This is kinda a milestone post for me because this is the last one that I post from my home. All the next fics will be posted from the college dorm so…kinda nervous, which also means that the next fics might come a little late because I need to figure stuff out first and settle into a completely new city.
Also, I found this budding editor on Instagram with kickass edits—including a recent one about our newest obsession. Go and check the reel and her account out!!!!!
Ruins of Rage
Shauryaman Gaur x Reader
Some aftermath comes wrapped in tranquility, bringing forth the ‘happily ever after’, while theirs come wrapped in a horrifying surprise that should make no sense…
A night of unadulterated passion ends with the dawn of a new morning, but do the emotions evoked and buried swiftly can be ignored forever?
Warnings: Mentions of cheating. Enemies-with-benefits to somewhat lovers. Arguments and angry confessions. Age gap. Jealousy. They both are kinda idiots. Mentions of physical altercation. OOC!Shauryaman.
If you haven’t read the previous parts: Part 1 & Part 2
Change was a necessary evil—a turbulent tsunami that destroyed the coastal city of normality until every building of sorted emotions and designated structures were reduced to nothing but boulders of concrete and dust and ruins that resembled organisation once. A beautiful civilisation besmirched by a cellular shift in something that wasn’t particularly so important—it’s worth only known after it was lost.
Pretending was easier than welcoming the change.
And that is exactly what Mr. & Mrs. Gaur do after a particular night lifted the thin veil of silk dividing beastly hatred from primal desire, leaving behind two frustrated individuals trying to find their ways back to the life they knew before—one laced with infidelity, lonely nights and bitter fights.
But unfortunate for them, there was no path backwards.
Only one that led to a future they won’t recognise—out of pure instinct or fear of stepping into the unknown, they didn’t know. But something surely held them back, a leash that won’t come loose until it snapped.
So, their lives continue as they used to, an arrogant heir to a sprawling industry married to a stiff-shouldered daughter scorned by her misogynist father. Days spent in whatever boardroom that required the spectacle of a mismatch couple performing love before they parted ways to do what they do—her busy in overviewing the world’s perception of their families while Shauryaman remained himself, wasting time over narcissistic matters that usually bored his wife.
It was in the night they came alive, him trading the flashy neon lights of a loud and overcrowded club for the favour of fucking his wife until her voice was a hoarse resemblance of the sweet originality and sun peeked through the drawn curtains of the room often—but the cheap scent of infidelity still cling to him on the nights she refused him under the pretence of illness or work.
She had convinced herself that she cared very little about his late night rendezvous, but the illusion cracked every time the sound of his drunken footsteps echoed through the silence of their mansion while she sat in the master bedroom with a laptop in her lap and an abandoned glass of whatever wine was the nearest.
On the other hand, he imagined not growling her name against another’s skin, that his thoughts didn’t run back to the perfect topography of the wife he was supposed to hate dearly; that her cunt was the most welcoming even though he had sampled a dozen if not more in his long and eventful life. The taste of her lips clung to his memory like a poison that dripped into a stranger’s mouth, making everything seem acidic unless it was her.
Explosive thoughts, they were, lined with shadows of utter destruction and sparkling on both ends of the bridge—but neither dared to pour the gasoline that were the words on the tip of their tongues. Instead, they made peace with the unspoken truce of reconvening nearly every night to quench the thirst that needed the essence of one another.
Somehow, in the tug of war of unsaid emotions, the most dreaded day of their lives arrived with a silent chime of a notification on the family group chat that was more formal than most companies’ official notices.
The party underneath the watchful eyes of the security cameras and the golden glow of the wall-mounted lights was a success so far despite the heavy storms that plagued the city outside. Guests chattered about the extravaganza that followed the last name Gaur while investors joked of the stocks skyrocketing for the most stupid reasons, their wives were busy marvelling at the sight of the daughter-in-law of Harshvardhan Gaur.
The maroon saree framed the curves with a sophisticated elegance that had most eyes following her, heavily embroidered border a sharp contrast to the otherwise simple fabric while the blouse was a resemblance of the gold motifs that curved at the edge of the saree. Emeralds glittered along with the diamonds encrusted in the mangalsutra on the skin bared by the deep neck that exposed a generous amount of cleavage while the smooth skin of collarbones glowed brighter than some lights.
A small trail of sindoor sat peacefully in the parting of her dark hair—a silent claim of the man who stood by her side clad in black.
Shauryaman was severely aware of the eyes that caress her exposed skin and delicate curves, older men with perversion dancing in their gaze and dripping down the plastic smiles they offered while murmuring half-hearted congratulations. It irritated him beyond the coherent boundaries of words, watching investors leer down at her—and the worst was that he could do nothing about it.
Especially with the watchful gaze of his father focused upon the couple who had somehow managed to drag their marriage for a complete year—though not without indulging in blinding pleasure.
“You look lovely today, Mrs. Gaur,” cooed an investor whose name the spoiled brat in black couldn’t quite remember—not that he wanted to, grinning a little too big as his eyes halted for a lingering moment at the exposed valley between her breasts before returning to meet the dark orbs of her husband.
“You are a very lucky man, I must say.”
Unwittingly, the man in his late fifties allowed his fingers to find the bare skin of her arm—exposed by the short sleeves of her blouse—touching skin that he had not right to touch, thumb caressing the delicate curve of her elbow with a self-satisfied smirk that tested the nerves of the younger man.
No man—or woman—was allowed the privilege of touching her but him.
Shauryaman’s jaw tightened, fingers digging into the gold thread of her saree around the curve of her waist as he tried to reign in the anger blazing deep in his chest. But it was difficult, considering the unease radiating off her was hard to ignore, an alarm quietly widening her kohl-lined eyes while she continued to smile politely.
“You flatter me, Mr. Oberoi.”
He could tell the lie in her formality, an attempt to maintain her composure despite the obvious disgust lining the curve of her lips—anyone with a pair of two working eyes could. But it seemed that the leering gaze of the perverted man was in need of some medication, blinded by his thoughts that danced upon his face with little shame and entitlement stemming out of arrogance that disgusted the younger man.
The name rang a distant bell in his head.
Mr. Oberoi—a man whose name was tainted by whispers of misconduct. Young secretaries quietly disappearing into thin air with their lips pulled tight by the thread of money, women finding excuses to avoid his presence in a lonely room and his wife becoming the society’s laughing stock—addicted to the materialistic pleasure of gambling and alcohol. An infamous personality, but all for the wrong reasons—the kind that classified as red flags.
“Someone as pretty as you deserves to be flattered,” the man smirked, fingers tracing her skin until his index finger grazed the short sleeve of her blouse, leaving behind goosebumps and an ugly twitch of an otherwise pretty smile.
Shauryaman felt her body buckle, the supple curves embossed in his memories pressing into his side—as if she was trying to hide away in his arms—while the fingers wrapped around an untouched flute of champagne trembled just enough for darkness to swallow the little light in his eyes, mindless rage clouding every logical thought.
He doesn’t realise what happened next, or rather, his mind processed the action of his limbs far too slowly to stop.
Long fingers curled into a firm fist collided with the double chin of the flabbergasted man, sending the old investor stumbling back with a pained groan that amplifies when the younger man’s fingers find the edge of his collar, pushing him to the floor as he landed yet another punch—this one directed at the plump nose, blood trickling down.
Gasps echoed in the air as conversations came to an abrupt halt, wide eyes watching with surprise—all while Mr. Oberoi try relentlessly to get the beast off him, feeble attempts at avoiding the attacks unsuccessfully as each fist landed at its destination with a startling accuracy. Most remain spectators behind raised hands hiding their parted lips, but a few men—dear acquaintances of the couple—moved, grabbing the feral man and pulling him off the wheezing investor.
“Chod mujhe,” Shauryaman growled, trying to shrug off the hands holding him back while his eyes remained firm upon the man crawling on the floor, reduced from a smug pervert to a weak mess of bruises and blood.
He was no longer a man uncaring of the world, but a beast ready to rip open a monster left to roam the earth despite his sins—and for the person he swore to hate for his long life, the one who caged his spirit and became the blade meant to clip his rebellious wings of freedom. Yet, somehow, her unease dug deep in his soul, unleashing a passion that had nothing to do with himself but another.
A woman, no less.
When was the last time he had felt so strongly for a woman? Perhaps, with Avantika? After all, he did love her in his own manner, regardless of what she thought of him. Or perhaps, never before, for the sensation was unfamiliar and deeply unpleasant—a strange, overpowering urge to protect.
His chain of thoughts—quicker than a leopard hunting in his jungle—came to a screeching halt when another hand wrapped around his arm, not strong like the ones holding him back, but a soft touch that made his eyes find the wide doe ones that stared up at him with something complicated. Surprise, or perhaps shock, and something more lingering deep underneath.
Something complicated.
“Chod dijiye inhe.”
Every hand disappeared but hers, soft voice still demanding obedience while her eyes do not stray away from his—just them in a hall filled with strangers that cared more for gossip than them.
She whisked him away from the prying eyes, tugging him towards an exit that opened into an empty corridor with just enough light to illuminate their steps. But she didn’t stop even when the whispers and the live orchestra’s music faded, guiding them towards a higher floor through a flight of small and barely lit stairs.
No word interrupted the thick silence that lingered in the air between them, only the complicated mess of overwhelming emotions that radiated off her—a puzzle he couldn’t unravel, not that he would if he knew, for complications were unwelcome in his life and Shauryaman found himself in a dilemma.
A part of him cling desperately to oblivion, avoiding change like he always had. But another part, one sitting deeper in his chest—a place he couldn’t reach easily—wanted to wipe away the frown that tugged at her beautiful features and watch the slow awakening of the smile he was given access to briefly on his lucky days.
The abandoned corridor with barely any lights or anything particularly intriguing to it opened into a curved balcony. Moonlight illuminated white pillars while the echo of crickets filled the silence between them.
“Tum pagal ho kya?” She hissed, her fingers letting go of his hand to run them through the chocolate waves cascading down her back. Her chest heaved from the force of her breath, kohl-lined eyes wide with emotions he couldn’t bear to witness—too many, too real.
“He is our biggest investor, Shaurya!”
“Toh?” He growled, stepping forward until his shadow devoured her petite figure, his own breath heavy with the weight of trying to keep his emotions chained—reigned in and stuffed into a trunk deep in his mind and left there forever. His arm moved, snaking around her waist and tugging her forward until there was little air separating them.
“Investor ho ya khud bhagwaan, usse meri biwi ko chune ka koi adhikaar nahi hai.”
He leaned in, the distance separating their faces dissipating as his nose nudged against her cheekbone, trailing down until the long bridge of his nose brushed against the edge of her jaw—a growl rumbling in his chest as he inhaled the sweet scent that haunted him in her absence.
A shiver ran down her spine, hands anchoring herself against his chest while the intimacy of the moment threatened to tear apart her sanity and drive her into the universe of madness. When had they been so close—not physically, but emotionally—trapped in between a crystal orb with nothing more than themselves and their profuse emotions. A fragile thread, thinner than a hair, from which hung two bleeding hearts far too arrogant to confess first.
“Why do you care?” Came a whisper that had the arms around her tightening.
His eyes flashed—with anger or perhaps, with something akin to a protective instinct that made her shudder with a quiet gasp pulled out of her plump lips. A kind of dangerous glint that she had never seen before, not directed at her, but at the man that must be screeching about what a monster Shauryaman Gaur is.
“Kyuki shaadi ki hai maine tumse.”
A step forward, pushing her lightly behind until she was caged in between his lean body and the cool balustrade—body arching into his warmth like a moth seeking the blazing flames of a candle, more of a memory embedded in her limbs from sleepless nights of passion than anything else.
