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major iqbal with pregnant reader based on this req<3 [mdni contains smut] wc: 1.8k

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Apni Ghar

Major Iqbal x Fem Shy Domestic Reader

A drabble about Major Iqbal, first fic ever. Obviously this is based on the character portrayed in the Dhurandhar movies and not real life people.

Enjoy!

Word count: 2.003 words.

Being the wife of a man like Iqbal was not something you had expected. Growing up you had simply thought that your father would either marry you off to a son of his business partner or you would settle as a spinster. A marriage to a Major of the ISI was not something even in the realm of possibilities. It was for your cousins, who knew how to be the life of the parties, charm visiting businessmen and in general were loud, fun, and outgoing. Not you, you who preferred to disappear upstairs when your father’s guests arrived. Who simply longed for a quiet, content life where you could read, paint and simply be and not have to be made a spectacle of or pretend to be more outgoing that you in truth were. And perhaps if you had to imagine a husband it would be a warm and gentle man, who would never raise his voice or hands on you and who would be a good father to any children you would have.

So, imagine your surprise when your one evening your father is hosting some of his contacts for dinner, and not just any contacts. As you came down the stairs you heard their voices before you saw them. Rehman Baloch, one of your father’s more criminal contacts, his cousin Uzair Baloch, one of the Khannani brothers (You always forgot which one was which) and Major Iqbal. His deeper, raspy voice sounding quite pleasant if you were truthful to yourself. Entering the dining room, you offered a soft “Walaikom salam” glancing at each man before taking your seat. You eat quietly and efficiently as the men continued the talk of politics and business, your mother keeping the façade of the gracious host as she urged the man to eat more. Perhaps if you had looked up from your plate just once, you might have noticed the espresso-coloured eyes that barely left you.

A week later the proposal arrived and of course your parents accepted immediately, not even asking you if you wished to enter into the most sacred bond with a man like Iqbal. And a month later, in a lavish nikkah, attended by the crème de la crème of Karachi society, your father’s contacts, distant relatives and a whole bunch of people you never truly knew, you with a soft Qubool Hai became Mrs. Iqbal Kashmiri, his begum.

Settling into his home went quite well, and he was a kind husband. Never raising his voice or hands (one night it hit you that that part of your wish did come true, even if it was not the whole aspect of his personality). Sharing his bed, you found was not the troublesome task your mother had made it out to be. He was considerate, made sure you were comfortable and didn’t mind your shy nature that had you hiding away in the crook of his shoulder the entire time, only soft gasps and whispers of his name escaping you as you finally experienced the gentle consuming pleasure that the novels your mother hid, described.

It wasn’t until the morning after your wedding that another aspect of your married life showed itself. Having dressed in a soft pine-coloured kurta with a matching dupatta half draped carefully over your hair you made your way to the dining room. Stopping in your tracks then you saw a little girl, no older than five, perhaps 6 years old seated next to your husband, quietly eating a piece of freshly baked paratha. Seeing your somewhat shocked face Iqbal told the little girl, Laiba to go play in the other room. A woman you hadn’t been introduced to yet took the girl away. Iqbal explained it all to you then, when you confessed that your parents hadn’t told you anything but the fact that you would be marrying Iqbal.

“I have been married before; the marriage was strained but my daughter was born from the union. My daughter isn’t like other children, but she is no less deserving of love and kindness. She just needs some more attention and a more controlled and quieter environment, so she feels safe. I had told your parents when I came with the proposal, and they simply told me that you did not mind.” The explanation was to the point, but you noticed the undertones. He had never meant to hide anything from you, and he had quite the protective edge when it came to his daughter. And so, the next words flowed from your mouth, perhaps the most he had heard you speak so far. “They didn’t tell me. My parents have a vested interest in our marriage, and I think they would have told you I was fine with anything as long as you did not call the wedding off. But I don’t have an issue with your daughter. I only wish I had known so I would have had some time to prepare.” And with that the matter was closed.

It only took two weeks for Laiba to warm up to you. The girl’s quiet nature suited your own quite well. Underneath that quiet nature was a kind soul that thrived on the loving attention you bestowed upon her. Letting her cling to you when she wanted comfort, braiding her hair, feeding her with your own hands when she wanted to be stubborn or refused to eat, to letting her curl up between you and Iqbal in bed when nightmares would wake her in the middle of the night.

