t hold back the small sound of surprise as you make an effort to half twist around to look back at him. Islam only meets your look with those brilliant, soft eyes he only ever seems to make at you. This tender look only lasts for a moment, and there's no protest when Islam roughly pushes you forward to elevate your lower half, angling your cunt right up at him. 

There’s no real use trying to angle away from him, it does little to deter Islam from his goal. He pinches your hips into a tighter hold, letting out a small, frustrated huff as he slowly spreads your slit open once more. 

All is laid bare when he is holding you open like that, his warm breathing fans across your skin—except this time it tickles over. You do your best to keep your thighs pressed together, hoping to preserve at least some of your supposed modest dignity. 

“Hey, be nice.” Islam warns, his hand swatting against the give of your hip. You gasp sharply, the evidence of his bad mood leaving you swaying almost dizzily, even as you reach back to blindly swat at his head. It’s a little unfortunate that your heart wasn't really in it, though, plus, being spread and admired like this—there isn’t much you can do when your body is most certainly responding in kind to him. All you succeed in doing is fruitlessly smacking at the side of Islam’s head, yet all he does is let out a humored sound of encouragement in response, you usually have much more intent behind it whenever he chooses to mess with you. 

“I said be nice, why are you so mean? Say sorry to me.” Islam begins once more, but his words hold an inkling of a smile, skimming over your flesh. 

You can’t help the small curve of your lips digging into one side of your face, and you fumble slightly to get your hand up again, mercilessly shoving it into Islam’s head and using as much of your force to push his head back, putting at least some space between you and him. He merely returns, keeping his head beneath your palm. Twisting around at the same time as your swat of the hand, you pin him a flustered look. “You hit me.” Islam noises a brief, unbothered sound, and instead blows against you, forcing a warm pulse to resume between your legs with a slow, anticipatory clench. 

“There. I blew on it, so now it won’t hurt anymore.” 

Oh, he was so—!

“Islam!”

He imploringly tips his head to the side and half dragged your palm along with it where you had kept it pressed against him. Islam presses a kiss to your inner wrist before pulling your hips back, his attention drawing back down to the shameful spread of you. Islam’s hands adjust, loosening and then tightening in a better grip around the curve of your hips so he can give you a taunting jostle. You tip forward onto your elbows, trying to curdle down the urge to start squirming again—it’s hard not to, when there were only a few short inches separating his nose from your slit. 

Islam presses a fleeting peck to the end of your spine, and your jittery nerves only grow when he kisses his way down to the seam of you once more. You suck in a sharp breath as Islam’s lips press into the naturally formed line of your slit, the startled goosebumps erupting all over your skin seem to be partnered with the soft moan you involuntarily let out. Rocking unsteadily on your elbows, Islam does you a favor by not paying it any mind. The sensation of more slick forming at the entrance of you prompts him to inch your thighs apart. There’s a soft hiss that leaves you when Islam purses his lips—kissing at your cunt—before opening his mouth wide and then sealing it over your entrance. 

You jolt, trembling from your head straight down to your toes and so you bury your head into your arms to silence any real embarrassing sounds that were trying to crawl their way out of your constricting throat. The wet swipe of Islam’s tongue, to be looked at so closely was one thing, but being licked was somehow even worse. It feels like he doesn’t even have any shame, or remorse, highlighting the fact that whatever happened during training must have been bad.

Shifting to the side, you make an effort to dissuade him, and Islam just follows you, pressing his face more firmly into the space between your legs. He pulls back a fraction of an inch, letting out a heady sound that falters towards the end before he quickly shoves his mouth against you again and he’s right back at it. Islam’s supple lips eagerly locate that bundle of nerves so he can swipe at it deeply, forcing your body to respond. 

Your knees trembled, your cunt had already been weeping with sympathetic pleasure, but now it was even more softer than before. Even more sticky. A strangled noise is choked out of you, you weakly try and twist your upper body around to see if you could swat at his head again, but you’re torn. Shove Islam away? Or pull him further in against you?

The answer is lost, because Islam makes a half-smothered sound before he tips his head and seals his lips over you more securely than before, tongue lashing out to lap across the dip in the center to coat you in an obscene amount of drool that slowly drips down and off of his beard. It doesn’t seem like he’s all that concerned about how nasty he’s being, he certainly doesn’t show it. You choke on a sharp inhale when Islam directs his tongue to the middle of your cunt, poking, prodding—he takes a moment to just taunt you with the suggestion, before, at last, pressing the warm muscle of his tongue into you. 

Your body can’t help but reject it at first, clenching tight to keep Islam out, but the softened state of you quickly gives way when he presses his tongue right into the vulnerable center to just dip inside. It startles a squeal out of you, not realizing how much you’re already sweating, rocking forward with such a strong jolt that you almost tip yourself off balance on your elbows and land on your face. Islam is quick, though, and he unlatches one grip on your hip to instead settle it to anchor around your waist. What could you assume? Is Islam keeping you steady? Or is he stopping you from trying to escape? 

To your mute horror, Islam only yanks you back against him. 

You moan weakly, blindly reaching back to latch onto his thick wrists in an effort to anchor yourself even further, but he doesn’t even seem to notice, continuously tugging at your hips until he’s got you practically straddling his face, all but smothering. “Isu, you can’t–” A trembling breath spills past your lips. “Islam—!” 

His response is completely muffled to the point of being unintelligible, lost upon you on his mouth. At your practically upside down angle, your attention is drawn to the demanding erection laid at the flat of his stomach. Although, the muddy moisture in your eyes conceals him for the most part, much to your disappointment. A soft nude color gathers on the delicate tip, much like the hue of Islam’s eyelids. He had been hard before, but he was downright galvanized now, you almost couldn’t believe it. Your mouth runs dry at the glimmer of a beading drop of pre-cum, well, at least before it softly dribbles down onto the bedsheets.

To think that Islam had blamed you for the mess on the sheets. He held as much blame. 

Islam shifts underneath you then, pulling you away from your disbelief thoughts when he rolls his tongue up against your cunt and begins to prod at its center again. You seethe through your teeth, giving a weak little jerk of your hips in an attempt to loosen yourself from his grasp, but it's no use. Islam, as always, is horribly sturdy, even with the majority of your weight practically balanced in his hold, there’s no real chance of getting yourself free at this point. You wonder, briefly, if it felt the same for his opponents. 

“Islam, relax.” You groan, your elbow growing tired from keeping you balanced against the mattress. Impatiently sucking on your teeth, you add: “I’m not used to this.” 

Islam doesn’t seem to particularly like your suggestion, and he manhandles you further forwards until your spine bows enough to arch, until you can feel his coarse lips brushing over the seam of your cunt. You gasp at the sensation of sticky slick smearing across his beard and mouth, and still, it doesn’t seem to bother him any more than the spit had. Finding a pocket of empty space between your thighs, Islam hums, low and soft, the sound of it sending a reverb of tremors racing through your system. It’s almost starting to hurt now, and when you try to dismount from him in earnest this time, he merely tightens his hold around your hip. 

Heart hammering out a wild rhythm against your ribcage, you viciously dig your nails into his wrist in a desperate bid to keep yourself upright, but you ultimately let go to prop your elbow back onto the mattress, head hanging weakly. Islam is pressed so deeply into you, it’s a fleeting concern, you’re not sure how he isn’t suffocating himself like this. 

Islam is not phased. Not at all. 

He finds himself much more preoccupied with working his mouth further up your cunt so he can press the delicate bundle of nerves within, his tongue aggressively spearing through soft, satiny creases and folds until he, once again, knocks against your clit to make you involuntarily jolt. You try to kick your ankle, rightfully startled over the sensation that tears through you all at once—Islam huffs out a breath against your cunt. He wants to laugh.

There was so much accumulated slick and spit coating you, when Islam is pressing into you, a soft, wet click rings out through the air. Tongue curling out and up, Islam presses it flat over the apex of your slit and leisurely undulates the muscle to drag at that sensitive spot. Islam’s tongue swirls your clit with tight, narrow circles to knock it from all sides, before once again flattening. You think a breath was punched out of you, breath snagging enough to make your mind sway, lightheaded. There’s intense, shuddering shockwaves ripping through you, and the pressure is firm to make your thighs tremble around his head, the heat pooling in your guts abruptly heightens, drooling even more arousal to coat Islam’s face. 