His lips pressed a lingering kiss on her jaw, fingers cupping the side of her face while his thumb caressed the skin underneath her eye—softness seeping in through the cracks he had tried to mend desperately, but he could no longer hold on. Especially not when a singular tear escaped her waterline to disappear under his fingertip, leaving behind only a faint moisture that evaporated soon enough.
Tears disgusted him, but hers?
They evoked something dead in him—something that had died when Avantika had walked away, reincarnated for a wife that made him feel more…alive. Less like a loser Harshvardhan Gaur thought him to be and more like the king of the entire world.
A world that looked like soft features and doe eyes sheltered by long lashes, soft dark waves that were home to his fingers and pink lips that parted with little sighs and breath. A world that was nestled in between her delicate collarbones, grazing the base of a neck that echoed his name in bruises that were concealed by makeup to save grace. A world that curved with her waist and widened with her hips, gentle to touch like her supple thighs and beautiful like her soul.
Breath heavy with whiskey mingled with her minty one, lips grazing one another but not quite kissing yet—lingering at the precipice of unknown, hanging on to one another because everything else that was familiar before was about to be stripped away by mere words.
“Kyuki tum meri biwi ho—” a deep breath, “—aur tumhe mere sivae koi chuye, yeh mujhe bilkul pasand nahi, meri jaan.”
The pad of his thumb pressed into her lower lip, parting the familiar skin until his tongue could slither into her mouth—tasting her like he had done frequently before on nights spent tangled into one another. But unlike the times before, this was soft, not an invasion but a surrender of soul and mind and body.
Mouths meet, but not with flames of desire stroked by their restless hands—a desperation underlying the intimacy that frowned upon aggression, for what was known to them if not the latter. And the briefest taste of the former? Intoxicating, not because desire thrived better underneath the cool caress of affection, but because it brought a peace that soothed their lonely, aching souls.
A balm to the wounds unseen, hidden by the flesh and skin and kept under lock and key from everyone’s eyes.
But no longer from each other’s.
Her fingers break away from his clothes with courage, trembling as the smooth skin grazed his cheek carefully while a low moan was swallowed by him. It was new to them—this side of themselves, hungry not for pleasure but arms where they could simply rest and receive the affection they had been deprived of since childhood.
It was only when breath became necessary do they pull away, foreheads resting together as their chests heaved in harmony—both trying to gulp as much air as they could without breaking away from one another.
“Shaurya?”
A low hum was her reply, obsidian eyes opening to trace the faint flush that coloured her cheeks pink, her teeth sinking into her lip and the meek darting of her eyes—as if the mere task of glancing up at him through the shadows of her lashes rendered her on the fragile path of vulnerability.
“Mujhe kuch batana tha,” she whispered.
“Kya hua, meri jaan?” He quirked up immediately, fingers brushing circles on her back while his hand tucked back loose strands to peer down at her properly.
It irked him—her tone. The quiet hesitation in place of her usual confidence. The slow stretch of syllables, as if she was trying to prolong the moment—delay the delivery of whatever she had to tell him. The fluttering of her lashes in an attempt to hide her doe eyes from his hungry gaze. Every deliberate or accidental attempt at postponing the revelation of what ailed her thoughts annoyed him—the withholding of information irritated his very soul.
And yet, patience, he had heard, was a key to a woman’s heart—among other things that he would give her. But that was the hardest to provide.
“I…”
Cool breeze whistled in the air, filling the void left by words that didn’t come out, the eerie quiet crowding them in an empty balcony while the moon peeked from a cloud—a tight-lipped witness peeking like a mischievous child from behind a dark cloud.
Her lips parted, the words at the tip of her tongue, but hesitation was a beast that haunted the corridors of her mind; insecurity pushing forth ideas of how he might react—with disgust or perhaps, complete indifference. But worse than both of them would be an outright denial, a rejection of the very reality.
For a moment, the thought of hiding away the truth felt comforting, just the way it did every day before. But how long could she possibly hide it? How long before he finds out? How long before her own body gives it away on a silver platter?
And hence, the words spilled out before she could rethink her decision:
“I am pregnant.”
Three words. A singular phrase—and a familiar one.
It felt like being trapped in a nightmare that won’t end, a loop that he was forced to live in and experience the same moment every time he thought his past had left him alone. A cruel punishment written in his fate to watch the woman he love fold into herself and repeat an earth-shattering statement that should be removed from the very face of the world—according to Shauryaman, at least.
Twice, now, he had stood with his arms wrapped around his partner, watching her lips form a reality he isn’t suitable for.
What kind of a father he would even be? A horrible one, he was sure. Not like Harshvardhan, but a different kind of monster—a narcissist fool who cared for none other than himself. What would he even teach his child? He had no morals to champion, no particular talent except if being full of himself counted. What would a child learn from him? Nothing but the tragic art of destruction.
Once, he had been too young to be a father. Unprepared to nurture a youngling, especially with his own life in jeopardy. Consequently, he had watched Avantika walk away from him, taking away his daughter and running into the arms of their boss like a pretty damsel in distress.
A jilted romance.
Time passed, but not much changed.
Because even with his arms wrapped around the petite form of his wife, whose ashen face and wide eyes watched him with a deep-rooted fear—all Shauryaman Gaur could think of was how unprepared he still is to be a father. A functional one, at least, whatever that meant.
“Sh-Shaurya?”
He hated the stutter and the weakness in her cracking voice, the moisture gathering in her eyes, the quiet sigh that escaped her parted lips as if she was awaiting a harsh judgment. And above all, despite having a cold heart that barely considered anyone else’s needs, he hated himself for reducing her to a trembling wife quietly begging for something he couldn’t give.
Where would she even go—seek help and support and care? There is no Arjun to save her, no knight in a tailored suit but a faulted villain that had somehow come to love her in his own twisted manner.
A soft breath escaped him, not a scoff or a huff of amusement—just something painfully neutral.
His forehead grazed hers in an abrupt motion that had her jumping in his embrace, breath heavy and unsteady as she waited for him to deny the child and question her virtue. Anything, but what came out of his lips—quiet, but not a figment of her imagination.
Real words.
“Joh bhi hoga, saath mein deal karenge.”
Because last time, he had made the decision on someone else’s behalf. Because last time, he hadn’t been strong enough to fight to keep someone in his life. Because last time, he hadn’t had the courage to change himself.
But this time? He would try.
He would do whatever it takes to keep her by his side, and he would not make the same mistakes he did a decade or so ago.
Longest ever fic I have written, I suppose, and the raunchiest smut 😈 fyi, requests open
Ruins of Rage
Shauryaman Gaur x Reader
Love conquers all while hate destroys all—but desire born out of a bone-deep animosity? It consumes all…
Marriage means little when there lives no care in the bond—but is the cardinal sin of lust enough to fill the silence of an extravagant mansion that sheltered two souls far too similar to like one another?
Warnings: Explicit Content. MNDI. Rough sex. Mentions of Cheating. Enemies-with-benefits? Age gap. Established relationship. Power Imbalance. Dom!Shauryaman. Sub!Reader. Reader is less inexperienced than Shauryaman. Hate sex. Jealous sex. Marking kink. Dirty talk. Oral sex (m!receiving). Fingering (f!receiving). Breast and nipple play. Degradation kink. Nicknames. Manhandling. Multiple positions. Clothed sex. Unprotected sex. PiV Intercourse. Slapping kink. Eye contact kink. Hair pulling. Size kink. Choking kink. Edging. Creampie. Overstimulation kink. Shauryaman is a nasty man.
“Have you no shame? No sense of dignity—if not yours, then mine? No foresight for your actions? No care for anyone’s reputations—yours, mine or our families? Or do you simply not care about anything other than yourself?”
There was only silence that followed the poisonous words, the ragged breaths of the woman scorned echoing in the living room of the mansion that the two had to share—appearances, after all, mattered the most in marriages such as theirs. Born not out of love—if they could even feel such an emotion without certain destruction—but mutual benefit of their selfish fathers and shared hatred that often treaded into the territory of unadulterated desire.
The click of her high heels was a symphony, acting like a backdrop for her angry words—lectures about reputations and his lack of self-control, as if she was above the clutches of lust—and restless pacing that only amused the sitting figure of her husband even more.
Amber danced in the crystal glass around which long fingers were wrapped, deep eyes watching the slow unravelling of an otherwise composed figure with an inexplicable darkness—a cold amusement dancing with a fierce fire of an insatiable appetite that plagued him.
“Meri itni chinta?” He tutted, raising an eyebrow as he took a deliberately long sip of the whiskey he had poured himself as a supporting pillar because the avalanche of words seemed inevitable when he came home smelling of alcohol and cheap floral perfume of a woman not his wife. Even more when the prototype of a to-be published newspaper sat on the low table, bearing a quiet accusation in its own.
Three words. A short, seemingly innocent question. Just enough to get a reaction from the composed woman who smiled politely at cameras and gave perfect answers in impromptu interviews.
A loud groan came like a crack in her facade, every mask she had ever worn—the dutiful daughter of a greedy industrialist, the sister who clapped with a broken smile as her brother was credited for everything she did, the perfect wife who kissed his cheek and laughed like she was the happiest in the shackles of their marriage that limited their freedom—came undone as her pacing came to an abrupt halt.
She whipped around on her heels, eyes wide and alive with anger—and humiliation, though Shauryaman would never name such a strong emotion—glaring daggers at him while her slender hands sat on the curve of her waist, right above the waistband of a pristine pencil skirt.
“Why the fuck are you so careless?”
A pause, not too long, but enough to make the man believe that she was done there. His lips parted, another taunt ready at the tip of his tongue, but the words were interrupted before they could see the light of the chandeliers hanging overhead.
“Ek journalist, Shauryaman. You fucking slept with a journalist who then wrote an entire exposé about your cheating, crappy ass!” She yelled, no longer caring about the servants that went on with their work around the walls that caged two tormented souls. So what if they heard her outburst? They already knew that the perfect couple in front of the camera was anything but that in real life.
Perhaps, everyone knew, and nobody questioned their acting simply because they didn’t care—just like their fathers didn’t care about the feelings of their children.
“Toh? It’s not like tumhe pata nahi main har raat kaha hota hu,” he hissed back, lips pursing in a cruel smirk as he watched every wall of her fortress fall, every layer peeling away to leave behind a quivering woman nearly a decade younger than him, if not more. Deprived of affection and love and everything human, just as he was—reduced to a perfect puppet while he became a rebellion in flesh.
“Why are you like this?”
“Why the fuck do you care?”
Taunts and teases had all but evaporated from his body as he stood up from the couch he was reclining upon, the glass of whiskey still half-full abandoned beside the newspaper with a glaring heading: ‘Shauryaman Gaur: The Perfect Actor’.
As much entertaining as it had been to argue with her, to watch her lose her calm and unsheathe her venomous words, to unleash herself for once without a collar around her neck that held her back—it was equally hard to watch her with cheeks reddened from fury and something too emotional for him to bear, wide eyes lined with tears of frustration, and just perhaps, humiliation.
“Because I am your wife! Because everything you do, I have to face the consequences,” she answered, voice dropping into a whisper as she peered up at him through tears-beaded lashes.
Her words undone him in a way it shouldn’t have, especially not when he pretended that her words weren’t knives nestled in his heart, gnawing at the soul he pretended didn’t exist in his body. Especially when he felt nothing for her except the animosity that occasionally bled into a raw desire that never reached its destination—and how would it when she hated him enough to remain miles apart, except when cameras hounded them like rabid dogs.
Three long strides it took him to erase the distance between them, hands snarling out like vicious snakes, fingers cradling the backs of both of her elbows and tugging her closer until inches separated their heaving chests.
“Then act like one,” he hissed.
