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“Just take it. These are vitamins.”
That’s what he said, and when Islam heard Khabib tell him anything, he took him at his word. There was no denying Khabib—He was his coach, his mentor, his surrogate brother, his everything. He could’ve been the love of his life in some other universe, but that was neither here nor there. Islam was pretty sure he was going to dominate JDM in their upcoming fight, and he was certain that Khabib’s anxiety was completely unfounded, but he would do anything to alleviate his friend’s stress, even if it was as stupid and dangerous as this.
“Vitamins? Through a needle?” Islam asked, lowering his eyes at the vial in Khabib’s hand. It was a deep ochre color with a label in a language he didn’t understand. He inspected it, his eyes widening as he struggled to make sense of any of it. He looked at Khabib. “These are steroids, yes?”
Khabib quickly shook his head. “No, no. They just improve muscle recovery,” he dismissed. “No performance-enhancement. No steroids. I promise, Isu.” Both of them knew Khabib was lying. Any weird substance that had to be injected certainly wasn’t anything good, or approved by the athletic commission. Khabib sighed and quickly added, “It is not on the ban list. It is experimental. Very new. It will not come up on your screening.”
“Where did you get this?”
Khabib swallowed and looked askance. “Uh… Kazakhstan.”
“Kazakhstan?”
“Yes, from someone’s basement, but just listen to me, Isu,” he said as Islam began to walk away. He stopped in his tracks, reluctantly accepting to hear Khabib out. “The fight is in a few months. This is just for training. It will be out of your system before the fight.”
“What does it do?”
“It increases muscle development. Nothing else. No side effects.” That was definitely a lie. “Please, Islam. Just try it.”
Islam exhaled slowly. If his coach demanded it, he would have to accept. “Okay, fine. Just… Show me how to inject it. Do I use a tourniquet on my arm?”
“Arm?” Khabib asked, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, no, Isu. You have to inject this in an area of your body without veins. More fat and muscle. That way, it works slowly through the body. Hormones, yes?”
He glanced down at himself, his lean muscle accentuated by the overhead light of the gym. He pulled up his shirt, revealing his washboard abs. “Uh… Okay, not there.” He looked at his forearms, which were vascular and shredded. “No, not there either…” He lifted up his baggy shorts, exposing his thighs. “There?”
Khabib shook his head. “If the scar does not heal, people will be suspicious. Think of what is exposed when you weigh-in.”
“When I weigh-in?” Islam asked, covering his thigh again. “Khabib, the only thing covered when I weigh in is my—“ He paused, then slowly looked over his shoulder, downward. He shook his hips to either side, then came to a sudden realization. “Oh.” He looked back at Khabib, before asking incredulously, “My…?”
“Perfect. The glutes have a wide surface area, and not too many veins—“
“You are going to inject it into my ass?!”
“The left cheek probably, da,” Khabib said, relaxed. “Come on, Isu. You remember bodybuilders? That is where they inject.”
Islam didn’t say anything, then he groaned. “Fine. Do it fast.” They walked off to the locker rooms, which were thankfully completely empty. Islam looked absolutely miserable, but he couldn’t help but wonder how this new substance would affect him. He was also terrified. Very, very terrified. Begrudgingly, he faced one of the lockers and placed his hands against it. Khabib had already started pulling down his shorts and boxers. “It is just a little needle, right?”
“Who said that?” Khabib asked. He then pulled out a needle that almost made Islam faint. Islam stopped looking over his shoulder. He knew he couldn’t watch. “Do you want me to numb the area?”
“Oh… That would be nice actually—“ He threw his head back when Khabib slapped him on the ass, hard. «Блять!» he cried out as his knees buckled. His legs began to tremble as Khabib slapped the area over and over, until it was red and hot to the touch. “What is wrong with you?!” Islam panted over his shoulder.
“See? Numb.”
“No, it is not,” Islam hissed. “If anything, it is more sensitive.” Then he felt it, the slow sliding of the needle into his skin. He bit at his hand to stifle his wincing. It didn’t hurt too much, but it left a visceral sensation that made Islam lightheaded. As soon as it was injected, it was retracted, and Khabib rose to his feet.
“You need to shave,” he announced, pocketing the vial and discarding the needle in a nearby trash can.
One month had gone by since then, and Khabib was greatly regretting his decision.