Gravity is forcing you down and the need for stability is keeping you still, and it's not a struggle for Islam to keep you centered in the middle. No use for squirming even if you wanted to, your hips giving a tiny, restless nudge that only results in grinding against his face. There’s stars erupting in your vision when Islam works messy folds and creases apart so he can find that trimming bundle again, and you whine when he knocks it, clenching and unclenching around nothing. 

Islam seals his lips over your clit and gently worries it between his teeth. At this, you seethe sharply, and desperately try to lower your front closer to the mattress so you can nudge your cunt away from his mouth. Islam refuses to create any space between, and he licks you with broad, steady strokes of his tongue for a moment—before switching gears and flicking it back and forth. You give a violent jerk, nails gouging into the sheets. It’s suddenly harder to draw in a full breath than it was only a moment ago, and with your hips juddering, you unintentionally press back onto Islam’s face with a wounded gasp of pleasure. 

The series of half-stifled, frantic gasps aren’t enough to show how much you were feeling, and Islam keeps you pressed right up against him no matter how much you buck or twist—his hold on you was painful now. His fingertips dig into your skin hard enough to know that there will certainly be bruises, and it serves as a reminder of just how strong he was now. 

The back of your eyes are stinging with tears, you can feel that building coil inside of you, pulsating. Your cunt clenches uncontrollably against Islam’s face, practically drowning him in arousal—but he keeps lapping at you. 

Suddenly, though. 

Shaking his head, Islam presses further into you and settles somehow even deeper into your cunt, he opens his mouth wide, the drag of his lips against you makes you sob out in frustration as he drags his tongue straight up through you. 

Then, it stops, and Islam leans back. 

You whimper at the rush of cool air that runs through you internally, as when as the waft over your cunt, only emphasizing just how much of a sticky mess Islam had made of you, he loosens his grip, allowing you to slowly sink down to kneel on the bed and settle between his spread thighs. The muscles in your arms are grateful for the break, but why would he stop? Why—?

“You look tired.” He says, the sound of his rough hewn voice tearing you out of your reverie. 

Swallowing the nerves lodged in your throat, you had hardly finished swinging your leg over him before his hands moved on instinct and wrapped around the curve of your thighs, before pulling you flush to his face. Khamzat doesn’t waste time, there’s no point in it, not when his heart and his cock are competing on which could throb the hardest. His nose bumped into the apex of your mound, and a breath slips out of your mouth as you feel him, Khamzat’s breath smothered against the sensitive core of your body and an anticipatory shudder races down your spine. His tongue is against your wet slit and the sound is innocuous—and it makes Khamzat feel like he’s drowning. 

“Go slow.” You remind softly, yet despite this, you slowly undulate your hips so that you drag across his mouth—encouragement. You knew that Khamzat would do anything for you, so something as small as this was just a move of encouragement, inviting him. A tiny push to the right direction. 

There’s a small sound he makes when his lips trace along your silken folds. Khamzat was never known to be patient—using his name and that word in the same sentence was practically futile. It wouldn’t exist. He proves this in the way he leisurely spreads you open with his mouth, drawing his tongue along the crease of your cunt until he found what he was looking for. You’re saying something, perhaps a reminder of taking everything slow, but everything is so loud between your legs. Khamzat’s breaths echo, and everything is so—so wet. One of his hands leaves your hips to briefly skirt his rough fingertips against your abdomen in a feather-light touch, making the muscles contract and flutter. You suck in a quick breath, holding it in as he slowly inched his way lower. Khamzat followed the shape of you, over the dip of your navel before tracing a path back to your hip once more. 

It’s soft, a gentle comfort he provides before he takes a lap at your cunt, in a single, quick swipe, licking all the way from your entrance up to the little nub of your clit. Your hips jerked, instantly overwhelmed by the brilliant stars erupting across your vision. Your hands curl tightly, nails forming crescents into the center of your palms—you feel like you might topple right over when your thighs start to tremble embarrassingly fast. “Khamzat!” 

There’s a low groan that Khamzat returns to your low gasp, tilting his neck so he could continue from a different angle, the tip of his tongue insistently poking at the acutely sensitive bundle of nerves for a prolonged moment, teasing with quick flicks that encouraged more blood to rush and pool within your guts until you’re shifting at every minute drag of his tongue. Your legs jerked and you seethed through your teeth, hands desperate for something to hold onto, Khamzat had never expressed a desire for something like this, but he had convinced you to try it at least one time, so you agreed, and you had no idea how to brace yourself against him. Your eyes catch the edge of a stray blanket on the bed and you partially wonder if you could reach over and pull it over your face to muffle any sounds that might escape your lips—but the idea leaves like a tide on shore when Khamzat presses a hard kiss over your throbbing clit. 

It was only then that he pressed his tongue flat and drew tight, grinding circles that you jerked so hard you nearly lurched right off him. This was far more intense and more than just a little overwhelming, Khamzat knew this too, greedily lapping up your arousal like he was half-starved, focusing all his efforts on that tight bundle of nerves that was leaving you shaking uncontrollably. He catches on quickly, his breath smoothing against your mound as he tightens his grip on your thighs until you cry out against him, in protest or in pleasure you can’t really tell—but this is only made worse when Khamzat deliberately chooses to suck your clit right up into his mouth and lightly worry it. Your spine bows with a barely contained groan, thighs twitching around his head as you arch.

Khamzat pulls away to suck in a rough inhale. A soft, almost pained groan drifts over your inner thighs. “I love you.” Khamzat tries to say, but it sounds mangled against you. He’s burying his face deeper into the wet heat of your body until you’re not even sure he could breathe properly anymore. 

“Hold on—hold on!” Your voice is strained and hushed, barely above a whisper as your legs flex while you attempt to lift yourself up out of his reach. Something about the position Khamzat had you in added a far more intense feeling than normal, and you were quickly finding out how overwhelmed you became with it, the onslaught of stimuli overloading your senses to the point where it was just shy of being uncomfortable. It was almost unbearable, and you’re starting to reconsider the entire ordeal. 

But Khamzat was immediately on you again; licking, sucking, kissing and mouthing you right to the edge. Your fingers flex and curl into his own thighs as you tip forward, body twitching with every sloppy pass of his tongue. Khamzat shifted, trying to press himself closer as he slipped his arms to cradle your hips, yanking you back on top of him. The yelp that escapes you was one of surprise and you sway unsteadily—attempting to slouch forward again was useless because Khamzat was unrelenting—holding you right where you were as his tongue spears up into your entrance and continuously lapped up the arousal drenching your folds with quick, eager passes. 

“Khamzat, I told you to slow down.” You whisper as he goes lower, swirling your sopping cunt with his tongue. Your words were reciprocated with a muffled noise, and his nose bumps into the apex of your mound, gently nuzzling into you. From the top of your slit and straight down your entrance, pointedly nudging your clit with every stroke, you’re shaking so hard that your vision is starting to blur around the edges, heaving and groaning despite your best attempt to bite down on your lower lip and quiet yourself. Khamzat doubled down on his efforts with a haggard moan, the tip of his tongue prodding every part of your cunt more pointedly than before, sending sharp waves of static electricity shooting through your tingling nerves. Once again, he drew tight little circles around your clit, and you nearly came right up off of him for the second time, the pleasure was pulse pounding, hypersensitive and overwrought with mind numbing endorphins, you find yourself quickly unraveling under Khamzat’s mouth. 

You weakly try to angle your hips away from his mouth. Away from his tongue. Away from his hands. Away from the onslaught. 

Helplessly, you might add. Your fingers press against his hips beneath you, it was hard to keep the volume of your voice in check when Khamzat was swirling his tongue around your clit and drawing random, nonsensical patterns across it, which kept you from being able to brace yourself against his ministrations. You were trying—you were trying so hard. Trying in vain to swallow the sounds of your pleasure, all the while the familiar sting of tears could be felt in your eyes, filled with ecstasy. You knew you weren’t going to last long like this, it was too much, the tension in your stomach was already doubling down and folding over itself an infinite number of times until you could hardly stand how it felt. 

Khamzat’s response was practically nonsensible, muffled by the softness of your cunt and wholly incomprehensible as he determinedly followed you, not allowing you so much as a second of a moment’s reprieve. Everything in your head was so cloudy, shrouded with overwhelming pleasure that you had a feeling you wouldn’t have heard him even if he hadn’t been up to his nose in arousal though. 