“Oh?” She laughed on his face, uncaring for how disheveled she looked despite the fineries she was dressed in—the white pencil skirt that hugged her hips and cascaded down in a tailored fall down to her knees and the dark halter neck with a cut that hinted at her generous cleavage and bared her shoulders and arms. Clad in such silks and tailored silhouettes, still, she felt bare underneath his heavy gaze, pretending at braveness when she felt little of it.
“And how does one act like that, Shauryaman?”
A growl is the only answer she receives before his lips found hers in hunger that had been left unchecked for far too long. A thirst for her that couldn’t be quenched by the feeling of another passing one night stand whose name he couldn’t care to remember, only her.
His restless hands moved from her elbows, one shifting north to wrap fingers around the nape of her neck, keeping her glued him while the other mapped her curves greedily—pressing hard enough to elicit breathy sighs that he swallowed like a predator ravenous to devour her to the best of his abilities, committing every rise and dip of her body to his sinful memory.
Her own fingers were traitorous to her thoughts, exploring his lean front despite the initial protest that rushed through her body before ebbing away, leaving behind a void where desire multiplied like a parasitic bacteria that chewed away at her logic. His hair was surprisingly soft under her skin, messed from the hands of a stranger woman he had made out with in his car before her call had ruined his mood, demanding him to come home at once, but the young woman wasn’t quite in her senses to question that—or the perfume that tickled her overwhelmed senses in the worst way possible.
Shauryaman inched away from her, panting for breath but still incapable of letting her go as his lips pressed open-mouthed kisses on her flushed skin, beginning at the edge of her swollen lips before tracing down the path behind her ear, nipping at the sensitive area to make her sing for him. And indeed, a breathy gasp escaped her parted lips while her hands wrapped around his neck, holding on to him for dear life as if he was the only anchor that could save her.
The tip of his nose nudged against her racing pulse while his lips found themselves busy, sucking at the length of her neck to leave behind a mark that would remain in the morning—a loud reminder of what the pleasure he would bring her—before his tongue lapped at the skin, tasting the salt of the sweat that she had broken at the thought of the facade of their perfect marriage coming undone in front of the world.
Soft linen scratched at his chin as his lips ran out of bared skin, meeting the ribbon that tied her top around her neck—sophisticated as she always was, except in the moment with her composure unwrapped to reveal a starved young woman unbecoming under his hands and lips.
Obsidian eyes narrowed as he took into account her clothes—crisp before his hand had creased them and yet, far too elegant when the clock ticked closer to midnight. An ugly fire of possessiveness raged through his body in realisation as his fingers—the ones that held the back of her neck—wrapped around her jaw, tilting her head up as he straightened to his full height, wandering hand halting at her hips.
“Why all these sophisticated clothes, meri jaan? Kisi ka intezaar tha?” He queried, voice low and dark, rumbling with a dangerous edge that made her quiver as she shook her head.
It was evident to him—her desperate attempts at trying to find pieces of her composure in her trembling being to sew back into the mask of confidence that she wore so frequently that it deceived most into believing that side of her. But Shauryaman knew better than to trust facades, and he knew even better to read the truth of people.
“I had a meeting with an investor over dinner,” she replied through trembling lips, hands slipping away from his neck to rest against his heaving chest as she watched with confusion as his jaw tightened and darkness swallows the little brown of his eyes—leaving behind a stormy, restless sea of shadows.
“Dinner with investor? Ya apne ashiq se milne ja rahi thi?”
He relished at the sight of her surprise, dipped carefully into confusion at his words before he moved with a newfound vigour as his cruel mind supplied him an image of his wife bent over for another man—a thought that filled his veins with pure fire while ugly jealousy twisted violently in his chest.
He doesn’t allow her to answer his accusation, calloused hands already settling on her bare shoulders before he shoved her down—uncaring of the little whine from her as her knees scrapped against the carpet, burning from his sheer roughness. One of his hands shifted over to lace into her loose locks while the other unbuckled his belt, shoving down his trousers and underwear just enough to free his hardened length.
“Shaurya—”
“Mujhe tumhare protests ki koi zarurat nahi abhi,” he warned, fisting his cock and pumping it before he slapped her cheek with his reddened tip, a drop of pre-cum smearing against her skin like a stain against a clean canvas—just the beginning in the making of his masterpiece.
“Muh kholo.”
It wasn’t a request but a command, delivered with an authority that she never knew he possessed until she knelt in front of him, taken aback by this side of him while slick collected into her panties, thighs locking together underneath her skirt while her lips part around his tip—tongue licking hesitantly at the slit on the top before she slowly began to take more of his length into her mouth.
Inch by inch until the tip collided into the back of her throat, making her gag out loud—the sound echoing in the living room along with the wet noises of him feeding her his cock and his loud groans and filthy words.
“Fuck, baby, aren’t you good at this.”
The fingers wrapped in her hair tugged hard enough for pain to shoot through her body—somehow causing even more arousal to drip down until her panties were all but ruined—making sure that the wide eyes lined with tears remained firm upon his, mascara along with the sharp wing of eyeliners smudging against her pretty skin as he thrusted into her mouth roughly, enjoying the sight of her struggling to take him completely.
His length twitched in her mouth, balls tightening while his mind began to fog with the pleasure that coursed through him like hot flames licking at his very soul—telltale signs of a sweet release that he usually made him chase even harder. But the moment was anything but usual, and Shauryaman didn’t wish to come just yet, especially not in her mouth.
Pulling her away from his pulsing cock by her hair, he leaned down, fingers wrapping around her arm with a vice grip as he pulled her to her feet, the heels clacking in protest against the carpeted floor as his lips meet her again like lightening—tongue slipping into hers to taste the salty essence of his pre-cum lingering on her tongue along with the red wine she must have sipped upon while waiting for him to return after her call.
Dominant steps pushed her back until the back of her thighs collided against the armrest of the couch he had once occupied. His hands find her waist, fingers gripping the skin still covered by the elegant fall of her clothes in a predatory grip that had her whimpering into his mouth—a tiny sound that he devoured.
A sound that unknowingly unleashed a beast.
He turned her around, a palm splayed across the middle of her spine while the other undid the knot of the ribbon holding her top together, bending her over the arm of the couch as the halter neck slipped away to gather loosely around the peak of her bust.
Blazing breath caressed her shoulder blades as he leaned over her, hips bucking into the supple curve of her ass with a satisfied groan while his tongue traced the line of her spine from the nape of her neck until it disappeared underneath the back of her top—shoving aside the loose strands that troubled him. Restless hands move relentlessly, one securing around her waist to keep her underneath him while the other pulled at the hem of her skirt, tucking it until the fabric settled around her hips.
The sight of the flimsy lace panties wet from her arousal was maddening as it was satisfying, making his hardened length tighten in anticipation—nearly to the point of pain that drove him towards insanity, if the condition could ever be so pleasing to look at.
A loud slap echoed in the room along with the obscene sound that left the parted lips of the bent over figure—something between a pained whine that bled into a pleasured moan—as her shaking limbs tried to keep herself upright for his taking.
“My baby likes this, doesn’t she?”
Long fingers squeezed the reddened skin of her ass where his hand had left another mark of his possession before releasing his hold, watching with brief amusement as the flesh jiggled a little before landing another sharp spank—this time on the untouched cheek—before his hand lowers, menacingly slow, stretching out the moment for his own cruel pleasure.
“All this from sucking me off like a whore?” He tutted, shaking his head as his fingers pushed the wet lace of her panties to a side, tracing the dripping slit before his middle finger began to probe against her entrance. His teeth descend into her earlobe as a singular thick digit slipped into her tight core, all while he continued to sing into her ears, “all that lectures about morales and here you are, dripping down your thighs while your little pussy begs to be filled.”
“Shaurya,” she moaned, hips wiggling as her warm walls stretch to expand his thrusting finger, her fingers fisting the cushion abandoned on the couch as she tried to relax against the intrusion—not unwelcome, but uncomfortable still.
“So tiny you are, baby. Agar tumhe acche se nahi janta toh shayad samajh leta ki tumhe kisi ne kabhi chua nahi—but I know you, don’t I?”
Another finger slipped into her heat, making her gasp in surprise as her eyes shut in close, teeth sinking into the plump skin of her swollen lips to keep from crying out as his fingers pick up speed, scissoring to stretch her entrance for his impatiently waiting cock.
With a final thrust, his fingers pull back, leaving her entrance open and clinching around empty air as he smirked down at her. Stroking his length with the dripping nectar that cling to his fingers, he tapped the tip of his cock against her pulsing clit, biting back a ravenous groan as he watched her body twitch and legs spread wider without his orders—good, little girl—before he positioned himself outside her cunt.
“Beg for it, meri jaan,” he whispered into the skin of her shoulder, nuzzling into the side of her neck to inhale her scent.
There was a sadistic pleasure in witnessing his composed wife with smart words having no sharp remarks to make, only a mess of parted lips and breathless gasps while her sweet nectar smeared the flesh of her inner thighs—a beautiful, breathing statue. A goddess of words left speechless, and he hadn’t even sheathed himself inside her yet.
“Beg for my cock.”
“Sh-Shauryaman p-p-please… I need you insi—”
Her words were interrupted by a choked scream as he pushed his raging length into her welcoming heat with a forceful thrust, the tip grazing against the opening of her cervix as his balls kissed her small bud of nerves for a brief yet startling moment.
A groan is teared out from the depths of him as he stills for a moment, letting her moist warmth envelop his aching cock, stretching against his width to accommodate him properly while he panted, bent over her and holding her close by her waist. His limp hand locked into her hair again, fingers gripping the strands as he began to move—an experimental thrust, and then another.
Not long after, he was drilling into her, rough bucks of hips shoving his length down her cunt while she cried out from the unusual mixture of pain mingling alongside blinding pleasure. His fingers leave bruises in the shape of his hand on her waist—unseen underneath the top—while the arm of the couch dug into her hips, gifting her a tiny purplish spot here and there while the furniture moved with the force of his thrusts.
“Such a good girl—”
A sharp tug on her hair as he twisted a few strands around his long fingers, eliciting a sharp whimper from her that melted into a desperate moan.
“—taking your husband so good—like you were meant to take me.”
The walls of her pussy pulsed against the veins that pressed against the skin of his cock, soft and welcoming—heavenly as they sucked him into her and clung to him, weeping in dismay when he pulled back until only his tip remained in her before plunging back into her with a brutal thrust that made her cunt weep some more, albeit rejoicing his return.
Her moans echoed through the living room along with the words he uttered and the obscene sound of skin slapping against bare skin followed closely by the shrillness of her wet entrance engulfing him. The scent of sex and sweat bathed over the cheap perfume he had smelt of, as well as the vibrant woody scent basking in pink pepper and saffron—Purple Oud by Dior, her favoured perfume.
“Shaurya—oh, I am close,” she moaned, one of her hands uncurling from the cushion to find purchase on the one wrapped around her waist, back arching into his as her hips move in tandem to meet his thrusts—limbs desperate for the overwhelming pleasure to wash over her as her vision blurs from the intensity of the knot beginning to slowly unravel in her stomach.
Her words—if only she had known before—made him stop, a devilish smile pulling at his lips as he sat motionless inside her, making her whine out loud while her nails dug into the back of his palm, leaving behind half-moons.
A confused “what?” escaped her lips as she tilted her head, trying to meet his gaze with her blurred eyes.
His hand snaked around her front, fingers wrapping around her neck as he pulled her back, dipping his head down until his lips brushed against the apple of her cheek in a mocking act of affection before he turned her around to face him.
Dark eyes study her features with blatant desire—the heavy fall of her long lashes trying to hide the tearful doe-eyes that peered up at him with an attempt at glare, the blush colouring the canvas of her skin along with the dark smudges of her mascara and liner and the plump curve of her swollen lips that part in quiet protest.