The changes started out small. The promised muscle development came first, with Islam making great strides in building his physique before the fight. He seemed to never get tired, constantly pushing himself to lift more weight, wrestle longer, and punch harder. At first, Khabib had nothing to worry about, and he congratulated himself on building his protege into the best fighter he could be. Then the side effects kicked in.
Islam had this darkened, hyper-focused look in his eye almost constantly, as if he were about to kill someone at a moment’s notice. He’d actually started talking back to Khabib during his many criticisms, which worried the other. These behavioral changes were to be expected. However, what Khabib didn’t anticipate was Islam’s aggression turning into something deeper, something more carnal. It started as a joke between them, with Islam making off-handed comments about inner tension in private. Then he stopped talking about it. Then he started acting on it.
They were alone in the locker room again, with Islam ready for another injection. He assumed his usual position against the locker, but this time when Khabib injected the needle, Islam moaned to himself. Not in pain, Khabib realized. They didn’t speak about it, but he knew something was up. Then the touching started—Soft caresses, increased proximity, before Islam started just staring at Khabib intently, waiting to grope him constantly when they were in the locker room. Khabib laughed it off at first, but with that determined look in Islam’s eye, it stopped being funny.
Khabib always worked out in clothes that covered his body. This time, it was a tracksuit by some company they were sponsored by. As they stood side-by-side at the lockers, Islam stared down his back. Then, without speaking, he grabbed his ass. Khabib drew in a harsh breath, and as soon as it happened, it was over. He eyed the other in his peripheral vision.
“Why are you doing that?”
“I do not know,” Islam mumbled out. He sounded like he was ashamed that he was caught, despite how obvious it was. That was when Khabib truly noticed the sheer size of the other, and how much muscle he’d packed on since starting the supplements. With his superior height, it made Khabib even more intimidated. Intimidated. The realization that he was actually intimidated by Islam scared him more than anything else. “I cannot focus,” he said at last.
“Why? You need to focus. Your fight is in a few weeks.”
“I broke the rule last night,” Islam admitted, finally matching the other’s gaze. They both knew what the rule was, but neither of them had really spoken about it. It was accepted in silence, but now Islam had transgressed it, and it was time for this uncomfortable conversation. “Multiple times last night.”
Khabib shook his head. “You cannot lose focus, Islam. Not this close to the fight.”
“No, brother. Once I did it once, I had to do it again, and again, and again…” He began to stare forward as he recounted it. “I took a cold shower, and I did it again, even when the water was freezing. If anything, it made it better.”
“Better? Do not talk this way, brother.”
“I think it is the injections. They are messing with my head.” He sat down on the bench. “Even now…” He let his words trail off. “I do not know what is happening. I think we need to stop.”
“Stop? No, Isu. No, this is important. This is your dream, remember? Your future?” Khabib persisted. “It is probably just… Growing pains. Yes, this is what I think. It will be over before you know it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, 100%. I am sure of it. It is not like it could get any worse, right?”
It could definitely get worse.
Khabib was laying in bed at the Jersey house, snoring like a dog and spooning his pillow. He had way too many nightmares about Islam getting knocked out cold in the octagon. Sometimes he would wake up and feel a tightness in his chest, or feel like someone was watching him. Typical sleep paralysis. This night was no different. He woke up in a cold sweat, but reminded himself to steady his breathing. He was safe. Nobody else could possibly be in the room.
Then he looked up, and Islam was at the foot of his bed.
He was staring down at Khabib with wide eyes. He was breathing heavily through his mouth. He expected there to be a knife in Islam’s hand, or maybe a gun would be more fitting. He practically leapt out of his skin. “Islam!” he snapped. “What are you doing? You scared me to death.” As Islam stood there, still breathing heavily, Khabib chuckled nervously. “What?” he laughed. “Had a nightmare?”
Without a word, Islam climbed onto the bed and hovered over Khabib, his hands on either side of his shoulders. Khabib gulped.
“Islam…?” he asked hesitantly as the other man just stared at him. When Islam began working to tear Khabib’s clothes off, he started shouting, “Islam! Hey, hey, hey, Islam, wait!” It wasn’t until he kneed Islam in the face did he stop and come to his senses.
Islam fell backwards on the bed. They stared at each other in silence. “I… Khaba, I do not know what is happening.” He was sweating.