He moans against you, his tongue completed another lap, pausing just long enough to dip into the heat of your body, before racing back up your aching cunt, trailing a sticky path up to your clit where Khamzat sealed his lips around the throbbing bundle of nerves and sucked—hard. You shriek in response, blindly reaching back to push against his head, attempting to once again pull free of his hold. It didn’t even come as a surprise when you found that escape from his mouth was completely impossible—Khamzat’s hands were digging into your hips to keep you still. His hold on you was as good as iron clad, leaving you completely at his mercy. Of which there was very little, if not any at all, and you weren’t sure if you could consider it a blessing or a curse in this particular moment. For a moment, it felt like you really did come up off of his face, your stomach muscles flexing, straining against the pressure as you braced your hands back onto his hips, using him as leverage to keep your desperate fervor at bay. The shaking your body was demonstrating was almost completely uncontrollable, Khamzat was much more intense than you were used to experiencing. 

The nerves in your body were on fire, and you were unable to do anything except endure when he kept his big hands latched onto the curve of your hips. For whatever reason, Khamzat had allowed you to move just a few moments ago, but now you were trapped.  

“No more, Khamzat, no more–” You cried out with abandon. “Khamzat, please!” 

You were completely bowled over by this, practically reeling under the insistent ministrations of Khamzat’s mouth. Whether it was a result of the position he had you in or because you were so hyperfocused on what was happening, you felt overly responsive. Every minute shift of his tongue, the way his lip curled against your clit, the shallow breaths he drew every other minute or so—it left you writing so energetically that Khamzat groaned in protest beneath you. Consciousness rapidly receded to a tiny, vibrating pinprick that consisted entirely of your flushed opening and his mouth, you were entirely helpless to do anything except let the crashing waves of pleasure swallow you up. You were trapped with nowhere to go except down on Khamzat’s face, and you found yourself involuntarily swiveling your hips as release drew nearer. 

The knowledge that there was no conceivable way Khamzat could properly breathe swarmed your mind, but any attempt to voice your concerns came out as nothing more than choking moans and gasps. He didn’t even make an attempt to pull up for some no doubt much-needed air though, and it was that persistent pressure of Khamzat’s tongue that inevitably sent you spiraling into a full-bodied orgasm with a stuttering, half-stifled shriek. 

Effectively squeezing your thighs shut around his head when it all became too much, Khamzat merely grunted, speeding up his ministries and blindly reaching up to palm your ribcage. You’re heaving under his palms, it felt like you were alight with flames, it was hard to breathe around it as your mind was a mess of white noise—you clamped your teeth into the plush of your bottom lip as you jerked wildly, your cunt contracting around nothing so hard it nearly felt agonising. The tears that had been building in your eyes spilled just slightly as you screwed them shut, riding out the soaring heights of ecstasy. Khamzat’s name spills out of your mouth with a hiss, and you unconsciously grind down on his face throughout the throes of your orgasm, indescribably satiated despite the woeful emptiness. 

You’re frantic on top of him, and he’s quick to force you to sit up straighter, eager to press your cunt even harder against his face, eager to pull you closer than ever. That sharp, immodest tongue of Khamzat’s seemed completely unperturbed by your keening sob and it relentlessly stabbed into you as far as it could go in search of more. It felt like your soul slipped right out of your body for a split second, and it tore through you with all the destructiveness of a hurricane. The bed shuddered beneath the both of you, springs creaking softly, and yet through it all Khamzat kept at it. Like you were the sweetest thing he’d ever taste. 

Your head was hanging slack as your jerked and trembled atop Khamzat’s face, he had thankfully slowed to a more subdued pace, lips pursing around your clit and gently mouthing you through your orgasm, it had stretched well past the point of discomfort until you finally collapse across him, your hips still twitching in a weak attempt to drain his mouth of something it simply didn’t have to give. It was an instinctual drive that made you try.

When you collapsed forward, you lifted off of his face enough for him to see all of you, quivering and sopping wet. A glossamer thread of sticky arousal that had been connecting you to Khamzat’s lips breaks softly and clings to his beard, the ends curled softly—a result of you. 

Mindlessly, Khamzat picks up his head and leans forward to lick at you some more, broad strokes from your clit up to your twitching entrance. A soft, frazzled sound of defeat slipped out of you as you tried to blink out the stars from your eyes, trying to recollect yourself, it was dizzying, the heights at which Khamzat had forced you to climb in search of gratification. Despite your sensitive complaints, he continued to mouth at you. 

Slumped against him while you took stuttering mouthfuls of wet, gasping breaths, you dazedly tried to reorient yourself to no avail. The room almost felt like it was spinning, everything was impermanent and intangible—save the unyielding man beneath you. 

“Let go of me, Khamzat.” You try again weakly, almost distressed. You were well past the point of overstimulation now, and you try to angle your hips away from him. Khamzat’s hands press down onto your hips to keep you from moving, and you whine under your breath—assuming he was going to indulge in the taste of you for the rest of the night—but he simply keeps you from moving. Pulling away from you, Khamzat’s head slumps backwards against the pillows, his chest heaving as he inhales greedy mouthfuls of air, like he had just ran a marathon, or finished a particularly hard training session. 

Serves him right, you think to yourself, as if you weren’t in a similar breathless state. 

Sore, and still thrumming with the flood of endorphins flowing through your system, you stared dazedly off into nothing. You never realized what a big difference such a simple change in position could make. 

“I’m never letting you do that again.” You say, unable to help yourself. Khamzat smiles in response, the pull of the scar on his upper lip leaving a noticeable crease in the skin, a feature that always made you want to kiss him.

“You say this now, but look how much you liked it.” Khamzat laughs, it’s high strung and wheezy, it doesn’t help the way his hands smooth down your hips to settle between your legs, caressing over you, the beds of his thumbs spreading your slit to reveal its flushed, twitching hole. 

Khamzat sighs dazedly, still trying to catch his breath. “I have to train harder.” 

For a brief moment, you think you’ve finally caught your breath, but it bursts right out of you in a sucker punched groan when Khamzat presses one of his thumbs into the spot right over your sticky entrance, as if encouraging it to slacken and spread for him. His index finger slips into the space between petal soft folds and overly sensitive skin, aiming for your clit. You violently twitch as soon as Khamzat knocks it, dragging his finger up and over before gradually coming back down again. Up and down. Slow and steady. You turn your head, a faltering sound of wanting is smothered into the bedsheets. 

You weren’t sure how much more of it you could take. 

“That’s too much.” You say, jolting as if you were struck by lightning. Your words turn Khamzat’s grin into something truly salacious. 

“It’s too much.” He mocks, but he listens, he always listens when it comes to you. Khamzat continues to look at you, seething a quiet sound and closing his eyes as if he were in physical pain. 

It’s regretfully short lived though, and you stiffen when his fingers abruptly find your slit once more, wasting no time pushing two digits into the sticky mess you’ve made—as if to emphasize his infuriating personality—he gives you a taunting wiggle for good measure. A small push, a tiny amount of carefully applied pressure is all it took to have his fingers sinuously sliding up into you. The sudden pressure on your upper wall causes you to clench around him as the tension from before returns to your gut. When the first joint makes it through, the rest of his finger follows easily, and Khamzat presses into you, straight down to the knuckle. Your mouth drops open as if you were about to let out some kind of moan, but all that materializes is a little wounded sound. You bask in the friction as much as the stretch, rocking forward on your knees, but you’re thoroughly trapped between his legs and you can’t shake the impression of being one of his opponents in the octagon. It quickly becomes apparent that Khamzat definitely wanted to drag this scandalous position out for as long as possible.

The internal pressure was slowly swelling into new, dizzying heights, and you were groaning a gutted sound into the bedsheets, gasping for breath. 

Khamzat nudged at your hip. “Hey, none of that now. Come on, don’t get lazy.” He sighs, sounding disappointed and rueful in equal measure. 

That was certainly easy for him to say, but you couldn’t claim to be in agreement with the sentiment, in fact, you don’t think you could say anything at all at this moment. Still, you push yourself to try and listen to him. Shuddering, you gingerly shift to hold yourself up on shaky arms, palms pressing into the mattress. The motion forces your cunt to stretch around Khamzat’s fingers, taking him in even further until it felt like he was just short of touching your cervix. You sway unsteadily, a low, gutted moan drafting through your lips. 

Khamzat rewards your compliance with a bruising squeeze around your thigh.

It’s a struggle to get your body to relax around his fingers instead of tensing up sound them, you had already been teetered so close to the edge just moments ago—but you could somehow manage to reach a purgatorial state. You could somehow try and hand in the balance. 