For a brief moment, something tender steered awake in his chest—something he had long buried deep underneath years of detached intimacy. A wandering thought that made him consider kissing the blooming marks on her skin and soothe them with a press of his tongue while his arms gathered her against his chest.
A sweet thought, but Shauryaman slams it shut before his limbs dare lift to follow through.
Instead, he leaned down, nipping at her earlobe before he gestured in the direction of the master bedroom—the one supposed to be shared by them, but was claimed solely by her—before his command arrived in a lowered octave, rumbling through his chest:
“Bedroom mein jao aur sab kuch utaar dena.”
His nose brushed against her cheek once, a small act of kindness, as his gaze traced the movement of her throat swallowing an invisible lump before she nodded almost weakly before moving to follow his orders on weak legs.
The click of her heels disappeared soon enough in the labyrinth of long corridors and quiet, lifeless rooms—leaving him behind with his loud thoughts and an unsheathed cock, not that he minded such nudity, especially not in the privacy of his own mansion.
With a low hum and a subtle stretch of his neck, he reached for his abandoned glass of whiskey, taking a long sip to quench the burn of his throat with an aged liquor that burned harder while his eyes find the source of the night—the very reason why his wife had called him when she would much rather not see his face unless absolutely necessary and asked him to come home immediately.
Home, as if the towering walls that cage him could ever be called that.
The photograph underneath the bold letters of the headline was one that took him an extra moment to recognise before the memory flooded back to him. It was from one of their early appearances as a couple after the wedding neither of them wanted happened with them pretending to be so in love, a charity gala she had organised because ‘it was good for reputations’ and their fathers were hungry for publicity, the good kind.
She had worn a white Pashmina saree with a modest blouse that had made him roll his eyes at the feigned purity, with little jewellery adorning her—only heavy jhumkas to compliment her outfit and the dainty mangalsutra he had never truly paid attention to—with no makeup except for kohl lining her eyes and a blush pink lipstick. A stark contrast to the dark ensemble he had adorned instead of wearing the bandhgala his father had expected him to wear—a rebellion that had looked rather beautiful to witness when the two stood together, pretending like their lives depended on it.
A gentle smile adorned her lips in the captured moment, her eyes soft and crinkled at the end with joy that seemed to real to be an act, peering at something off-camera while he looked at her, with his hand resting around the bared skin of her waist almost naturally
Shauryaman had never known he looked at her in public like that, with a small smile that seemed to threaten its way across his face and something usually concealed thawed behind his emotionless eyes—a look that made a frown tug on his eyebrows before he shook his head in denial, burying his intrusive thoughts under the burning alcohol before he placed the now-empty glass over the newspaper.
With a shake of his head and a deep breath, he began to tread the short but unfamiliar path to the bedroom, stuffing back every thought that felt like ice over his raging desire into the deepest corners of his mind—to be unpacked exactly never—while he peeled off the leather jacket that clung to his shoulders, throwing it into a random direction carelessly.
The door was left ajar, warm lights peeking out through the gap of handful inches—an invitation, but not a loud and excited kind that he was used to, not eager like the ladies who threw themselves at his feet but something subtler, restrain practiced despite the fire that licked at toes and the ache gnawing at the insides of stomach for release.
Wordlessly, he strode into the dimly lit room with his chin tipped in air and eyes sparsely taking in the belongings—not his own—before his attention snapped to the figure sitting on the bed—legs curled close with hands perched upon knees, straight back and squared shoulders pushing her enticing mounds higher into the air while her eyes darted around nervously in a manner that he had never witnessed before.
The sight of her neatly folded clothes placed on a chair near the balcony door amused him dearly before his fingers begin to fiddle with the hem of his tee, eyes firm upon her with the intention to make her squirm as he began to undress himself slowly—putting on a show for her wide eyes.
“Kya batau, aise baithe hue kitni haseen lag rahi ho tum, meri jaan,” he teased, gaze drifting down to the heaving mounds with pebbled nipples—pleading him to play with them. His tongue darted out to lap over his lower lip as his mind clouded with elaborative things that he could do to them, the many ways that she would wake with his reminder all over her, not merely just her plump breasts but every curve of her body.
Long shadows caressed the lean ridges of his bare chest, mingling with the hair that curled over his muscles before thinning into a trail that led to his hardened cock. His biceps flex without intention as he shoved his already undid trousers down his waist, getting rid of his underwear in the same motion before his clothes were a mere heap of useless fabrics on the floor and he was kneeling on the edge of the mattress with a beastly smirk—the kind that promised a long night.
His approach was slow, like a predator stretching the hunt for his entertainment, until his shadow devoured her smaller figure completely while his fingers snaked around her neck, squeezing just enough for breathing to become laborious while his lips wrapped around a nipple—teeth grazing the sensitive skin teasingly before his tongue circled it, flicking the peak and nipping on it until she was a withering mess underneath him.
“Shaurya,” she moaned, fingers tangling into his hair as his attention turned to the unattended nipple, hand groping her breast before his thumb and index finger squeezed and twisted the sensitive bud until a whine escaped her parted lips.
A plead had formed on her tongue, barely a whisper as she tucked on his strands desperately: “p-please, Shaurya, I w-want to c-come.”
“So needy,” he growled back in response, sucking on the flesh of her breast until the skin began to bloom with a purple tint—satisfaction rushing through his blood like an intoxicating drug before his eyes rise to meet her hooded ones with a dark pull of his lips that promised obscenity she had never imagined before.
An arm snaked around her, pulling her flush against himself while his other hand guided her until her thighs bracketed his hips—pulsing length bumping unceremoniously into her weeping entrance hard enough to send a shiver rushing down her spine.
“If you want to come, baby, you will have to work for it,” he announced with a grin while his hand left the supple flesh of her thigh to pump his cock ready to take her, raising an eyebrow at her confused expression as he waited—albeit impatiently—for her to realise the meaning of his words.
It was no longer a mystery to him that her experiences in the realm of flesh and pleasure were brief and sparse, especially compared to his. And while her raw emotions and pretty noises amused him much, his patience ran out faster than her mind’s quiet musings could figure out the meaning of his words—hands gripping her waist in an iron cage as he lifted her onto his length, pulling her down in a smooth pull until he was home again.
A shrill squeal tore through the careful composure of his wife as a tear rolled down her cheek, the new angle providing for him to fill her to the brim until everything felt overwhelming—the stretch of her walls around his pulsing cock, the curved tip brushing insistently against a hidden spot that made stars appear at her periphery, her clit grazing his hipbone as she began to lift her body and fuck herself, his hand’s continued abuse of her breasts and nipples.
There was an inexplicable thrill—the kind that arrived after jumping from the edge of the cliff for the simple sake of adventure—in watching her face fall into the throes of pleasure, eyes shutting close and lips fall apart to let out breathy moans and loud whimpers while her instincts take over her limbs, rocking herself upon his length with all the little strength she was left with.
Manicured nails dug into his shoulders as he slowly began to rise his hips to meet her shallow thrusts, letting out an approving growl as a choked moan cracked through her chest when his mushroom tip brushed against the small bundle of nerves hidden in her welcoming cunt.
“That’s the spot, isn’t it?”
She only moaned, head tipping back and baring the length of her neck as her hips bucked faster, chasing her long awaited release that brewed in her stomach faster than before—the knot growing tighter and tighter as her chest heaved from pants that echoed in the room along with the indecent sounds of intercourse.
It was only a harsh spank on her ass that pulled her out of her trance, a cry interrupted her rhythm as her body came to a standstill.
The hand that now rested low on her back moved, caging her jaw as he pulled her face down until their breaths mingled together in a dance of intimacy and the embers glowing in his eyes were apparent, even to a blind.
“Words, whore,” he growled, his fingers releasing her only to slap her across her face, cheek burning no longer from mere flush but with a handprint now faintly glowing as his hand assumed his earlier position of cupping her jaw—a cold question making her gulp: “Kya maine rukne ke liye kaha?”
“N-nahi…”
An eyebrow lifted as a rumbling hum emitted from his lips, deep eyes glancing down at her tight cunt splitting open around his heavy cock before he looked up at her.
“Toh ruki kyu?”
Shauryaman knew he was being mean, but then again, he was mean. She knew that just as well as he did, so why should he not enjoy the vision of his wife gulping on thin air or looking around while her lips parted with an answer she didn’t have.
It was adorable, and so tempting without trying to be—not that he would ever vocalise the truth.
She doesn’t reply, for she has no answer. Instead, her hips begin to work again, thighs burning with exhaustion as her body lifted itself only to descend back onto his length—nothing coherent on her mind apart from seducing thought of the sweet release that seemed just out of her finger’s grasp, within sight but not in reach.
He knew that, could sense the frustration as her eyebrows pulled into a frown that made him smirk before he tugged her face closer yet again by his grip around her jaw. His teeth sink into her lower lip—right where he had earlier, breaking skin yet again to taste the coppery tang of her blood before leaning back.
“Ankhein sirf mujhpar, meri jaan.”
A selfish man he was, but there was nothing more delicious than a pussy convulsing around him—overstimulated and stretched out for him to rut into.
Pleasure-hazy eyes lined with thick lashes find the deep storm clouds in his with a tiny sound that was somewhere in between a squeaky whine and a low moan, earning her a slow swipe of his thumb across her cheek before he leaned up to glide his tongue across the bite mark that bloomed red on her lip.
With a final flick of her nipple, his hand moved down until long fingers splayed across her stomach for a brief moment. But that wasn’t his destination, far from it, and with a lazy ease of an apex predator, his journey continued until his thumb found the small bundle of pleasure above her entrance, trapping it in between his fingers before he began to rub slow circles around her clit.
Not on it, but around.
Pleasing but not enough to push her over the edge.
“You want to come, don’t you?” He huffed against her lips, a breath of amusement while his hand drifted down from her jaw to curl like a shackle around her neck.
She nodded before remembering through her wild haze his commanding words, stuttering out a pitiful “yes” that had him cooing to her—mockery of affection, or perhaps, not a complete tease as his eyes trace the path of tears running down her cheeks.
A singular brush of his calloused fingertips against her clit had her jolting in his lap, muscles of her thighs shaking violently in a telltale of exhaustion that had Shauryaman huffing in annoyance before he shoved her down onto her back—cock still heavy and waiting for its own chase of orgasm.
Rough hands parted her thighs to accommodate himself as his fingers drummed against her flesh, a wordless command to wrap her legs around his waist as he began to pull out from her heat almost completely before pushing back.
He was no longer a mere human, but a beast taken flesh as he rutted into her, relishing in the way her nails left behind angry scratches on his bare back while his name was a prayer on her lips, chanted in pornographic moans and screams that echoed in the void in their marriage, filling the quiet walls with something other than sharp words and even sharper hate.
The mushroom tip of his length brushed against her spot again and again while his thumb had abandoned modesty and found her pulsing clit to torture under firm circles that grew persistent with her increasing noises.
Her warm walls threatened to collapse, pulsing against his bulging veins in a moist heat as the threads of the knot in her stomach began to unravel.
“Oh—Sh-Shauryaman—”
“Come for me, meri jaan. Milk my cock like a perfect fucking slut.”
The edge of the cliff was jagged and beneath it was the ocean of pleasure—white and restless and waiting with open arms to engulf her writhing body in an intense embrace that would make stars appear on the edge of her consciousness. All she needed was a push, a driving force that would tip the scales in the favour of a blinding euphoria that rendered the limbs heavy.
And the push came in the form of Shauryaman’s knuckles capturing her heated bud while he continued to explore her depths and rearrange her guts with grunts and growls that spurred her on, a singular tug of his fingers and her back was arching off the bed, sore nipples pressing into his bare chest while her fingers find purchase on his back.