“We need to stop the injections,” Khabib said suddenly. He rose from the bed and adjusted his sweatpants, securing them tightly, before crossing the room to create distance. “That was… Okay… Wow.” He faced the window with his hands on his oddly feminine hips. “I cannot believe you just did that.”
“I am sorry, brother. I do not know why—“
“Islam, I am only saying this now. Another man is never going to kill me in my sleep. You understand that?” he said, his voice rising in volume as he turned to the other.
“Brother… what? Why would you think I would–” He was panting fast. It was almost funny, seeing a guy with 8% body fat and massive biceps cowering on his bed. “I was just going to, uh…”
“Just say it, Islam. You already did the worst part. You were going to kill me, weren’t you? You were going to kill me.”
“No, no, I was just going to… I do not know…” he confessed. He looked askance. “I did not think I would get this far.” That was when he saw it. Islam was hard as a rock.
Khabib suddenly began to blush. His eyes moved from Islam to the bed, and then back to Islam. “You wanted to–?”
Islam nodded meekly and looked away again.
“Oh,” Khabib breathed out. He sat down on the bed again and laid out. “Why didn’t you say so when you came in? Get to it then.”
“…What?”
“As long as nothing is going in my ass. And do not look at me while you do it.”
Islam stared at him incredulously. He was going to ask why that made any difference in this situation’s level of gayness, but Khabib was weird. He thought it was gay to wear pink, but not to rub your best friend down in a jacuzzi. He shrugged and climbed back onto Khabib, eagerly untying his sweatpants’ string and yanking them down his thick thighs. He barely made it halfway down before he swallowed the other’s length.
“Fuck, Islam–” he gritted out, his hand instantly moving to the back of the other’s head. His breathing quickened as Islam’s tight lips moved up and down his length, his tongue moving slowly on the underside as he gagged on it. He was salivating over the head, flicking his tongue against the precum dripping through. “I should’ve given you those supplements years ago,” Khabib sighed, laying his hands behind his head. He was certainly proud of himself. He was even smirking that smug smile he always did. But then Islam stopped sucking.
“What.” Islam leaned back. “You knew this would happen? You knew I would be… hurting like this?”
“Hurting? Relax, Isu. Just a little… aphrodisiac. You love it,” he said with a confident grin and a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Yes, and muscle development. Strength.” He narrowed his eyes. “I am tired of waiting, Khaba. I want to show you what these injections are doing.” Before Khabib could react, Islam flipped Khabib over with an intensity that surprised even himself. He rested all his weight on the back of Khabib’s thighs, digging his elbows into his shoulder blades as he began to thrash wildly. “No, no, Khaba. I want to tell you what I have been thinking of, whenever I break that silly rule.”
“Hey, hey, hey, Islam! What are you doing?” When Islam didn’t respond, he shouted, “Get off me! Now!”
He hooked his large biceps under Khabib’s, forcing his weight onto his back. Before the supplements, Khabib could’ve easily overpowered him. Not anymore. “You will call me dirty,” he whispered. “Am I? For wanting to fuck my coach’s ass this badly?”
“That is off-limits! What did I say? Nobody is fucking my ass.”
“I cannot help it. You gave me steroids, and you wonder why I want to fuck so badly? And trust me, coach,” he said, moving his lips directly next to Khabib’s ear as he began to grind down into him. “I have never seen a woman with an ass like yours.”
“Fine. We will stop the supplements. You clearly cannot handle them.”
“But now you got me hard, big brother, and there is no stopping me now.”
“Okay, Islam, let us compromise. Let us not do anything stupid. You keep my sweatpants on and… You can grind against me, I guess. If you try anything more, I do not want it,” he hissed. Islam was still panting on top of him. He sounded like a dog in heat. “Do we have a deal?”
“You knew this would happen…” he grunted, grinding his clothed cock against the crease in the other’s ass. “I cannot even sleep–It hurts so bad.” He did as he was told however, and began thrusting against the other, with so much ferocity the bed was creaking and the headboard was slamming against the wall. Khabib could feel Islam’s cockhead through both their shorts, pressing dangerously close to where he didn’t want it to be. He was completely lying, of course. He wanted nothing more than for his virile protege to give him what he was craving. He couldn’t tell Islam that, though. He didn’t know how rough Islam could be in this state, and he also could never admit to himself that he wanted it. Right?