Khamzat didn’t seem to be doing this for his own gain or satisfaction, though, and you doubted he was even really doing it for yours. That’s what you think, at least.

A shudder rushes through you in a violent manner, and you bite back a whine in your throat, deliriously trying your best to reign your control back in. The throb deep within you involuntarily starts up again, mirroring the frantic pounding of your heart while your hips weakly twitch with the onset of an orgasm you hopelessly try to stop. 

Khamzat knows it’s no use, though, he has wounded you up too tight, stretched you thin, and he almost laughs at the feeling of your clenching around his fingers so tight it actually almost hurts. He listens to you suck in a sharp, trembling gasp, and you desperately fist your shaking hands into the bedsheets—clutching at them as you’re wrecked by an abrupt onslaught of spasms that rocked you straight down to your very soul. 

You were just on the edge of the line of another orgasm after the lack of recovery from the first one that it actually started to become painful—and you once again do your best to pull yourself up off of his fingers.

“Please.” You beg, vainly squirming in his too tight grasp. Khamzat still doesn’t permit that, merely tightening his hands around you as needed. He was driving you insane in a way that made you almost want to hit him. One of your hands is steady enough to keep you balanced, and the fingerbeds of your opposite hand tap against his thigh three times. 

A soft groan bubbled up in your throat as you squirmed at the pleasure streaked pain. 

Khamzat retracts his fingers, slowly, giving in to your soft noises. 

“You’re tired already? We haven’t even started.” He says, shifting in his position. Khamzat sits up and leisurely adjusts you with his hold on your hips, settling you above his lap with a quick and easy grunt. Khamzat was strong, and his firm physique showed that it was easy to see the physical differences between man and woman just by having you pressed against him. 

You feel it then, a soft nudge against your lower abdomen that sends your heartbeat lurching back into overdrive—it’s an instinctive reaction—you don’t need to look down to see what it was that pressed against your front, and Khamzat only clutched you tighter against him, keeping you in place. 

“I’ll go slow this time, I promise.” His voice is softer now, and you can’t really pick up any teasing undertones. Khamzat bends his head close to your shoulder, and you wince at the feeling of his damp forehead against your equally sweaty skin. “See? This way you won’t get tired. I’ll do all the work.” Khamzat’s expression is poking fun at you, in a way, dark brows knitted to create a small crease between them, his eyes slightly pinched. You could barely see the dull green of his irises through thick lashes. It's a struggle to swallow down your nerves, but you find your voice and manage somehow. 

“You promise you’ll go slow? Promise me.” 

“Maybe.” 

You don’t think you like the look of his eyes on you very much. It seemed like Khamzat was contradicting himself and what he was very clearly telling you was: “I do what I want.” 

Khamzat sucks in such a sharp breath you can almost feel it rattling around inside his chest where you’re pressed up right against him, moulding your back to the firm planes of his front. His hands drop to your waist, taking a bruising hold of your hips to press your lower body equally flush with his. Khamzat is stiff as he shifts his weight, redistributing his balance to the full center of his body, angling his pelvis away from you. You rock with the motion, following his movements without really meaning to, staying pressed against him. Khamzat reaches one hand down to hook a thumb into the waistband of his briefs, blindly tugging them just enough to slip himself out. 

Your whole body flushes, warming to the point of real discomfort, but Khamzat doesn’t give you enough time to fully process any of it. Not the unexpected burn of the curling tendril of wanting low in your abdomen. Not even the fact that you could feel the full weight of him in between your thighs. 

There’s no mistaking the press of him now, the way it dug into your front, being able to feel the faint pulse of him between your thighs, Khamzat was lined up so perfectly with the seam of your cunt like it naturally belonged there. It almost feels like you had suddenly forgotten how to breathe again, Khamzat stiffly rolls his pelvis and grinds into you, slow, yet eager at the same time, before he goes still again. Testing you. 

You pointedly push back on him, meeting his next stiltedly excited thrust. Khamzat’s fingers bite into the curve of your hips in return, clutching at you so desperately, you had a feeling that there would be some bruising blooming in the same spots the next morning. That doesn’t really matter right now, though, not when Khamzat curls in tight against you. He presses a hard kiss against your temple in a coaxing manner, and you tip your head back towards him. 

Khamzat angles his mouth down and slots it against your own in a kiss that is equal parts tentative and demanding, the heightened state of his desperation is blatant in the hard press of his lips, the hungry pull of him that never fails to lure you into his axis. Khamzat drags his palms away from your waist to grab onto the sides of your upper legs, pressing them more tightly together around him. The simple slide of him along your still overly-sensitive slit is hot, tiny sparks flashing behind your eyes. Khamzat knows he has to keep moving, he knows he has to chase that pinprick ember of satisfaction, and he only reinforces that when he pulls you back to meet the next enthusiastic thrust of his hips. 

A moan is caught in Khamzat’s throat at the soft, wet click, and he tips his face down to look at you. The sight of you so bare, over the curves of your abdomen and lower, he can just make out that the head of him nudging out from between your legs, blooming for but a brief moment before retreating back into the tight squeeze. You let out a soft sigh, rocking in time with Khamzat’s steady thrusts, the difference in size was a good thing, it ensured that he would stay pressed up tight against you, constantly knocking your cunt with a fleshy jostle whether he was pulling out or pushing in. 

Groaning as if he’d been sucker punched right in the gut, Khamzat leans further into you until his weight presses you down into a half stooped position, skin sticking to your back. His body heat bleeds into you, warming you up far more than anything in the world ever could. You unintentionally squeeze the muscles in your thighs to keep them locked in place, and you’re sinking deeper and deeper into ecstasy as Khamzat’s thrusts sent fresh bursts of static energy coursing through your system, further highlighting the sensitivity of your aching clit, luxuriating the fleshy drag of his stiff length against your opening. 

Khamzat keeps his rhythm slow and even, but so vigorous that it pushes you forward. The slick dampness that oozes out of you is worse than before, but it smoothes the glide of him between your legs. It’s overwhelming, and you can’t really think straight. Khamzat shudders, never faltering no matter how wild you get or how hard you shake as he presses against you a little harder each time—the firm, unyielding planes of his pelvis meeting with your backside, hard, fast. The distant tickle of his coarse beard skimming across the smooth flesh of your shoulder. The low, guttural sounds Khamzat makes against the side of your face nearly had you drowning in them. 

His thick, callous worn fingers curled, the jolts of pleasure he was experiencing were so intense it was riding on the line of being overwhelming. You press yourself back into him with mindless desperation, hips seemingly moving on their own even as you’re oversensitive, judderingly grinding yourself down on him, on that length pressed up right into you. 

“A little more.” Khamzat quietly wheezes under his breath, his thumbs smoothing over the flesh of your thighs. Your name slips past his lips in a breathy plea. “Just a little more.” It’s apparent in the way he was so insistent with his ministrations, encouraging you to keep moving your slit back and forth against him—a slow, encouraging pull anytime your pace begins to falter and you unintentionally slow down. All you can feel was the touch of Khamzat’s hands, his lips brushing the back of your neck when he kisses the burning flesh there, the constant motion of his thighs flexing behind you, driving himself unendingly into the hot, damp spot between your legs. Khamzat’s taller, wider frame trembling against yours with all the pent up tension running through it that so perfectly mirrors your own. 

Your hands reach to grasp onto Khamzat’s muscle-corded forearms, using the leverage to draw him against you at a quicker pace, allowing him to snap his pelvis into you with greater ferocity. He issues a wounded, faltering grunt into your hair, and he doesn’t fight it. 

“Oh.” Khamzat rattles out, gritting through tightly clenched teeth while he fucked himself between your thighs, pistoning in and out of the tight squeeze of you like a jackhammer. 

The breakneck speed at which he ruts into you effectively steals the air from your lungs though and all you can really do is just hold onto him, clutching at his powerfully flexing arms to ground yourself—unknowingly encouraging him. Khamzat doesn’t need more encouragement, yet, that one little nudge from you was more than enough. You should have known that he couldn’t truly be polite or gentle with you. At least, not when you had him reduced to this. The friction against your slit is amplified until it seems to blur into a tingle, persistent tingle that just grows and grows to the point of delirium—Khamzat can’t help himself. Not anymore. 

A shaky moan snakes out of Khamzat, his fingers faltering, quickly readjusting to latch back on. What little rope of self-control he had been holding onto—holding onto—dissapates like dust in the wind, and he clings onto you so hard it brings tears to your eyes. 