“Shaurya—ahhhh.”
Her walls clamped down on his length, making a guttural sound escape his lips as he continued to fuck her through the highs of her release, dragging the waves of pleasure until dark spots began forming in her vision, body convulsing in his arms.
He waited for the searing pleasure to fade away into a heavy exhaustion before his hand collided with her ass, humming at her broken whine while her trembling fingers attempted at pushing him away by shoulder—an adorable attempt, but one he was in no mood of tolerating now.
“On your fours, whore,” he hissed through his teeth while long fingers wrapped around his cock, stroking himself while he watched her blink in confusion. He nearly imagine the protests that were to come—the kind that belonged on the tongues of spoiled brats obsessed with themselves, and no matter how much sweet she seemed, Shauryaman knew that they shared the same narcissistic core deep inside.
“No,” she protested weakly, a stifled cry behind bitten lips as she tried to crawl away from him on limp limps.
His head tilted to the side, dark eyes narrowed at the defiance before he reached out with sheer force, fingers curling into her hips before dragging her closer, turning her around until she was exactly the way he wanted—on her hands and knees with back arched and hair gripped in his fingers.
“Maine tumse puch nahi raha tha, jaan,” he roared, lining himself against her entrance while pulling at her hair hard enough for her neck crane back and a cry to slip past her lips. With a firm and finally stroke, he bottomed into her yet again with an animalistic sound, letting out a contented hum as her overstimulated pussy fluttered around him, continuing as he pulled back, “main tumhe bata raha tha.”
A harsh snap of his hips, a guttural cry from her lips—the cycle continued until he was a rabid beast breeding his bitch in heat.
Enough to knock her off balance until her arms gave up, face crashing into the mattress roughly as he continued—uncaring as she thrashed underneath him, chanting his name as if he was god himself. And in the moment? With his balls tightening and vision blurring with intense pleasure, he felt no less than that.
“Agar mujhe pehle pata hota,” he huffed between heavy pants, leaning over her as his hips moved with determined vigour to chase his orgasm. Her fluttering walls tightening around his length was all that he needed to know, bringing a smirk to his lips as his fingers let go of her hair to move down and circle her front, playing with her bouncing nipples while he growled into her shoulders: “toh suhaagraat wale din shayad aa hi jata tumhare pass.”
A scream of his name punctuated his words, spurring him on as he tugged at her nipples before twisting them until her tears rolled down her cheeks.
“You love to pretend that you are above this all, but look at you—” her walls gushed around him while her lips parted in a choked scream, fingers curling into the silk sheets as her head shook both from the waves of crushing pleasure as well as in denial, because Shauryaman Gaur wasn’t stopping still, “—fucking coming around me after protesting like a good wife.”
His orgasm came abruptly—like low tides suddenly turning into tsunami that crashed into him, ripping through his limbs until he was collapsing onto her like a heaving mess while his cock twitched inside her, filling her cunt up with his seed—all to the brim until their mixed cum dripped down the back of her thighs and staining his front.
And still, his length still remained a hard mass of raw lust as he pulled out of her, watching her quivering body through hooded eyes before his fingers rise to trace her arm—a touch featherlight and yet, lingering enough to make her whine and try to move away from him.
Also, posting this on the eve of Ikka because I can
Ruins of Rage
Shauryaman Gaur x Reader
If he was the fire, she was no less than gasoline—and together? They were exquisite ruins of a unique rage…
They were mirrors to one another: an uncomfortable reminder of the dark shades that coloured their terrible worlds, forced to pretend for the sake of others while their own personal hell burned hotter than the restless summer of India.
Warnings: Arranged marriage. Forced proximity. Sexual tension. Banter and sarcasm. Age gap. Dub-con (you will know what I mean soon). Sexual content (groping and hair pulling and spanking). Enemies (for now). Shauryaman Gaur (as per the trailer and teaser, he deserves to have a warning of his own). Shauryaman is a little perverted? (A little?) Misogyny. He is into substance abuse. That should do…for now?
The world had evolved—from walking distances to creating wheels and innovations taking flight, from living in caves to building houses of mud until towering apartments filled out the horizon of metropolitan cities, from a society that frowned upon women to their fight for voting rights giving rise to feminism, from the conceptualisation of marriages to the creation of social norms around it until the youth decided to break them down to love freely.
The world had changed plenty—but not the whole one, even though most wore the facade of modernism over a heart still favouring the old practices that once defined the civilisation that resided on the land near the banks of Indus.
An elegant chandelier of glass hung from a frame of gold, illuminating the spacious sitting room Shauryaman had been shown to by the middle-aged housekeeper who smiled too widely and spoke too politely, making the man wonder whether she knew as well the bitter pill of truth he was forced to swallow.
It hadn’t been the first time his father had made a decision for him—the man was practically obsessed with controlling the life of the heir of the vast family empire, always bringing forth ideas that would disrupt his life. But unfortunately for his father, he underestimated the cunning of his son.
But there were no artful tricks that could rid him of Harshvardhan Gaur’s latest demands.
None except obedience and a quiet hope that his intended—carefully chosen by his father, a daughter to an industrialist acquaintance—despised this idea of union as much as he did. Because perhaps then, he might figure out a way to avoid disruptions in his already satisfactory life.
A deal would work favourably, one where his soon-to-be wife agrees to let him live his life the way he wants to while she breathes however she want—no interference in each other’s business.
A perfectly happy marriage.
His anticipation was rising as the time ticked by, the careful and revealing searches in the browser of his mobile felt heavy on his chest as well as in his pocket—ones he had made in the chauffeured car on his way to the mansion that was registered in the name of his to-be father-in-law.
The research revealed not much about her, nothing entertaining as he had hoped. Only pictures taken during launch parties and charity galas, along with the formal information about her expensive education and her role in her father’s empire: the head of the Public Relations team, a fancy title for a job that seemed nearly useless in the eyes of Shauryaman.
But who was he to comment?
Well, technically?
Her fiancee.
The rapid train of his thoughts derailed the moment dark mahogany double doors opened with a quiet creak that echoed in the otherwise silent room, his dark eyes—deceivingly resembling the innocent ones of a newborn deer—lifting to find the figure of his betrothed closing the door she had entered through.
Elegance was the only word that came to his mind as he watched her approach the sofa he sat upon, her heels clicking like the devil’s warning against the marble floor.
A smirk tugged on his lips as his eyes dragged over her—assessing from her head to toe, until he was pleased enough to rise to hid feet. At least, his father had found him a pretty face, easy on sore eyes—one that would look breathtaking on his arm and in the family photographs for Harshvardhan Gaur’s election campaigns.
“So you are the chosen one?” He wondered out loud, his boots heavy against the floor as he chewed away the distance separating them, halting only when she stood at an arms length from him.
His mocking words earn him an arched eyebrow, her head tilted to a side while she folded her arms in front of him. Her eyes—large like his own, honeyed poison in appearance—venture out on an expedition of their own, studying the sharp lines of his tailored suit and the laid back crew neck underneath the jacket.
“Chosen one?” She repeated, her voice a soft cadence that disguised her own arrogance, not like his—loud and obnoxious and evident from a mile—but quieter, more dangerous.
“Or the bali ka bakra?”
Shauryaman’s smirk widened, eyes darkening with interest as he let out a rumbling hum, bending down until his fingers trace the rim of the untouched glass of water—an action dripping of arrogance and something far more sinister—before the long digits wrapped around it like a striking snake.
A predator intimidating another, or perhaps, trying to deduce whether he was faced with a true predator or a sheep in the lion’s skin.
“Bali ki bakri hui tum toh,” he teased, taking an agonising long sip of the water while his obsidian eyes remain locked onto hers above the rim—a silent challenge simmering in the air, daring her to rise to his bait.
And oh! Does he wish to see her come alive with rage—witness the fire, if she has any.
She rolled her eyes, a nearly quiet huff of annoyance eliciting an amused laughter as he waited patiently for her reply, because he could see the gears in her mind working, her lips parting in a telltale sign of a reply incoming.
“How are you so sure ki sacrificial lamb main hu aur tum nahi?” She taunted, a smirk mirroring his dancing on her attractive features as she shifted—slow steps graceful like a panther’s, moving through the length of the room as if it was a forest, and her the queen of the land, which, in its own uniquely manner, was true.
That caught him off guard, because wasn’t it always the women that got the shorter stick in such lifelong arrangements while the men enjoyed their privileged lives? And yet, the confidence oozing from this woman a decade younger than him had even the arrogant heir reconsidering every word he had been told about the deal, and everything his father had left unsaid.
And from the amused glint in her eyes and the smirk widening the slightest inch? She knew that he was doubting everything, exactly what she wanted.
With a deep breath, one meant to fill the cracks in his composure and buy him enough time to find a satisfying reply to her words, he placed the glass back on the table before he stood up to his full height—not the tallest by any standards, and yet, his impactful aura did most of the intimidation when required.
“Mushkil hota hoga na,” he began with a mocking smile, lazy steps circling her once before he stopped in front of her, heavy gaze tracing her delicate features with eyes that gleamed at the knowledge of having a worthy opponent in the shape of his intended wife.
At least, the marriage won’t be boring.
Unless he can tame her, which would be fun, but only for a brief time.
“Aise pretend karna ki tumhe koi faraq nahi padhta ki tumhari freedom tumse cheen li ja rahi hai, all because your father thinks this marriage is of more value than you? As if tumhe bura nahi laga ki tumhare baap ne tumhari jagah tumhare bhai ko waris bana diya, even though you clearly were the better option? ”
He tsked, cruel as his fingers brush against the bare skin of her wrist—slow like a predator enjoying the thought of teasing and tormenting his prey before delivering the killing blow. His very soul relished at the sight of her muscles tensing, shoulders squared almost painfully while her jaw tightened in restraint, patience and composure hanging from a fine thread while his words and actions all but push her towards the cliff’s edge—waiting for her to lose her grip and show him the fire that blazed behind the cold facade of neutrality in her eyes.
With a deliberate shift, his hand wrapped around her wrist, catching her completely off-guard as he tucked her closer. His empty arm wrapped around the curve of her waist, keeping her pressed to his front as his dark eyes trace the newfound expression on her face—committing it to his memory, for the uncertainty of witnessing the sight again was not lost on him.
Her wrist is freed soon after, allowing her to press both of her hands to his chest in an attempt to push him away—applying as much force as she could muster. But his arm was an iron shackle, and rather than being discouraged, her defiance only fuelled the darkness swirling in his eyes—entertained he was at her attempts, unfazed still because she held little strength over him.
His fingers caress her clothed shoulder, a lingering touch—though featherlight, at best—that had her growing more restless against the suffocating warmth of him, before they shift north.
The bared skin of her neck was warm to his touch, inching closer to her face and savouring every hitch of her breath with a mocking smirk while his fingers reach their destination, splaying across the line of her jaw and tilting her face up—just to peer down into the eyes that have intrigued him in a matter of few minutes. His thumb traced the curve of her lower lip, messing with the defining lip liner and matte lipstick she wore like an armour, creating a sinful chaos on a sharp visage.
“Itna gussa,” he started, voice dropping down an octave or two as his face inched closer to hers until their breaths mingled as one, grazing each other’s cheeks and warming skin against her will—tobacco from his cigarette tangled in the mint from the chewing gum she had spat out before walking through the doors that enclosed them now.
The thumb halted its ministrations at the pause of his words, rising to press insistently on the plump skin until her lips part, offering him delightful vulnerability that contrasted against the wide eyes of his soon-to-be wife that seemed feral with rage—a sight he smirked down at.
“Sirf barbaadi lata hai, meri jaan.”