Most mornings you woke early, gently waking Iqbal who had taken to sleeping with his arm around your waist and his legs comfortably entwined with yours. After he has woken and let you out of his sleepy grasp, only after mumbling “Bas das minute aur, Jaan” did he truly let you go. Honestly, who would have thought the fearsome major was so cuddly in private. But you would be lying of it didn’t settle an anxious part of your heart, the part that had worried you would be confined to a loveless marriage. After getting ready you would leave Iqbal in your bedroom, of course he has stolen a kiss or two, either pressed to your lips or to the marks he had left the night before. Walking down the hallway to the third bedroom away from yours, you find Laiba already starting to wake on her own. Having taken over from the caretaker Iqbal had always hired “You married me and made me your wife, which in turn makes me her stepmother and I will not have someone else take care of her if I am here, husband.” In quite a stern tone was all the pressure your husband needed to let go of Sofia for a full-time basis. Helping the still sleepy child get ready, you helped her bathe and dress before brushing her soft lush hair and braiding it in a plait to match your own.

After having breakfast as a family, something Iqbal now enforced having quickly found out it was the easiest way into his quiet begum’s heart. He would leave for work, pressing a soft kiss to Laiba’s forehead and a chaste one to your lips, stealing a longer one when you would walk him to the door, stealing your breath and making your body heat up in ways that still surprised you.

A month into your marriage you found out that your father-in-law was still very much alive. You overheard Iqbal giving orders over the phone, when he hung up, he noticed you standing in the doorway of his study. “I imagine you have some questions” He murmured in the deep voice you finally admitted to liking. Nodding as you sit down, you looked at your husband expectantly, wordlessly telling him to explain himself.

With a sigh he sat down next to you. “My father is a horrid man, he is loud, abusive, and thankfully now resigned to a wheelchair. But he has a venomous tongue that I would rather keep away from Laiba and you. The only thing I have left toward him is a duty, to make sure that he is provided for until he finally dies. I- I didn’t tell you because I know you and your heart. You’d want to see him, see if he truly is as horrible as I would tell you. But where you would see a father-in-law all he would see is another to abuse, and I do not want you to trough that. I am being honest I also don’t want you to witness the way he tries to get under my skin, the verbal abuse, my ears ring when I leave after visiting and my agitated state is not exactly pleasant to be around. I know that I should have told you, but I just wanted to keep this, my actual family, safe and whole.” He explains as he cups your cheek, his hand warm and calloused and watches as you just give your full attention to him. You see the way he stutters on some words, how he swallows more than usual and that his eyes are burdened when he speak and finally how his hands grip yours, almost like he needs an anchor. And you know that this is riddled with trauma, a deep trauma that is not easy to explain or to disregard but must be handled with care and underneath that the same instinct that fills him, to protect you and Laiba from everything. So true to your nature you don’t fuss.

“From now on you will not hide a single thing from me, your burdens are not just yours to bear.” You murmur as you climb into his lap, and he leans back letting you straddle him, eyes widening a little at the intimate position you initiated. “I won’t press you in this, I don’t wish to meet him. But I don’t want you to hide anything either.” You whisper before pressing a soft kiss to his lips, a comfort. “You are my husband, my home and the only place where I do not have to fulfil a role forced upon me, where I must pretend to be something I’m not. You are a wonderful father to Laiba, and I know that when the time comes and we have more children, you will be equally as wonderful with them. That is who you are in my eyes, and this nor his words make it any less.” You whisper before pressing a final kiss to his lips and intending to rise, only to find he won’t let you, his arms wrapped tight around you as he stares at you like you are salvation and sin all in one, a deep part of his tormented soul finally settling. That night he doesn’t just hold you as he sleeps, he has buried his face in your breasts and holds you more like one would a teddy bear. You don’t mind, just hold him as you fall asleep as well.

Your days would be filled with taking care of Laiba, playing games with her, colouring, watching movies, reading while she napped with her head in your lap. A stepdaughter she might officially be, but in your heart, she was nothing more than a daughter you had been blessed with. Most afternoons you gave the cook the day off and cooked dinner yourself, the domestic routine grounding you. And if you were being entirely truthful, watching Iqbal politely devour the meals you had lovingly prepared, praising your food and hands left you feeling content and cherished. For he never took a thing you did for granted. And the evenings were for settling Laiba in bed after enjoying some time with each other, curled up on the soft plush sofa Iqbal had ordered after witnessing firsthand how his wife tended to curl up like a cat while reading or watching the television. Thus, your life settled in a predictable routine, but one you cherished. No dawats, no one who demanded you to pretend to be someone you were not.

Just you, your loving husband, and a daughter you cherished.

Well that is. I do hope you enjoyed it<3, let me know what you think.

#Dhurandarfics #major iqbal #major iqbal x reader #Major Iqbal x Y/N #dhurandhar fanfic