The demanding press of his fingers sinking into your flesh sends you over the edge with a sudden, lurching jolt as your opening clenches up and squeezes uncontrollably against Khamzat’s cock, who makes a sound that almost sounds high-strung, a sound of desperation. You tremble, but not as violently as he does in the throes of his release waiting just at the edge of the cliff, he just keeps humping into you like he’d die if he didn’t chase his own pleasure quickly enough. The continuous drag over your slit draws out even more involuntary spasms, and you can’t help but dig your nails into his flesh in racking bliss. 

You watch, dumbly, as Khamzat’s flushed tips appear between the silky press of your legs, disappearing quickly and reappearing again just a split second later—he’s pounding into you so fast and so hard—that you find yourself in a trancelike stupor, barely even registering the moan he lets out right against your shoulder blade. This time, his tip appears with an eruption of cum that shoots out to splatter across your stomach and thighs, most of it smearing over the skin where the two of you are connected. Khamzat hisses like his soul was actively trying to leave his body, haltingly slowing down to a stiff roll of his hips that makes the length of him nudge back and forth, just enough to drain the rest of himself. Another spurt rushes out, beading at the tip for a short stretch of seconds before it spills over to drip onto the bedsheets between your legs. It joins the rest of the mess Khamzat had made on you. 

You struggle to get a grip on reality once more after what had just transpired, the afterglow was soft and sweet, but the moment was shattered when Khamzat straightened up. 

“You’re more awake now, aren’t you?” Khamzat laughs, bemused, and you can’t quite bring yourself to lift your gaze again. Your heart gives a tiny little thump against your ribcage, before you finally look at him. Looking at Khamzat felt like looking at graffiti; he was lawless and beautiful all at the same time. 

“You say that like it’s a good thing.” You huff. 

“It is a good thing.” He graces you with a look of his eyes that was no less frustratingly charming, as well as a bit infuriating. “It means we can go again.” 

He arrived at the wedding with a bead of sweat on his forehead, having misjudged the distance from the house to the reception, and here he was sweating. During the winter season no less! It's a big wedding, the chances of guests needing to rotate through the reception was very high, and he had only just arrived less than half an hour ago. The smell of food tickles Usman’s brain and his eyes narrow, exhaling into the frigid chill of a Dagestan afternoon. Amru had more than likely wandered deeper into the crowd for a reprieve from whatever sweatbox they were being housed in, since the initial goal was to sneak a plate of food and head straight home. Usman does his best to rebuild the image of Amru in his head—reminding himself to remember what he had been wearing if he needed to look for him later on. Melodic samples wove through the atmosphere in the form of songs, each crowd member so engrossed into their conversations that their reflections on the glossy floors seemed to be paused in time. 

Usman nurses on his water, there’s a meditative pause in the music each time he finds himself turning his head, as if it knew he needed to focus. It seems as though the world knew what he was looking for. Who he was looking for.

How can he shake off this desire? It began as a small, robust, imperfect seed, and Usman—being the impulsive, uninhibited young man he was—he let it grow. He wasn’t stupid, of course, he knew that because of this seed’s growth, he knew that the reciprocation wouldn’t be guaranteed, that he would never see you again. It was a summer month when Usman met you for the first time, and you had left him with an unending night, something tormentive in its own right, but you left him regardless. Splitting ways like you knew he would find himself falling asleep alone with just the memories of you. He remembers how his eyes followed you, admiringly, and you had no idea that you were being watched. A disappointment on Usman’s end, of course. His concentration was supposed to be on his coach, his training, his career; only, like everybody else in the camp that day, he would have preferred to watch you. 

Usman cranes his neck once more, using the tips of his toes as leverage as his eyes danced over heads in an effort to scan his surroundings. He didn’t want to go through those tomorrows anymore, the ones where the days will be long and the nights will be even longer. 

Resolving desire was easy. Starting off as a seed, why not let it bloom?

There were a few women who waved their hands gaily at Usman, who was absorbed in what he was looking for and took no notice. He had to be careful with these guests—it was best to curb them from the beginning. 

Usman thinks back briefly to that summer night, where he grinned at you in the darkness, looking at you, cherishing the way you touched his arm as you laughed hard at a joke of his. He remembers the type of smile you have; the kind where you want to laugh to yourself and keep the amusement contained, but you laughed freely anyway, serving it as encouragement for him to go on. Usman hopes he could see that again, that same wry smile which you used in order to contain your laughter to yourself. Usman wonders if he could spend the rest of his days like that with you—inside of that world that was created in the mountains—in a world that had a tendency to engulf even the most alive. 

The sun poured through the windows facing east across the building of the reception, flooding the room, and there were open doors leading into the second floor reception which was full of many, many lovely things. Especially flowers. Usman could smell the delicate fragrances coming through the doors and floating around the guests. Daffodils were not common in Dagestan, and Usman nearly found himself following the botanical fragrance, as if that would help the scent reach his senses better.

It seems like he's even starting to smell you. 

Usman pauses, frowning to himself as he tries to reach for the right expression. 

Still, before he could try anything, a forehead appeared in his vision, followed by a soft set of eyebrows and a pair of narrowed eyes, wary and watchful. Usman mused for a moment, while he had taken no notice of Umar’s no-nonsense persona, nothing could affect the older brother, of course; nothing that his younger brother did. He was far too solidly seated in respectability. At Umar’s back stood a guilty looking Amru, no longer appearing as amused or delightful as he did when they first snuck into the wedding reception just moments prior. It seems like they would both be leaving with empty hands, an empty stomach, and perhaps in Usman’s case—an empty heart.

“What’s gotten into you, Usman? You haven’t been listening at all these days.” Umar says, it's less of a question and more like an involuntary statement. The young man struggles with his discomfort, it continues, and when Usman notices that Umar’s face isn't changing, he relents. A gladiator meeting his match. He didn’t want to tarnish his beloved bond with his brother he's relied on since childhood—someone who he could turn to for support and countenance. 

“I don’t mean to. Sorry.” 

“You’re lucky none of these people asked you both to dance. Let’s go, you don’t even know this couple.” Umar says, making an attempt to convert to Usman that he knew the real reason as to why he had snuck into a random wedding, and it wasn’t for a free plate of food. "Stop listening to Islam and Tagir. Sneaking into weddings isn't a good way to get free food."

“Wait,” Said Amru, a desperate undertone to his voice. “Can I at least try and sneak a plate of food? None of our brothers can cook and I’m tired of eating eggs.” 

“No!” Exclaimed Umar, irritated; what an unnatural and inappropriate thing to do at a stranger’s wedding. He turned more markedly than ever to Usman. “And you! Keep walking!” 

They move to the ground floor of the reception, and time is trailing after Usman, unable to keep up with him. Time is running out, he thinks, time is running out. The reflection of the lights dance upon the floors, winking off the jewelry from the bride’s dress. Usman’s fingers reach out from his side, his fingertips grazing the railings as they make their way down the steps—like he was trying to catch the light. 

As he does so, the balance in the atmosphere shifts, and his head makes a slow descent into the tips of a pair of heels, coming to rest for a tender moment. Usman glances upwards before he could even register what he was doing, was this a test? A trick? If so, it must be curbed, there was no way Usman could have lived in any real comfort with himself who had a seed like love growing deep into the depths of his heart and mind. 

Usman looks at you the more steps you take up the steps—with your parted hair and gentle brows. No; this was no accident, nor was it a test or a trick, this could not have been produced by god, this was produced by Usman himself. 

As you come, you go, laughing as you rise up to reach for the elegant glow of the bride on the second floor. That summer night was the first time Usman was able to see the sheer sheen that sat upon your eyes when you laugh, the one that bloomed from the sweet conversations on his bruised lips, and the taste of your kiss perched on his tongue. 

Yet, here in this moment, Usman could see it again. You stand in the queue of the stairs, your dress like two sheets underneath the light, swaying in a man-made breeze. Slender fingers dance across his own as you pass, as if you were searching for him, too. Usman wonders if any of his brothers had seen him perform his jokes for you that night, if they heard two strangers performing their truths for each other, or if they felt the same energy that was flourishing right in this very moment? Your touch is almost scalding, peeling back Usman’s layers like you were peeling the soft flesh of fruit. 

And you’re comfortable, so comfortable with the concept of playing with Usman's heart. So you look at him, slowly and carefully, as you weave further upstairs towards your dear friend who has just become a wife. 

Usman’s head turns, and he watches, carefully, practically burning the image of you into his heart once more, the sweat has been building up and he nearly finds himself exhausted with breathless excitement. 