He felt her recoil at the term of endearment before he saw it, her body filled with renewed energy to get out of his hold that had began to only ebb a little, and it only brought a laughter out of him—full and cruel with his eyes gleaming under the chandelier lights.
And still, his arm around her waist unbothered, fingers tracing little mocking circles only to enrage her more.
“Let me go!” She protested, glaring up at him, but it was hard to appear in control of the situation when she was all but caged against the man she already hated—the very one that she has to marry because of their father’s whims. Rather, she looked adorable to him, like an angry spoiled brat told she could not have everything she wants.
Instead of replying verbally to her, Shauryaman only leans down until their lips were mere millimetres away, nearly brushing with every deep breath she took—unsteady from the anger that rushes through her veins—but still not touching as the heir of Harshvardhan Gaur would want—though he would have what we wants, one way or the other.
He always does, with hook or with crook.
There was a unique satisfaction in having her against him, defenceless and breathing heavily with a flush she couldn’t control colouring her cheeks pink and her lips parted under his thumb without any words to utter because even the smallest of syllable meant a contact of intimacy she clearly doesn’t want—a perverse pleasure that persuaded his blood to rush southward and pupils to dilate as he watched the rise and fall of her breasts, hidden from his sight by the silk shirt she wore, before his eyes lifted to meet hers again.
Anger. Disgust. Indifference—that is what he had hoped to feel for his fiancee before she had walked in, and yet, standing in the middle of the room with a woman glaring up at him despite having the shorter stick? He could only feel a raw desire to devour her completely. A lust deeper than anything he had ever felt for any woman before—and to think that he had been with quite beautiful ones, models and actresses and aspiring stars that dwindle before making it to the sky.
Before he could think more, or before she could find in her the strength to push him away for good, his lips slanted away on hers—not a gentle press of kindness or hesitation between virginity lovers or strangers trying to familiarise themselves to the map of their would-be.
But rough—teeth and tongue and lips clashing in a war for dominance that he was determined on winning at any cost.
A gasp is all he lets her react with before his teeth sink into her lower lip, biting hard enough to leave behind the faint imprint of himself on her skin and taste the slightest tang of her blood before he lets her lower lip escape only for his tongue to slip in, muffling her cry and probing and poking her insides until her tongue was dancing alongside his—not in harmony but engaged in a battle.
The hand cupping her jaw slipped away into her open hair, tangling into her strands and tugging at the roots—hard enough for the sting to tread closer to the line that separated pain from hard-earned pleasure—but his hand was as restless as the man, shifting south until his fingers traced the curve of her spine. All while the hand around her waist moved to play at the curve of her ass, groping and feeling the supple flesh before delivering a singular spank that elicited a yelp from her.
Shauryaman had expected rebellion—screeches and protests and pushing him away with all her strength and accusations about him being a perverted monster. But instead, his rough actions are greeted with equal vigour that surprised him just as it excited him.
Her lips moved against his with frightening intensity—fuelled by anger and a desire she would never vocalise, especially not when it originated for her to-be husband. Tongue tasting tobacco with a quiet sound of protest against the harsh and bitter flavour—a stark contrast to the refreshing minty chewing gum—and still, her pride relented from letting him win the battle, leaving them a tangled mess of saliva and raging storm that left behind ruins at its wake. One of the slender hands moved away from his chest, fingers tangling into the lapel of his suit while her body tried to arch away from his heat—failing miserably and instead, pressing into the lean ridges of his front.
It is only when air became necessary did they pull away from one another, a string of shared drool connecting their parted lips while his grip upon her loosens just a little, fingers moving until his hands settled upon her wide hips—holding rather than restraining, because all his limbs could focus upon was the lingering sensation of her; senses already overwhelmed by her scent—vanilla and orange and something warm—but he would rather take a knife to his heart before he admits to being unravelled by her.
Silence crowded the room, broken only by the broken breaths of two individuals that clearly hated—and desired—each other. Two bodies clinging to one another, suspended for a brief moment before the reality kicked in.
At last, she succeeds in pushing him away, back of the hand wiping away the traces of wetness that glossed over her lips while her eyes glared daggers at him—trying to act composed, and still, he could see the slight tremble in her fingers, the tension lining her shoulders and the flush on her cheeks that had little to do with her rage now and more to do with her kiss-swollen lips and disheveled appearance.
It amused him immensely, her feeble attempt at appearing distant as she had been when she had entered the room—unfazed even, while the sight of her spoke a different truth—bringing forth a deep laugh as his fingers ran through his hair before wiping away the lingering remnants of her from his lips.
Pride is what rushed through him, and a need to have her whole—an evidence of which pressed against the seams of his trousers stubbornly, asking for attention and sweet release.
“Agar aisi hi baat hai, Shauryaman Gaur,” she hissed, tears lining her wide eyes—out of frustration, rather than anything more vulnerable—fingers curled into fists by her side. The urge to run her fingers through her hair to bring back a semblance of confidence was immense, but she didn’t trust her own limbs to comply without giving away her vulnerability—far more than she was willing to give him.
“Then I will ruin you.”
A bold proclamation, one that didn’t terrify him. Instead, it made his trousers grow tighter, a thrill of dark amusement rushed to his mind like a line of properly crushed powder that sent him to the top of the world—not a loser son to an ambitious father, but the king of the world.
And apparently, he didn’t need the substance anymore, just his defiant betrothed with her intoxicating attitude and sarcastic remarks.
Hiiii bbg, how have you been? I miss you and your writing sm! I hope everythings okay at your end!<3
Helllooooooooo
Omg I am so so sorry I haven’t been posting a lot lately because honestly? Indian education system and Indian parents become a burden sometimes 😭😭😭😭
My mom has been pestering me about DU and yeah…let’s say my mind is fucked and Tumblr is even more screwed because my drafts and all the requests and a few of my posts are just gone (none of my work though)
BUT
Ikka’s trailer came out and I have an idea about Shauryaman Gaur—a fic, multi-part. If someone is interested in reading it, of course. Smut included. Based on my own headcanons of our handsome (murderous) boy and the personality shown in the trailer. Think arranged marriage. Enemies to enemies with benefits. Sexual tension. Bratty Shaurya (that’s what I call him) and bratty reader.
So if anyone wants to be tagged, drop a comment and let me spill the magic of words 😉
Please Siddharth aka Sid Jaisingh aka our husband ke liye likho kuch ☹️🫵🥺 like he's so hawt I want his cock- WHO SAID THAT?!!! WHO????! 🤨🤨
no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light
Humare??? Don’t remember sharing MY OG FIND with you, bbg 👀 but okay, since you are my jaan, I will fulfil your request…
Also, the smuttiest smut I have ever written?
A Nice Present
Siddharth Jaisingh x Reader
A court attracted many things—wronged pleading for justice, guilty men preaching innocence and apparently, two opposites reeking of each other when they shouldn’t…
A prosecutor, a defence lawyer she absolutely hates and a moment they both pretend didn’t happen. What could truly go wrong?
Warnings: Smut. Dirty talking. Flashback smut. Semi-public sex. PiV. Unsafe sex. Fingering. Oral sex (m!receiving). Wife kink? Enemies to…enemies with benefits? Choking kink. Degradation. Breeding kink (kinda?). Hair tugging. Heavy tensions. Dark!Sid. Dominant!Sid. Submissive!Reader. Power imbalance. Nicknames. Dub-con (reader is drunk). Manhandling. I kinda went over the board with this?
The Lucknow High Court was a careful blend of order mingling with soul-draining chaos, a harmony of overlapping conversations and the loud announcements of clerks cutting through the corridors—sending the small gatherings into motion as men and women alike nearly tackle each other to the floor while trying to step inside the courtroom first, as if the seat closer to the front would bring them more insight than the ones sitting in the back.
And among them was the already frustrated prosecutor, elbows out and profanities on the lips as she pushed her way into the room, huffing in annoyance while her fingers brushed the dark coat on her shoulders straight.
“Hadd hai yaar!” (This is too much, bro!) She hissed, glancing to her side to see her junior—a young man with thick glasses on his nose and a book tucked underneath his arm at all times—fixing his suddenly ruffled hair with an anxious eye towards the bench where the judge would take his seat.
“Prosecutor ko hi andar nahi aane denge? Khud ladne ka mood hai kya inka?” (Won’t let the prosecutor step in? Are they in mood to fight the case themselves?) She continued, heels clicking against the floor as she approached the table, depositing the sole file she was holding on to before she slumped down in the wooden chair, groaning as the muscles of her thighs protest against movement—last night taking a toll, especially when she had received no true respite.
The gala had been boring as always, an annual lawyers meet, where snakes dressed up to their best and smiled behind champagne flutes, exchanging compliments and greeting kisses when all they wished for was eliminating competition from the saturated profession.
But she had found a man—half-drunk on the whiskey they had served already. And the rest? Well, the man—whosoever he had been—was rather the silver tongue, stringing together words of praises that intoxicated her to the point of desperation until she had nearly pounced on his offer to move the conversation somewhere private.
Her laboured breath had fogged the mirrors, head tipping back against the window while the deep voice had whispered filth into her neck, pressing open-mouth kisses on the bare skin while two of his fingers pressed against the entrance of her weeping core, slipping in without much resistance and pounding into her.
“Such a perfect girl, aren’t you? So docile—nothing like that venomous viper in the courtroom.”
The words still brought a flush to her cheeks while the memory had her shifting in the chair, eyes closed as her fingers thrummed against the top of the table in a familiar rhythm—a song that had been playing in the background while she had been speaking with the stranger at the bar.
Who even was the man?
Surely she wasn’t drunk enough to not remember the face or the name—if he had given her one—of the stranger that had dragged her to orgasm and then dropped her at her place in his much expensive car. A Mercedes, she could recall slightly, with leather seats that had creaked when he had shifted just enough to drop his perfectly-ironed pants.
Her memory had never failed her like this, but then again, she had never truly indulged in something so thrillingly sinful.
Her entire life had revolved around books—a nerd in high school, a serious relationship during law school that went nowhere, a summer fling too late that wasn’t as fun as the movies had displayed it. Hence, her love life, to conclude in short, was as boring as a bare act discussing about a centuries-old law that was no longer applicable, but still important for Bar examination.
But last night?
“Where did the venom go, hm? Leaking from your tight cunt, is it? Who would have thought Ms. Prim and Proper was simply a whore begging to be fucked right? You could have just asked me, sweet little viper—why fuck up my—”
“Oh my god!”
She jumped, nearly falling off her chair as she was brought out of the rapidly moving train of her thoughts by the quiet exclamation of her junior—who was busy staring at the defence’s table.
“Kya hai?” (What is it?) She gritted through her teeth.
“Siddharth Jaisingh.”
A scoff escaped her lips, eyes narrowing in a glare as she glanced at the defence lawyer—the tall man unaware, or simply ignoring, her as he unbuttoned his court and sat down in the chair with the arrogance of a spoiled brat with a silver spoon of privilege in his mouth.
She had fought her first case as a prosecutor against him, and many more—emerging victorious in most of them simply because she relished the sight of his glare and pursued lips. And the ones she couldn’t win? She made sure that he didn’t either, the verdict remaining neutral with no one side losing and the other wining.
“Of course, yeh panauti hi milna tha aaj,” (of course, I had to meet this misfortune today) she mumbled to herself, still not relenting from the glare.
But then, something caught her eye.
The watch around his wrist nearly shone under the sunlight filtering in through the windows of the room—silver chain gleaming while the black dial nearly disappeared under the sleeve of his court until he stretched his arm a little over the table while reaching for a file. An expensive watch—something like Rolex—that seemed far more familiar than she would like it to be.
The memory, a particular one, came crashing down on her like a thunder.