He was curious what it would feel like, not even in the physical sense. Part of him knew that letting Islam fuck him would screw up their entire power dynamic, and would probably completely shatter his own self-perception. Then again, Islam wasn’t ever really well-endowed, so it wouldn’t hurt too bad. Then he started to wonder as Islam continued to hump him–Had the injections had any other side effects? A deep pit formed in his stomach. “Hey, Isu?” he asked over his shoulder, his voice shaking slightly. “Have you ever measured yourself?”
Islam raised an eyebrow incredulously. He paused. “When I was a teenager, probably. Why?”
“How big are you?”
Islam lowered his eyes. “Four, maybe five inches,” he said sheepishly. “I know you like hearing it. It makes you feel better about yourself.”
“You do not feel like five inches right now.”
Islam raised both his eyebrows. “What?” He glanced down, then he pulled out his length from his baggy shorts, letting it slap against his thigh. His eyes widened. “What the fuck?” he exhaled.
Khabib glanced over his shoulder again, but he had to do a double take. “Okay, okay…” He turned over, allowing himself a better angle as he stared at the cock between Islam’s legs. “That is… another side effect.”
Islam smiled, and then he started laughing. He gripped his length. “See, Khaba? Two hands!” He forced Khabib back onto the bed and repeated his prior ministrations, humping his ass like a bitch off a leash. “Coach, tell me. Do you think you can handle this? Or are you chicken?”
“That is my line. You cannot use that against me,” he said through gritted teeth, burying his face in the pillow. Islam was wearing him down slowly. “You had your fun, Isu. Now get off.”
“I think I can cum like this, Khaba,” he whispered, his voice unsteady. He was pressing against the other’s back as he humped his ass, gripping Khabib’s waist for support. “Maybe if you lost some weight, it would not be as fun.” His voice dropped low. “Can I tell you what I think about when I break the rule? When I touch myself? I think of taking you on the mat, coach, and fucking you like an animal, and cumming in your ass, so you’re dripping with me for the rest of practice. You would be so calm and collected with my cum dripping down your shorts.”
Khabib bit the pillow to stifle his groans. He couldn’t admit that he wanted that. It would be friendship suicide. It would recontextualize their entire relationship up until this point, and he would have to admit that he would’ve taken Islam’s dick at any point in their lives. He was going to refuse again, but Islam kept talking.
“When we were younger, you always had an ass, but now it is just funny,” he said with a chuckle. “Is that why you give your mentees steroids? So they can have the perfect body to fuck you with?”
He caused this, didn’t he? He turned Islam into this insatiable monster. Maybe that’s why he conceded. “You are right. I made you,” he admitted. “Can we just enjoy these days together, before your fight?”
“No, you want to enjoy being a bitch, Khaba. My bitch,” he snapped. He had never seen the other so untethered before, so out of his mind. Islam wasn’t blinking. He looked exactly as he did in the octagon, with wide eyes and his distended muscles, and Khabib was, for the first time in his adult life, absolutely terrified.
“Islam,” he said finally, looking over his shoulder. His own eyes were wide with fear. His heart was pounding out of his chest. The two matched eyes, and Islam must have seen the vulnerability there. “This is what I think. I do not want you to… penetrate me, like that.” Islam was panting, but he slowed his movements to a stop. “You can keep doing what you are doing. Do not go further. Do you understand?”
Islam was speechless. That finally got through to him. He rested his hands on Khabib’s lower back and finally exhaled, “Okay…” Both of them knew that if this situation were reversed, it would go very differently. Islam would do anything Khabib said, no matter how much testosterone was flowing through his veins. “Is it because… it is a sin?”
“No,” he admitted. He had his face in the pillow again. “Right now… I just know I cannot handle you.”
Islam was silent. Khabib had really thought he said something wrong, and was fully accepting of whatever the other might say. He didn’t expect Islam to lean forward and grind into him harder. He whispered harshly in his ear, “That means more to me than fucking you.” He spread his palm over the side of Khabib’s face, yanking his head to the side by his cauliflower ear. He spat on his cheek before rubbing it in with the base of his palm. “The only man you can never handle is me.”