He calls your name, unable to control the smile from tugging on his lips. 

You don’t think to tell him about that summer night, about how you would repeat his jokes to your friends like they were the funniest things in the world, because they were, in a way. So much so that you would know when there was a break in his words, and where it would pick up again. You don’t realize that you’re holding in a breath, and you were, but you don’t know—and when you exhale, it's small, and a smile spreads on your face as you come to terms with your own loss. 

You know all of Usman, a young man with so much soul. 

And for a moment, you think that the two of you have never been strangers. Usman does not want to leave you, because leaving meant that the small, fragile, and absolutely perfect seed would have to die in its current bloom and that is something that he was not willing to relinquish. 

As if you were a light Usman could not hold, as if you were a painting he could not touch, you’re taken away noiselessly in the crowd of guests. A sound slips from his throat that he cannot quite work out. 

He was not careful, and as a result, a border was breached. That small, robust, imperfect seed has seemingly blossomed in the wrong season, and Usman wonders how he will tell this story to his brother who will ask, because there will be questions. He wonders if a simple ‘Nothing happened.’ would work.

It pressed down on the ridge of your spine as your thoughts are spun with the thought of your brother. Your heart feels heavy with Zubaira’s words once more, as they were following that fight you had with him—how coldly you spoke with each other, haughty in his proclamations of you being too careless and not getting married, lacking a self-made family. Zubaira was dull with his own words, as if he had become accustomed to the truth. It had been hours since he had stormed out of the house, but it felt like centuries. 

Time feels suddenly slow, it's slow and sticky like the circles Khabib rubs against your clit, the passage, the moments, all of it seemed to yawn and stretch out for silent eternities before passing into the next. You suddenly can’t remember how long you had been pressed against two firm bodies. Perhaps a lifetime? Or maybe even a heartbeat? 

One of Islam’s hands cradles your face, and it could be the only thing keeping you grounded to the world. He thumbed across your cheekbone gently, you nearly considered it a kiss. Your insides feel knotted and twisted, every single nerve being set to a vibrating fever pitch and you nearly swayed almost imperceptibly, as if the room was starting to spin around you. Islam was no better than you—he thinks he’s being swallowed up like a sailor lost out at sea, bobbing helplessly with the rise and fall of the waves sweeping him further and further away from the shore and into the hurricane. You leaned forward with rapt attention, Islam draws a tentative breath to speak, entirely focused on you. His pupils had devoured so much of his irises, they nearly appeared black. 

“Be careful.” A soft look flitted across his face then, half-shy and half-amused, eyes picking up off of your face to look at the individual behind you. “There’s someone behind you. He’s restless.” 

You would have been startled—if it weren't for the fact that you knew who the other pair of hands belonged to. Instead of icy confusion rushing in, the warm, muddled euphoria continued to surge through your system as Islam’s brows made a reach for his hairline in a cheeky manner. Khabib’s hand left your hip to reach forward and shove against Islam’s head, there was no real malicious intent behind it, and Islam seemed more bemused than anything else, the skin at the corners of his dewy green eyes wrinkled slightly with the force of the grin he pinned you with. 

A shiver crawled upwards your spine just a moment later when a pair of hands slid over your shoulders to wrap around your neck from behind. Khabib pulled, forcing you to tilt your head backwards at an uncomfortable angle while he leaned over—shoving his mouth together with yours, it's a kiss that's just as feverishly hungry as every other kiss he provides for you. You can’t help but revel in the taste of Khabib on your tongue, you could feel the warmth of him, and how hard he was at the pelvis. Any unease instantly subsided within the simmering burn of comfort he radiated. Khabib can’t stop himself from smiling into the kiss, breaking apart from you only when your lungs were just starting to ache. He leaves a path of goosebumps in their wake as his hands trail down off your neck—releasing you. 

You leaned forward to brace your forehead against the support of Islam’s shoulder in an attempt to find your bearings, and the embrace from him comes easily, keeping you interlaced with him.

Islam doesn’t say anything—smothering a kiss to the crown of your head—his eyes watch how Khabib’s hands graze down your sides, capturing the way you tensed at the contact of his knuckles against your skin, before one of them slips between your bare legs, two of his fingerbeds tracing around your entrance, prodding, swiping over the accumulated fluid and then smearing it towards your clit. There’s a full-bodied jolt that rips through you. Islam huffs in amusement, keeping his arms locked around you, watching as Khabib casually drew unhurried little circles around the sensitive cluster of nerves. Tortuous, pinprick pleasure is streaking through your guts, and it's too fast for you. Too fast, and you can’t comprehend it. 

Islam has this sort of laugh. It’s warm and breezy, with a vague note of something boyish lurking just below the surface. 

“Told you he’s restless.” Islam drawled with a somewhat reassuring smile, breaking away from the embrace. The sincerity that lurked behind his statement made you want to laugh at how playful he was being in the moment—he pecked over your eyebrow, sweetly, and you hum as Khabib pulls his hands away from you. There’s a kiss pressed to your honey-hued shoulder, and while you can’t see Khabib’s grin, you can feel it. It’s all sharp edges and teeth. 

“Don’t act like you aren’t restless either.” Khabib mocks, no one would put his name and patient in the same sentence, and it proved in the way he took one of your hands and placed it over Islam’s crotch, letting you feel him through the briefs. 

Your face warms as Khabib uses your hand to palm Islam over his undergarments, his forwardness has never failed to make both you and Islam speechless. 

Shuddering, Islam’s hips twitch hard before his eyes flit over your shoulder with a pointed look, your attention pauses on the column of his neck, watching as he swallows hard around his suddenly bone dry throat, much too forcibly for comfort. The effect you had on him unnerved Islam as much as it exhilarated him, boiling blood rushed to pull in his intestines even as he averted your gaze. Khabib heaves a satiated sigh, taking a second to give the cheeks of your face a tight squeeze before that same hand circled to press against the back of your head, forcing you to lower down and face the print of Islam’s excitement. You shuddered, hard enough that something in your lower vertebrae might have popped. 

“Look, look, look. Look how excited he is.” Khabib’s brows shot up in over exaggerated surprise, his voice playful, almost cooing. “Take care of Isu, okay?” He shifts forward to force a peck on the curve of your ear.

You’re listening to Khabib before you could even fully comprehend what he told you, pressing the flat of your palm against Islam’s front and squeezing softly. Your body is thrumming with nervous energy, and you have the right to assume Islam may be nervous too, not because the two of you got to let these instincts take over, but because it was Khabib. There was no room for argument that you wanted to so badly please him too—and while it wasn’t obvious, Islam had similar intentions—the thought of disappointing him filled you with dread, making your hands tremble as you carefully hook your thumbs into the band of Islam’s briefs. 

Islam’s fingers came forth in favor to tangle into your hair, closing down around the roots and urging you closer with a soft tug. Your breath is settled in your throat, the heat rushing to your face is almost unbearable, but you acquiesced and leant forward into his pelvis until your nose seemed like it was mere inches from the bulge hiding just beneath the cotton. 

Islam shivers for a moment, leaning over himself so that he might spare you from the urge to shove himself into your mouth, he’s so sincere in his effort. The sound of Khabib kissing his teeth rings out as he reaches forward to cup the dip of Islam’s chin, urging him to straighten himself back up. “Don’t do that. I can’t see her properly.” Khabib tugs Islam’s head towards the side in a mock shake of ‘yes’ and ‘no’, he’s being playful even when he knows any remnant of Islam’s brain could be practically liquified. Khabib thinks that it’s not exactly like Islam is choosing to misbehave, he supposes it can’t be easy to hold back. 

There’s a grunt in Islam’s throat that he swallowed as he batted Khabib’s hold away, focusing on the way he was brought back to his senses from you pushing the layer of clothing down past his thighs. He shuffles about to re-adjust, the mattress creaking softly, the wet, soft tip of his cock dabbed at your bottom lip. Your mouth briefly pauses, eyes drawn to his strong hips and the crenulated imprint left behind by the band of his briefs, you lean forward to press a soft kiss against it before pulling away. Islam takes himself in-hand, shoulders broad as he allows a sigh to escape him. Everything in your mind had been muted, and the only thing you could focus on was the tacky, sticky sounds clicking from the gaps of his fingers. To think that once upon a time Islam had been reticent with you. 