“You look so pretty with my hand wrapped around you, princess,” he had whispered while his fingers had pressed insistently against her racing pulse, teeth nibbling at her earlobe as he had seethed his length into her. Not even for a second had he spared her the chance to adjust to him, instantly beginning to thrust up into her welcoming heat while his free hand moved—tracing her side before his fingers laced into her ruined hair, tugging at them hard enough for pain to shudder through her body.
“So very different than the courtroom version of yourself. So very likeable and pretty—the perfect wife. Letting me use you without any protests, being so welcoming for me.”
A car’s headlight had reflected in the mirrors, the watch around his wrist—the one around her slender neck—catching the light and brightening up before the hand moved, snaking around her back and pulling her flush against him to pound faster into her until her eyes had disappeared behind her lashes.
Of course, it had to be him.
Her face whipped away from him, body shifting until she was nearly facing away from him and towards the judge. A muscle feathered in a jaw from tension while another ached somewhere in her head—perhaps, a side effect of the alcohol she had consumed a night before, or of the man sitting only a few steps away from her.
The session run long—not really, but for the prosecutor who tried her best not to squirm in her chair under the weight of the past night’s unholy memories.
“—no more questions, your honour,” she ended with a slight bow, approaching her chair while gesturing with a hand to the defence to take the floor. But she had forgotten just how much Siddharth Jaisingh liked his petty intimidation tricks.
And true to his narcissistic self, he stood up right when she was about to pass his table to settle into hers, towering tall over her small figure in his tailored suit, dark eyes watching—no, studying her as if she was the very verdict of the case, or perhaps, undressing her in his mind—while his fingers slowly closed the singular button on his coat.
The low cadence of his deep voice, the arrogance rippling from it—everything catapulted her to the gala, or rather, the aftermath of it.
His large hand had covered the small of her back easily, free hand holding her heels while she breezed through the corridor of the five-star hotel that had hosted the gala, swaying in his hands as the elevator had dinged closed and his lips had began closing in on her exposed skin—nipping and kissing and whispering while his beard scratched the delicate spot behind her ear.
“Didn’t think you would be so willing, Ms. Prim and Proper. Is this truly what it takes—a few drinks and whispered filth—to get the chance to fuck that tight cunt? It must be, no? Tight and warm and welcoming, the perfect gift for a man like me.”
A tsk had followed, a dark chuckle too, one that had a shiver running down her spine while her fingers had curled into his for support, nails tapping against the glass of his wrist by mistake as gasps and wanton moans escaped the curve of her parted lips.
It was only the call of her name that had pulled her away from the trance of the memory, an embarrassed flush on her cheeks as she mumbled an apology to the furious judge and threw a glare over her shoulder at the sound of the smug chuckle from the attorney sitting relaxed in the chair.
The grin on his face made her blood boil, the man acting as if he knew exactly what had kept her mind preoccupied—which, he actually did. Because, honest to god, the same memories plagued his mind too, the only difference being that his years of practice had trained him well-enough to hide his thoughts. All while she was still learning, a ripe fruit that he had bitten into last night—evidence of which was hidden underneath the collar of her shirt.
A fruit far more juicier than the forbidden apple—and the one made solely to take his cock perfectly.
The sight of her lips moving—stating facts and serving it to the judge with emotional words about justice for the wronged that the second-generation lawyer barely cared for—catapulted him right to the night before, his body reclining in the back seat of his car while legs parted just enough to cage her kneeling figure.
She had been rather wonderful, despite being much of a novice—kissing and licking his tip and swallowing much of his length while her hands stimulated the remaining, hollowing her cheeks and sucking him off after the initial gagging that had him chuckling and petting her hair.
“Who else have you sucked, baby? How many else have you opened your mouth for?”
His fingers twitched against his thigh, remembering the feel of her luscious locks in around his skin—the same one that were twisted into a tight knot that looked far too stiff to be comfortable, baring a sliver of the nape of her neck before the dark collar hid away her skin. The memory of the small whine muffled by his cock in her mouth still vibrated through his body, the blood rushing south in a moment when it should be racing towards his brain.
Damn, Ms. Prim and Proper, he thought to himself as he stood up, fingers pressed to the wooden table as he objected to her interrogation of the witness—not because she was misleading or anything. But because he wanted those eyes on him, just like they had been the night before—doe eyes peering up at him through the shelter of her lashes while he fed her more and more of his length.
“Objection overruled,” the judge grumbled, unbeknownst of the palpable tension between the two lawyers, or simply, he had no interest in anything other than the lunch break that was close enough for the man in his fifties to taste the Aloo Paratha on the tip of his tongue.
The nod that the prosecutor gave was nearly dazed, eyes still firm upon Siddharth—who, with a feline grace, settled back into the chair with a smirk—before she peeled her gaze away, trying to focus on the witness sitting in the stand. But her mind? Still attached to the image of his long fingers splayed on the table, veins bulging under tanned skin while the dark inked tattoo peeked from underneath his sleeve.
The same fingers that had been inside her, thrusting into her tight core, tips brushing against that one spot she had believed to be nonexistent while his thumb had rubbed her small bundle of nerves. His pace had driven her to the verge of madness, crazed tears rolling down her cheeks while her fingers had curled into the collar of his shirt—incoherent pleads escaping her lips: “please…ah—p-p-please, I want to…”
“Please what?” The devil had crooned with an evil smile.
“I-I-I want to co—”
“No more questions, your honour,” she whispered, stiff limbs dragging over to her chair, sitting down with her eyes trained upon her own interlaced fingers.
She had more questions—they both knew that. But neither had the energy to go through what they had prepared for beforehand, mind drifting away from the session in hand to the memories neither of them should be paying attention to, especially now when a matter of justice and innocent lives dangle in their hands.
“Cross examination?”
The judge turned his critical eye towards Siddharth, who let out a controlled breath and stood up, fingers interlaced together in front of him. Dark gaze mapped the witness sitting in the stand to the stiff woman that had occupied his every single waking thought since the second she walked into the gala wearing that silk dress that seemed like champagne sparkling under the dim lights of the banquet hall.
“Your honour, mujhe thode time ki zarurat hai—to go through everything that was said today,” (your honour, I would require some time—to go through everything that was said today) he announced, shocking almost everyone in attendance—because Siddharth Jaisingh never delayed his cases like this.
The next minutes were a blur—the judge announcing a date before adjourning the session, everyone rising as the judge retreated to his chamber, the crowd slowly filling out of the courtroom to get on with their respective businesses.
All while the prosecutor worked mechanically.
“Tu chal files leke, I will join you in a moment,” (you go with the files, I will join you in a moment) she whispered to her junior, patting encouragingly on his shoulder before she all but jogged to the washroom in the opposite wing of the court—an isolated location given most people crowded the cafeteria for a quick lunch. Just perfect for her to gather bits and pieces of her composure and get through the day.
The water that touched her face wasn’t cold, something she would have appreciated at the moment, but the lukewarm water was only a reminder of how little she actually expected anything good in her life—for the particular day, at the very least.
Knuckles turned white as the grip on the edge of the sink tightened, eyes forced close—but even that offers her no respite from the plaguing thoughts, or rather, the intrusive images and the ghost of whispers that had her insides twist.
His fingers had pressed against her lower belly, his length splitting her open while she convulsed on top of him, head rolling back until the back grazed the leather covers of the passenger seat, nails digging into his shoulder to anchor herself to the reality. All while he had increased his pace, thrusting deeper into her while his free hand had moved north to play with her pebbled nipples through the confines of her dress.
“You want to be filled up, don’t you? My good little slut, wanting me to fill you up to the brim until you leak of me—even in the courtroom tomorrow, huh? My dirty whore.”
“Y-yes,” she had hiccuped through tears, completely unaware of everything but the intoxicating pleasure rushing through her body.
“You are so good to me, baby, so fucking nice that I might just keep yo—”
“Thinking about me, baby girl?”
Large hands snaked around her waist, turning her around until the curve of her ass was pressed against the counter behind, lips pulled in a cruel smirk brushing hers even before she could distinguish between memory and reality, teeth nipping at her lower lip teasingly while the familiar scent of his spiced aftershave dazed her senses—pulling her back into that dark space of complete submission.
“Bold of you to assume I think of you,” she hissed back, her hands pressed against his chest to push him back—but her strength waned in front of him, broad shoulders clouding the world and caging her right there, surrounded by him and him alone. The tremble in her words had been little, barely noticeable, but both of them were lawyers—good ones at that—and far too observant for their own good.
One of his hand shifted, slipping underneath the safe cover of her black coat to trace her side, lingering fingertips sending a shudder down her spine and pulling a gasp free—one of the many sounds he had enjoyed tugging from her parted lips until she had sang freely for him.
His lips hovered close to hers, darkened eyes glinting with a cruel glint while raw desire danced in the depths like a hungry predator latching on to a prey, one of his favourite one.
“And yet, you kept staring at me like you still felt me between those delicious thighs of yours,” he hummed with a grin—one that spoke volumes about his intentions—before he moved her again, not giving her a chance to sass him back. Her back was turned to him quickly, pushing her over until she was bent over the counter with the curve of her ass budging against his tightening trousers, a hand slipping into her hair to loosen the bun, tugging her back until her eyes were focused on the reflection of them in the mirror.
His chest pressed against her back, other hand gripping her waist while his hips buck against her—grinding his straining length against her ass while growling low into her ears.
“I bet you are wet for me right now,” he began, teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her ear before he nipped at her earlobe, tongue flicking over the small earring—silver wire forming a little butterfly—teasingly. “Should I check, little one? Shove my hands down your little panties and see whether your cunt weeps for me or not?” He continued, letting go of her ear to press an open-mouth kiss on the bared skin of the nape of her neck.
Her eyes fluttered close, resistance leaving as her body became putty in his hands—ready to do whatever he wanted her to do. Her hips dug into the edge of the counter, eliciting a little whine while her mind registered his heavy cock brushing against her ass—separated by the maddening restraints of their clothes. Without a spare thought, her heel-clad legs parted a little, as if begging for something—and he knew exactly what.
“You want to be fucked here? In the women’s washroom of a high court? Where anyone can catch us?” He voiced, a depreciating chuckle punctuating his questions while his nose rubbed against the skin behind her ear, fingers playing with the hem of her coat as if contemplating the risk of actually doing it.
He tsked—just like he had a night before.
“You are a dirty, dirty slut—but you know that already.”
His fingers wrapped around her arms, straightening her over and turning her around again until her dazed eyes meet his lustful ones, one hand shifting to cup her jaw, thumb grazing the curve of her lower lip before he leaned down to press a brushing kiss—a brand that burned into her skin.
“Aaj raat, mere ghar. Saree pehn kar aana,” (tonight, my house. Come wearing a saree) he whispered, thumb stilling against her skin as he leaned down to press another feather-light kiss on the skin behind her ear—whispering his final words before departing the washroom like he had never stood there.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of art and fiction and doesn’t wish to hurt anyone’s emotions or beliefs. Characters shown are purely inspired from their portrayal in the movie ‘Dhurandhar’ by Aditya Dhar and don’t glorify their real-counterparts. The author also does not support terrorism and condemns all the acts of terror mentioned in the series. Any resemblance to a real person is purely coincidental. Hate speech will not be tolerated.
Author’s Note: I have been writing this one since February, and my life has been through so much since then. From giving my board exams to receiving the results, it’s been crazy, and somewhere, I fell in love with Arjun Rampal and Drisana and began seeing (or rather, imagining) a side of Major Iqbal I never thought I would before I began writing this for someone incredibly special to me.