Khabib didn’t know how to respond to that, he was staring up at Islam through his peripheral vision, as the other continued to hump his ass. Had he really just done that? Did he spit on him? And why, for only a moment, did he see himself in Islam? Had he not done that to another undefeatable man, seven years prior? Islam almost looked nervous, like he knew exactly how much of a transgression he committed.
Then Khabib spoke again. “Can I admit something?”
“Yes. Anything.”
“Why did that make me hard?” he said with a weak smile.
“Do you like when I am rough with you?” Islam panted. His dick was so hard, it hurt. He knew at any second, he was going to cum, and it was going to be uncontrollable.
“I think so,” he decided. “Show me how rough you can be.”
He gripped the other by his scalp, pulling his head back as he continued to thrust against his ass. With the other hand, he gripped Khabib’s waist before hooking his arm underneath him. He ran his fingers over Khabib’s pecs, squeezing hard enough to leave finger marks. Khabib drew in a harsh breath as Islam flipped him over, Islam’s hard cock pressing against his own erect length. They were both panting, staring at one another as Islam pulled out Khabib’s twitching cock. With one hand, he began to jerk them off in tandem. The other returned to his chest.
“You are so soft, Khaba,” he exhaled with a smile. “Not the fighter you once were. You look like a real man now.” He slapped the muscle and flesh on Khabib’s chest, leaving a red handprint. “A lazy, soft man. That is why you do not want me to fuck you? Because that would be a real fall from grace.” He yanked up Khabib’s head from the pillow again, then bit down on his shoulder to hear him groan. “Or do you secretly want it? Does the idea make you hard? Having me fuck your ass, coach?”
“I already told you—“
“It would feel so good, yes? Would you be proud of me if I made you cum?” His breathing was quickening. “Would I be your favorite student? Look at me.” He turned Khabib’s face to the side again. “Look at me! You made me perfect, Khaba. Can you not see that? What else can I do?”
Khabib stared at him from the side with wide eyes. Islam wasn’t smiling anymore. His own eyes looked glossy. “Okay, okay…” He sighed and put his hand up, signaling Islam to stop. He slowly flipped over, letting his weight sink into the bed with a thud. He was thinking to himself, and Islam was allowing him to in silence. Khabib was staring at the ceiling. “How are we going to do this? I do not want to be bent over like some whore.”
“Just like this, Khaba. You can lay down,” he quickly said, shocked by Khabib’s change of heart.
He shook his head. “My legs are heavy, Isu. You would never be able to—“ He was cut off by Islam immediately assuming his position between Khabib’s thighs, hiking them up so his legs were bent over Islam’s shoulders. He stared up, wide-eyed, at his protege folding him in half, his cock laying against Khabib’s stomach. “…Do missionary,” he finished, but his words immediately held no weight. These injections had Islam tossing Khabib’s legs over his shoulders like they were throw pillows.
Islam just gave him a wicked smile.
Khabib leaned over and grabbed massage oil from the bedside table. “You are lucky I was too stressed today. Too stressed from dealing with you. I had nothing to eat,” he said, handing him the bottle.
Islam cocked an eyebrow. “Why am I lucky? You should have eaten. You will get dizzy.”
“No, Islam, if you do these things—Nevermind.”
“I have been eating all day. These shots make me so hungry,” he rambled, coating his fingers with the solution. He continued to talk as he prepped the other, his words interrupted consistently by Khabib’s winces and groans. “I had steak and eggs for breakfast… nothing for lunch… I went fishing for a little while, but I could not catch a thing… Then I had some protein bars, some fruit… Dinner was light… I cannot wait for some dessert after the fight—“
“Oh my God, Islam, please shut up,” Khabib snapped as his head rolled back on the pillow. His face was tense, and it immediately tensed further when Islam hit that specific spot. “Oh fuck… Fucking… Shit…”
“Am I hurting you?”
“Just shut up and do it,” Khabib hissed.
“It is hard to do, brother. You have a fat ass.”
“Fine! Yes! I do! Now get on with it!” He covered his face with his forearm, not particularly interested in staring down at how hard he was getting. “Why are you so focused on my ass?”
“Men… should not have this,” Islam said, almost with a hint of disturbance. “There is no purpose for a man to have an ass like this. Unless I am allowed to fuck it.” He smirked and chuckled, “Am I allowed to fuck it?”
“Yes,” he groaned. “You can fuck it.”