Something soft rubs hard against your clit, prodding with a soft insistent and shocking precision, it strikes your lovely, indrawn abdomen. The touch is so raw and acute it yanks you away from your haze in an instant—your insides are throbbing—you could feel the embers of Khabib’s forlorn with each of his movements. One of his hands smoothes upwards your supple, bare back, the bed of his thumb tracing each curve of your vertebrae before you feel a warm droplet cooling on the small of your tail end, and now you know Khabib is really impatient.

“There you go.” Khabib urges you. 

Islam’s stomach is tight with a line of tension, and you watched as he oozed pre-cum in soft, thick rivulets. Your hand closes around his pulsating cock, squeezing a bit harder until Islam grunts, his hands making reach to grab your head—but he falters, caught between trying to free himself and bucking forward. The bare muscles of his arms stiffen as he tried and failed to center himself, you swipe your thumb over the tip a few times, as if you were trying to soothe an ache. Your hand works him slowly from base to tip, squeezing out a clear, small droplet. You smear it back and forth over your lips. “F-Fu–” Islam hisses, as if this whole thing were some type of brutal inconvenience, heat coiling torturously in his gut at the sight. You’ve heard Islam curse before, but there was never any hoarse frustration behind it like now, where it threaded between your legs, where he settled in the palm of your hand with a wild, pulsing want. 

Islam’s free hand grazes your jaw, encouraging you to open up. A wave swelled underneath his heart, and—from his view—there’s you, naked and kneeling. You! Peeking at him through each fragile fracture of your lashes, the lights in the room almost winking off the surface of your skin. 

The flavor of Islam bloomed across your tongue, he leaned further into you until the peaks of his fingers brushed against your hair once again, briefly teasing some of your loose flyaways. Fresh sparks of pleasure raced throughout your body, and you breathe as best as you can with your nose buried in his crotch. Islam is beautiful. He’s beautiful when he is suffering, he’s beautiful when he is in your hands, and he is beautiful when he is on your tongue—velvet and scalding. 

Khabib swallows thickly as you drag your hips back and forth in slow, little motions, gliding the length of him between your silken folds. The pressure from your thighs has him nearly trembling—he’s well aware that he has the option to empty himself onto you by now if it weren’t for the fact that Islam was having his turn first. Khabib’s fingers press just shy of your clit, pulling a reaction out of you. 

Islam twitched enthusiastically and you suddenly felt him poking at the back of your throat, making you gag before you could catch yourself. Drawing back for a gasp of air, you were only given but a split second to breathe before the hands Islam had in your hair was bringing you back down—the muscles in his arms flexed, exerting enough pressure to force you down onto his length once again. Reflexive tears sprung up into your eyes, blurring your vision as you try to have your muscles relax, it feels like a useless endeavor though, and, using his grip on your hair, Islam kept your head down until the glands slipped into your throat. 

Khabib slots his own hips against you, pushing forward with a stifled hiss, nudging your little concentration of nerves with the head of his cock—he pulls back, and then pushes forward again—adapting a steady rhythm in fucking the crux of your thighs. A fleeting thought flickers behind Khabib’s eyes, entertaining the idea of having you orgasm, now that he has you here.

Can Khabib make you cum like this? Have you gushing on him while Islam grinds against your face? A pang of excitement snatched his heart, the idea tapering into a palpitating point before it vanished. 

The head of Khabib’s length catches on your slit, pressing in half an inch before sliding along your vulva once more, he chokes back a gasp, stilling for a few moments before he does it again. You jerked, one hand slapping against Islam’s thigh while the other fisted against the bedsheets, choking over the intrusion. Islam doesn’t seem to notice, casually holding you down while Khabib palms over the softness of your hips, smoothing them over in such a way that he can settle a shameless gaze on your soaked opening. He catches another twitch of your pelvic muscles, and you feel his response, a heavy throb. Khabib kneels close to position himself over you, one of his hands pushing your head to encourage you to take more of Islam while the other spreads you open just a little more to enjoy watching what he’s doing.

Heaving when your stomach squeezed so tight you thought for sure you’d pass out, your spine dipped with a wet, muffled gurgle. Every muscle in your body twitched and you weakly retched around Islam’s cock, struggling to breath, lashes matted with moisture. 

The girth of Khabib opens you with such an ache that you flinch, savoring the stretch of him is difficult to do when you’re half delirious—he lets out a relieved moan at the feeling, gripping your waist for leverage and pushing into you further despite your body’s protest. 

Suddenly, you’re hauled upwards off of Islam. Khabib had been the one to pull you off, slipping his arms underneath yours. A haggard sound erupted from your swollen lips—you do your best to suck in a faltering gasp, swallowing hard, desperately inhaling. Your vision was practically swimming before your very eyes, the lack of oxygen and the tears flowing over your lashes were solely to blame. You catch the movement of Islam looking at you, there’s a tremulous smile on his lips, they’re a soft pink, as if they’d been wiped with acetone. Your eyes were so wet they were practically mirrors, so still and flat that Islam could see every single feature of his being thrown back at him when he looked at you. 

“I love you.” Islam ventured honestly, sounding like he had been hiding these words for an eternity. 

Khabib pressed his face into the nape of your neck to muffle the hum that creeps from his throat, it feels like he’s drowning in you, unable to fight the current drawing him deeper and deeper into you. A shriek is trapped in your throat as he eased himself all the way in, his cock barely offers a brief reprieve after passing through the most delicate part of you, biting back his sounds that any degree of rational thought returns to him—the feeling of you. Khabib throbs thickly inside, needy, it doesn’t escape you, those tiny, indulgent rolls of his hips. 

“Look at me.” Khabib mumbles against your ear. His fingers dip to the curve of your waist before dragging higher to palm at your ribcage with a tight squeeze. 

You turn your head, and he chases your temple with kisses—praising you through the pain that only bloomed with the swelling of him—almost chivalrous, were he not spearing through you. Khabib throbs again while straightening himself back out, he feels your walls tighten around him, marking some form of impatience, earning a shiver and a little laugh. 

Then Khabib was shoving you back down, allowing Islam’s cock past your lips and into your throat once more. You gagged, shoulders trembling with the effort of keeping yourself breathing, you catch a peek of Islam’s thighs tensing up. Through your nerves, you notice the copious amounts of saliva your mouth was producing, which allowed penetration to come a little easier this time. Islam exhales with a fragility, one of his hands reaching to place itself onto the base of your skull, he could slip himself further in than before, stretching your throat to accommodate the size of him—your fingers uselessly sprawled against the flexing muscles of his thighs. Your head is spinning.

Khabib shifts, leaning forward and draping himself over your back, his jaw pressing into the side of your hair, his iron hold on your hips is the only thing keeping you in place, before he reaches around to wrap a hand around your throat, squeezing the sides. 

You gurgled noisily as the full length slipped past your tonsils, a deep cry of your name rattling through Islam’s frame. 

All you could focus on was the man robbing you of your oxygen—Khabib was more than amused over Islam’s reaction, and a part of him wanted to laugh—the blood pounding in your ears, you were just teetering on the edge of creeping darkness when Islam pulled you up, after tapping Khabib in order to let go of your neck, Strings of spit kept you connected to his flushed tip, coughing and doing your best to breathe, you’re dizzy as you rocked in his hold, and it felt nearly impossible to find your bearings when the room was spinning in a blinding blur. The ceiling overhead darkens, lightheadedness overwhelms you, towering your consciousness. 

Islam looked as fucked out as you felt, his face appeared as though it had been dipped in the softest of blushes, and his hair—cropped close to his scalp, enough to tell that it was home-cut—is visibly sweaty. His pupils have expanded to the point where his eyes looked raven, a soft kind, kindling to the fur of a black cat and not a shadow. You sniffled as he tilted your face up towards him. 

The kiss is messy from the moment Islam crashes into you, licking his way into your mouth, chasing the taste of himself off your tongue. Khabib’s hips start to rock once more, a slow, delicious grind that has his tip pushing right up against that spot inside of you that makes your thighs shake. The shudder that made its way out of Khabib has your back arching, inviting the conceding roll of his hips, drawing half-way out and sinking back in, renewing the diving ache of your slit barely accommodating him. Islam passes you off to Khabib, the older man wrapping one of his arms across your breasts to keep you still. 

“You’re acting spoiled, Islam.” Khabib’s argument is breathless, barely audible. His tone was low and careful, distant in a way that almost seemed too close. You could tell some form of jealousy is surging through him, causing him to instinctively rock harder into you. The pads of Khabib’s fingers roll easily over your slickened clit, and he finds himself marveling over how responsive you are, drawing your hips vaguely to fuck yourself on his length. Islam swallows your moan, a tremor tugs at you during the process of trying to emerge from the haze they two of them had put you through, you were practically buzzing numbly from their onslaught. 