“Yay,” Islam said softly, which caused Khabib’s reluctant facade to crumble a bit. It was so childish, so foreign, that Khabib couldn't help but chuckle. The forearm in front of his face was suddenly removed, Islam’s hand forcing it away by his wrist. He stared down at Khabib’s face, wanting to see his reaction. He wanted to see any fear, any hesitation, any discomfort at all. He also wanted to make sure he used enough lube, because it felt like he’d used half the bottle already. When he began to move inside, Khabib broke eye contact, squeezing his eyes shut as he forced himself to get through it. Then that spot was hit, and his eyes snapped open, and he saw Islam meet his gaze.
Islam was holding onto the other’s shoulders as he fucked him. His eyes were focused on Khabib’s chest, how his pecs moved up and down as he thrusted in and out. Despite his softer midsection and posterior, as well as softer calves for some odd reason, his chest and arms were burly with muscle. Islam didn’t know why he was feeling so hot. It must’ve been the injections, but Islam wanted nothing more than to bury his face in that chest when he came.
He knew he wasn’t going to last that long, which meant he would have to try his hardest to make the other cum first. He gripped Khabib’s cock, his hand still slick with lube, and stroked him as he moved, watching as his lips parted and his eyes swam up into his head. Nonetheless, Khabib was reluctant to show any sign of submission, and was constantly schooling his features. He would go from looking bored to looking like a freshly-fucked porn star in seconds, which Islam found hilarious. “My eyes are up here, Khaba,” he said with a smile. “Not the ceiling.”
“You’re so big,” he blurted out, which caught them both off-guard. It was the first sign that Khabib wasn’t the dominant mastermind behind this whole situation, that his plan with these injections was more of a foolish misunderstanding of male hormones than simple drugging. He’d fed Islam steroids to fuck with his thinking, and now he was reaping what he sowed. He winced. “You always told me it was not.”
“Yes. When it is soft, it is four inches.” He continued to thrust.
Khabib stared up at him incredulously. He narrowed his eyes. “You only ever measured it soft?!”
“Why would I take out a ruler when I am hard?”
“You might be stupider than Usman.”
“Khaba, do not talk about your cousin when I am fucking you,” he chastised with faux disgust. Then he leaned forward, driving into him deeper, and whispered, “I am not your cousin. I am your little brother.”
Both of them were silent when Khabib’s dick noticeably twitched. Then Islam started laughing.
“You like that! You like when I say little brother.”
“I do not!” Khabib shouted, but his words were cut off when his prostate was slammed into again.
“Coach?” he asked. No response. “Khaba?” No response. “Brother?” No response. “…Big brother?” Khabib’s dick twitched, and Islam laughed again.
He covered his face to hide his blush with his forearm again. “This is disgusting. You are disgusting.”
“It took me all your steroids and evil drugs to get me this hard,” Islam grunted. “All I have to do… is call you big brother… and you are leaking in my hand.” He continued to slap his hips against the other’s ass, feeling his strong thighs tremble against him as he clutched his waist. Khabib’s cock was twitching and dripping precum down his palm, much to Islam’s satisfaction. “You are a dirty old man, Khaba,” he said, burying himself deeper inside the other. “You are close. Your legs are shaking.”
“I am not close. Not after… the disgusting things you have just said…”
“Please?” he asked, his voice suddenly shifting. “I want you to be proud of me,” he said. “I want to make you cum.” He continued to thrust faster, his eyes never leaving the other. “The way you talk to me in the octagon, I want that. I want that all the time.”
Khabib didn’t really know what Islam was talking about, but then he noticed the exertion Islam was putting into every thrust, the necessary strength to hold Khabib’s legs in place, the sweat dripping down the other’s skin. “Yes, yes, just like that,” he started, watching as Islam started stroking him faster. “Focus. You want to win this?”
Islam nodded.
“Then fuck me harder,” he snapped, and Islam obliged, causing Khabib’s legs to spasm against the other’s shoulders. As Islam’s sped up his movements, Khabib’s head tilted back onto the pillow again. This time, when his eyes rolled back and his lips curled into a tired smile, he didn’t fight it. “Good boy,” he mumbled, letting his eyes shut.
“Like this? Does this feel good?”
“Shut up, Isu,” he said with a smile. His eyes were still closed. “Let me enjoy myself.” He groaned under his breath as Islam moved faster. “A good ground-and-pound, yes?” he said, chuckling at his own joke that wasn’t funny or clever at all, which he often did.