“I’m not spoiled.” Islam mutters, gingerly swiping the tip of his cock through your folds, until he reaches your clit, before lifting it off and smiling puerily over the way the strand of your slick and Khabib’s pre-cum connected to the head of his length. Islam does it again, and a jolt runs through you and Khabib. 

“Islam—” Khabib hisses through his teeth, cutting himself off as you tighten around him like a vice. 

Islam Makhachev could ruin you far more cruelly if he liked, but he was kind, and it was what he opted for instead. Khabib pauses, his attention falling to the look on Islam’s face. Being annoyed with him was practically futile, how could he ever punish a young man so dominated by his obsession with you? 

“Are you done, Khabib?” Islam offers, remotely boyish. 

“Noo?” The retort that comes out of Khabib was borderline incredulous, and he briefly debates whether to go back on his words about not punishing Islam for his brazenness. “I’ll be nice to you tonight, Isu.” Khabib muttered. 

You fight down a wheeze when the arm Khabib had hooked over you suddenly tightens, and you shriek softly when he suddenly leans back onto the bed, pulling your hips up and unceremoniously keeping you laid on top of him. Islam is lining up with your cunt before you could react to his eagerness, Khabib’s free hand trailed down your indrawn abdomen and made a reach for your opening, spreading you just a little more to ensure Islam was watching what he was doing. 

“Hey. Be careful.” Khabib warns him. The surface of his thumb presses into your hipbone briefly in order to catch your attention. “Just like we practiced, okay?”

Khabib was asking you to take deep breaths, but you inhale nervously, and your sigh comes out trembling. It’s strange to relax yourself even when you were basking in such rapt attention, but you keep yourself as still as possible when Islam pressed against you slowly. He breaches, and your eyes squeeze in distress, he’s opening you more and more until it begins to hurt. Pain sears your entrance, stretching you more than you’re capable of, still, Islam doesn’t let up, and he insists himself upon you. Then, it’s in, and suddenly you’re closing around both of them—Islam and Khabib are fully fitted inside of you with a practised ease. Islam gasps, almost beaming. His hands rub your thighs as he gives a little tug, not quite hard enough to perform a full thrust or to have him slip back out, but just enough that your muscles fight back, making it seem like he might be stuck inside you. Khabib grunts, and a fresh wave of tears prick at your eyes.

“Sorry.” Islam says, throwing you and Khabib a look. 

You let out a huff, your head leaning back to rest on the crook of Khabib’s neck. “Go slow, please.” You manage to say, voice hoarse from Islam’s earlier excitement. He leans over you, gripping your waist for leverage, forcing you to stretch for him despite your body's protest. You forgive him, though, especially because the languid wake of Islam’s kiss along the column of your throat ghosts along your skin, and the feeling of his beard tickling you is distracting enough. 

Khabib’s grip on your waist is bruising, and for a second you barely notice it, in comparison to everything else you were feeling. He angles his cock back—it’s a stilted, painfully slow drag against your guts, and he pushes back in without pulling out all the way. Islam hisses through clenched teeth, your hands shoot to make a grab onto the forearm Khabib had over your breasts, digging your nails into the flesh while he steadily worked himself up to a steady pace. Tears track down the side of temples as you whine in overstimulated agony, your cunt flexing around that stiff intrusion so hard it was making Islam feel faint. Dizzy. For a moment, he thinks he might pass out, and his fingers scrabble to try and catch Khabib’s attention, he was sure that your body couldn’t take much more of the pace, but there wasn’t really any signs of stopping. 

“Khabib.” Islam hisses against his teeth, shuddering against you. “Khabib, slow down.” 

“Tapping?” Khabib’s response is breathless, barely audible. You flinch and choke out a cry when he surges, instinctively rocking harder into you. 

“Khabib—Khabib wait.”

Islam began to come undone. Little breaths turning to gasps, into grunts, into moans. Little by little, the initiative shifts, and Khabib is fucking you harder, all of the concern dalling by the wayside in favor of an all-encompassing drive to cum. Khabib’s head dips, his chin hooking over your shoulder, he shifts his arms to cross over your body in an ‘X’. Distress seemed to creep over your spine, and you don’t miss the way it seemed to creep over Islam’s spine too. His hands move to squeeze around your rib cage before dragging them back down to take a hold of your hips again, in an effort to comfort you. 

There’s an adequate force, a shiver, passionate recognition slams into Islam before he himself could even comprehend it. That realization is what sends you over the edge. Your orgasm tears through you without mercy, and you squirm, thighs squeezing against Islam’s hips, he doesn’t relent and thoroughly pins you under the driving weight of him, forcing you to keep still in Khabib’s hold even through your shuddering climax. 

Islam pushes his weight forward to find purchase, and it's obvious that he was trying to wait for both you and Khabib’s permission. His gaze is scanning you and Khabib up and down for any sudden indication of denial, and it would almost seem cruel if either one of you said no. Islam throbs thickly inside of you. 

He stammers when saying your name. “Can I?” Islam murmurs, leaning down to nuzzle his face against the curve of your throat. You gasp, trying to find some purchase, you can’t really respond, but you know he’s fully surrendered to it when he loses his balance, elbows bucking after he had driven into you with particular force. Islam’s arms wrap tight around your torso, like he was making sure you wouldn’t get away. Khabib’s chin rested atop your shoulder, his upper body scarcely moving while his hips pressed against you, he’s going a little fast, and he was holding you too still, to the point where you wouldn't be able to catch up. Islam doesn’t miss it and there’s a full body tremor that overtook him, causing him to shake so hard that it was a struggle for Khabib to keep sliding into you, but still, he managed—his hips snapping at an uneven, frantic pace now. 

Finally, Islam lets out a deep, half strangled groan that rises in pitch, gaspy and needy as his cock jumps and sputters inside of you.  

Heat spills deep in you, a distant awareness that Islam is fucking you in the truest way. His face is pressed into your neck, radiating with bliss and relaxation, as if he was trying to share it with you—like his pleasure could overwhelm your discomfort. His affection didn't stop, he was positively overflowing with fondness. “..Khabib, you too.” Islam murmured, his brazen hand slipping between your legs to feel where they were locked together. The beds of his fingers blindly brushing against your clit in a clumsy bid to make you react, your thoughts fracture and you whine, walls fluttering. The heat inside of you doesn’t let up because Islam is still coming—just slightly, the pain subsides—unexpectedly, however, it comes with a new awareness. 

You’re aware of the moment Khabib’s cum hits your clenching guts in a hot, stifling pulse and your mouth drops open, but nothing comes out. Spurt after heavy spurt, it just kept coming to settle deep within you until it felt like you were drowning in it. Khabib is deeper than ever, tip locked against your cervix. The heat of both of their cum swelled deeper into you, to the point where there wasn’t any room in you to stretch or spill, everything that Khabib and Islam are pumping into you now is being deposited directly into your womb. There’s a feeling that renews itself every second they’re inside you, dragging it out. 

Khabib calls your name, just barely. His voice is soft and light, thighs trembling against the back of your own. “Islam, is she still awake?” He asks, still in the throes of a long, slowly tapering orgasm—how could they come back to their senses when you’re completely lost to your own? The sensation of them inside causes the muscles in your cunt to contract weakly, locking you into a dizzying tension, but you stave it off so your head could clear. 

“She’s awake. You’re awake, right?” Barely. Just barely. 

Pulled from your muddled, hazy thoughts, you respond. “I’m okay.” You’re wrung out from everything you got, practically incapable of stringing together a full sentence. 

The feeling subsides eventually, and you feel Islam and Khabib tremble against the length of you, the ache of the stretch is distant now, but when Khabib shifts behind you—its no less swollen. Islam is the one that slowly eases back and slips out with a loud sticky sound, the motion seems to pull with it a quickly cooling dribble of cum that dribbles down your opening. You don’t get a chance to shudder over the sensation since Khabib sits up gingerly, now that you were practically sitting in his lap, both of them could see just how much cum is actually coming out of you—it felt like a lot to your sensitive innards, but the proof was there. Thick, creamy threads stretch from your folds and gangle tauntingly between your legs. 

Khabib leans across your back to put his face close to yours, admiring the sight. A brief beat of silence.

“..Zuba will be home soon.”