“Your abs are clenching. Or… what is left of them…” Islam observed, digging his thumbs into Khabib’s soft midsection. He was moaning, unable to keep his composure as he repeatedly thrust deeper and deeper. He’d never felt something so tight, so willing, so unforgiving. The way Khabib moved his pelvis upward with each thrust felt like he was trying to buck Islam off. It felt like breaking in a wild horse. Islam leaned forward and concentrated on spitting on Khabib’s chest, rubbing his saliva into the hair-covered muscle. “Are you scared? Are you scared of cumming on me, Khaba?” Then he remembered the previous conversation, and he turned his voice serious, speaking low, “Do you not want to cum in front of your little brother?”
“Fucking shit, Islam,” Khabib snapped, his smile collapsing. He covered his face with his hands. “Why do I like that?” he groaned as his palms stifled the words. “There is something wrong with me.”
“Yes, your body fat percentage.”
Maybe the teasing finally got to Khabib, or maybe he was just looking for an excuse. He gripped Islam’s neck with both hands, forcing him downward as he choked him out. He placed most of the pressure on the back of his neck, avoiding the areas that would cause actual damage. Nonetheless, Islam’s eyes widened as his airway was closed. He pressed his forehead against the other. “Shut up and make me cum. You understand? You think you are healthy?” He forced his grip tighter, causing Islam to quicken his thrusts. “The second I stop those injections…” he groaned. “You will be the weak, skinny lightweight you always were.” He gripped even tighter. “And then what, Islam? Look at me. This is what I think. You will never think of fucking me again.”
“That… is not… true…” he gasped out. His eyes rolled up in his head as he struggled not to cum.
“Yes, because you will only dream of taking my dick,” he whispered back. “So cum in me. Show me that I made you lose control.” He forced Islam’s face into his chest, squeezing the muscle there until his moans were muffled. “Lose control. Show me you are weak, little brother. Show me.”
“Khaba—“ he squealed as he finally bottomed out, cumming hard and deep inside him. With Khabib’s warm pecs against his face and his grip around his neck, Islam felt like he could stop shooting ropes. He continued to whimper and cum with his face buried in the other’s chest, before finally falling weightless onto his torso. He was breathing heavy as he pulled out, the evidence of his orgasm leaking onto the mattress.
Khabib angled his head to get a good look, and then he smirked. He held up Islam’s tired face. “Good boy,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes with the pad of his thumb.
“I saw white,” he admitted. “Khaba… I want to make you cum.”
“Do not worry about it—“
He began to slowly rock his hips against the other’s hard length, his breathing slowing. “Come on, big brother. I want to feel you cum on me,” he exhaled. He instantly felt Khabib’s cock twitch again. “I could not last as long as you. Show me how a strong man cums.”
“Fuck,” he groaned, tensing his eyes shut. He decided to just be honest. “Keep calling me that.”
Islam was quiet for a moment. Under his breath, he muttered, “Filthy bastard…” but continued to grind down on the other’s cock. He cleared his throat. “You want to give me something I have to wash off? Or do you want to rub it into my skin?” he whispered huskily. “Big brother, I want to smell like you. I want to shower six times and still smell like your cum.”
“You cannot call me filthy and talk like that.”
“You raised me, and this is how I turned out,” Islam said, staring into his eyes. “Grinding on your dick, begging you to cum on me.” His eyes were hooded. “Cum on me,” he pleaded. “Big brother. Please. Please,” he repeated, over and over again, as he grinded faster. “Please let me see it, so I can lick you clean.” He was panting faster. He repeated, “You raised me. You made me. Every gross part of me.” He squeezed his eyes shut.
“I did, did I?”
“Who has given you everything? Who would take any drug you give, just to make you happy?” Islam rambled. “Who would destroy themself for you?”
Khabib wrapped his arms around the other as he came, shooting white between them as he deeply exhaled. “You… You… You…” he repeated, struggling to find the words. He settled on, “You.” He breathed out. “Yes… You.” He held him tighter, trying to ignore the streaks of cum down both of their abdomens.
“Yes, only me,” he exhaled. “Only I am stupid enough.”
“You are not stupid, Islam,” he panted. “You are just my favorite student.”