@sonasarchive words can’t express the importance you have in my life, and probably, will always hold. You are the very reason this series began as a Major Iqbal fic instead of a Rehman Dakait one (don’t ask me how I was about to do that), and I don’t regret it at all. Iqra was my way of showing your importance (and a way of teasing you), and also, my way of fulfilling your unsaid desire to be someone’s muse (YOU HAVE A REEL LIKED WHICH SAYS ‘the urge to be the muse of an artist’). Love you lots, my fakhta 🕊️ fly high 💗
@afortoru thanks for letting me include a character based on you and for giving valuable feedback and ideas that actually shaped the conclusion of the series (most of Chapter 19 with tiny tweaks of my own). Your love for Abbu deserved to be written and I hope I did it justice 💗
Finally, to all my readers, I love you all and I can’t explain my gratitude for your support throughout the entire series. I will be back with a new series very, very soon 😉♥️
April 2020
Lucerne, Switzerland
The world had come to a standstill, all because someone in China thought it amusing to have wild bat for food on a random Tuesday—at least, as par the official reports. Nature had began healing, cities clean with air safer than ever to breathe and animals re-emerging and rejoicing as the forest cover slowly recovering.
All while human population tried to cope—loved ones ill and some dying, students and workers struggling to adjust to the online mode, many loosing their livelihood while a rare few earned theirs in a hard way.
But not all was bad, at least for the family nestled in the outskirts of the most populous city of Central Switzerland. Part of a small community of South-East Asians, their lives had settled in a chaotic harmony of conference calls and zoom classes.
“—I will go through the details and revert back to you by the evening, if that is alright?” She quirked, slender fingers fiddling with a pen underneath the camera’s range, foot anxious on the wooden floorboard as her gaze flicked to check the time on her phone. The meeting had ran longer than expected, and she could already hear the havoc the boys would start once the meeting end.
“Perfectly fine, Mrs. Shah. Take your time,” the client smiled, a middle-aged man wearing a suit with a tie that made her wonder if he was wearing shorts underneath just like herself.
“Have a great day, Mr. Hansen.”
The meeting ended in exactly two seconds after that—a minute over the schedule and she heard the telltale sound of light footsteps running down the corridor, approaching her with chiding words as she had expected.
“Mama!”
“We are late—”
“Miss Schmidt will roast us—”
“Like chickens!”
“And give us extra homework—”
“Give me a second, I am logging into your class,” Drisana interrupted through their adorable panic, standing up from the chair just Rudra could hop into it while Ehaan dragged another chair to sit beside his brother, all while they ate their mother’s ears off.
“She will eat us up like a zombie!” Ehaan gasped, glaring at the scene as the waiting room appeared, a pout forming on his lips as his eyes flicked to the notebook his twin brother had deposited on the table.
“Like that movie—”
“Boys,” came the rumbling voice that had the nine-year olds straightening, because while they were dotted upon and allowed to do most of the things, one of the restricted activity was to rush their mother right after her meetings, especially the early morning ones that ran late. And doing the forbidden things attracted a quiet reprimand that neither of them liked, a cold shoulder that made them squirm until the man hadn’t cracked a smile.
Before anyone could say anything else, the meeting began and Drisana rounded the dining table to reach the figure leaning on the doorway with his arms crossed. Her head leaning forward to rest against his broad shoulder, a sigh muffled in the linen of his tee while his fingers pressed against the nape of her neck, drawing soothing circles to release some of the tension gathered there.
His other hand gently took hers, lacing fingers and pressing a kiss on the back of her palm before he slowly coursed her to their bedroom—a space temporarily only theirs until the twins were done with their digital school for the day.
“Laiba?” She voiced quietly, settling on the edge of the bed, dark eyes watching him silently as he closed the door behind him.
Iqbal turned, approaching her and settling in front of her with a soft tug of his lips, his now-trimmed beard his wife’s newest obsession after she had offered to help him with his luscious locks and thick facial hair after all the lockdown began, which obviously ended in a tragedy when Ehaan had startled a concentrating Drisana while she was trimming his beard.
But in all honesty? The short beard suited him far better than the long one, making him look far younger than his age.
Her fingers rise, cupping his jaw with a softness reserved only for the walls of the small heaven they had made on earth—one that encompassed three beautiful, chaotic children and the quiet life they had build away from the chaos of their original lives.
“Cinderella padh rahi hai apne dosto ke saath,” he replied, leaning into her touch before he shifted, arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her until she sat in between his legs with her back against his chest and he sat with his back leaning against the wooden headboard.
The woman clad in a formal shirt above white shorts with small hearts printed on it chuckled, corner of her eyes crinkling with a soft smile as she snuggled deep into his arms, cheek resting against his chest—listening to the rhythmic thumb of heart—as she imagined the sight of their only daughter reading the fairytale that had been her own favourite when she was young while sitting in front of the laptop, giggling with the friends she met at the school for specially-abled.
A safe space, at last—away from the ghosts of memories of a cruel grandfather and a place that undermined her worth.
“Aaj subah kis se baat kar rahe the aap?” She quipped after a long moment, looking over her shoulder to meet his eyes, hands resting on her abdomen as she shifted just enough to lean on his thigh a little—completely wrapped in her husband in the brief moment of pure bliss and solace.
His fingers carded through her hair, loosening the bun until her long hair fell over her back in loose waves—left untouched since the beginning of the year, taken care of by his careful fingers which rubbed hair oil on her scalp every other day of a week. Just the way she did for their children and Iqbal.
“Mir.”
The answer came simply—not a surprise given how the man remained in touch with his boss and friend, even though neither of them would ever say it out loud.
Drisana raised an eyebrow, fingers playing with the hem of her work shirt before she unbuttoned the top few buttons, breathing out an exaggerated exhale as the collar loosened and the pale tank top underneath peaked out of the front—not seductive like newlyweds, but a casualness that seeps into lifestyle after years of relying on each other.
“Kya bol raha tha?” She questioned, not truly hostile towards the man, but the patriot in her still despised the right-hand man just as she taunted Iqbal during rare fits of rage—away from the earshots of their children and the world, obviously.
The man huffed a laughter, light and hearty, as he stood up from the bed, stretching his aging muscles a little as he answered: “bolne hi kaha diya uske bete ne. Pure time toh wohi baat kar raha tha—‘uncle, apko pata hai? Abbu ko tree draw karna nahi aata’.” A chuckle punctuating the words, the mere vision the words created seeming absurd when spoken for the man who flinched in front of nothing—being criticised by his own son for having no drawing skills.
The scandalised expression on the woman’s face was enough to amuse the already grinning man before she shook her head, clearly still unable to digest the thought of Mir being a father—a good one at that—to anything, much less a human child.
“I still can’t believe Iqra married him,” she whispered, glancing up at her husband who simply shrugged his shoulders, as if the thought of his once-upon-a-time right-hand man being married to an absolute firecracker of a woman was not at all bothering to him.
All while his wife was losing her mind, even six years after the wedding.
“Why? Dono ek dusre ko jaise dekhte the—it was rather obvious, jaan,” he replied matter-of-factly, walking over to the vanity to brush his hair back from his face with the help of his fingers. His gaze admired the appearance of the trimmed beard—a look he used to keep when he was a young man and not the fearsome major of ISI or the family man that was born after that day in Muridke—but only discreetly, for he could not bear the sight of his wife’s knowing smirk without groaning.
The hum that he received made him instantly straighten, because the tone belonged to a pouting woman who needed something from him.
He turned around, and as expected, Drisana sat on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed underneath her and an adorable pout on her face, arms outstretched dramatically as she looked up at him with doe eyes.
“Pick me up?”
Iqbal blinked, almost as if he was asked a question he had never heard before. Like the question in an exam that came from outside the prescribed syllabus.
“Kya?”
“Uthao mujhe,” she whined, not the no-nonsense consultant any longer but a wife trying to make her husband give in to her whims.
“Main ladkiya nahi uthata. Mera kidnapping ka kaam thodi hai,” he countered with a seriousness that had Drisana stopping for a moment, blinking in confusion while her mind tried to process exactly what he had declared before a loud snort escaped, followed by a full laughter that had the man grinning ear-to-ear.
With a proud tilt of his chin and an evil grin, he half-jumped on her, fingers trailing her sides, tickling until she was a laughing mess with tears in her eyes. But he stopped when she mumbled between the giggles, breathless as he laid down beside her, hand resting atop hers on her stomach.
“Do you think about Aarisha and Hamza sometimes?” She asked after a while, fingers playing with the singular band of platinum that sat on his ring finger—bulkier version of the band on her hand, except for the diamonds encrusted in hers. The reminder of their union and every struggle they went through to have the life they do now, worn everyday proudly and kissed every night as they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
There was no underlying tension that hung in the air—unlike the initial years, where the wound of his wife begging for his life in front of another man sat deep in his heart—only a mild curiosity, like someone half-interested in wildlife watching a Nat Geo documentary on tigers.
He hummed thoughtfully, chin sitting on her shoulders while he tangled his leg with hers, making her grin knowingly before she kicked his leg away playfully.
“Woh shayad abhi kisi gaon mein ho—shehr se dur, you know. Somewhere quiet and peaceful without guns. Haari-bhaari jagah, bohot saare khet. Maybe, kheti bhi karte ho? Abb kisi insaan ka pata thodi hai kuch?” He wondered out loud, eliciting a small smile on Drisana’s face as Aarisha’s voice echoed in her ears—mere memory clinging through the time while friendship had became praying for her family’s safety and fulfilment of the only dream the petite woman had.
“Kya apko lagta hai woh dono India wapas chale gaye honge?”
The former major shifted, one arm snaking around her waist and pulling her until she was nearly lying on top of him, embracing her gently while his mind rushed to calculate all the possibilities of her question becoming a reality.
A shrug he offered then, beginning to explain the reason behind his answer before the verdict came: “pichle nau saal mein bohot kuch badal gaya hai—world politics, economies, intelligence, you know. Perfectly kahna thoda mushkil hai, Fakhta, but jitna mera andaza hai?”
A pause.
One that he knew would have her squirming for the answer, but she was far too stubborn to admit the truth, and he could seldom not give in to the wishes of his beloved family.
“Haan. R&AW ne unhe nikal liya hoga.”
He felt the small smile tugging on her lips against his shoulder, and instantly, his heart melted in a puddle. Fingers curling protectively into the soft fabric of her shorts around the hips while his nose dipped into the waterfall of her nail, inhaling her scent and letting out a soft sigh before a mischievous grin bloomed on his face.
“Waise,” he started, stretching the syllables like a teasing song, which made the woman lying atop him perk up with interest.
“Hamza ne bohot sare bacche kar liye honge.”
Drisana raised an eyebrow, sitting up, thighs bracketing his waist while she sat on his stomach, hands pressed on his chest while his hands moved to grab her waist. His intense eyes softened at the sight of her shifting and adjusting until she grinned proudly, comfortable at last.
“Humse zyada?” She prompted.
“Shayad?” Iqbal shrugged, his hand shifting until his thumb rubbed against her stomach in slow circles—a habit he had picked up when her body had began changing to carry their boys, and a habit returning as a new beginning came closer.
“Shayad,” Drisana whispered, closing her eyes, fingers curling around his—together and away from a world that condemned their union.
Hey can you make a post that had all the chapters liked of operation desert bird I scrolled of had to scroll so much just to reach chapter 9 I wrong move and I came back to square one 🤧
I actually do have a masterlist of it, which I have linked here ♥️
Disclaimer: This story is a work of art and fiction and doesn’t wish to hurt anyone’s emotions or beliefs. Characters shown are purely inspired from their portrayal in the movie ‘Dhurandhar’ by Aditya Dhar and don’t glorify their real-counterparts. The author also does not support terrorism and condemns all the acts of terror mentioned in the series. Any resemblance to a real person is purely coincidental. Hate speech will not be tolerated.
Author’s Note: @afortoru, come and calm your husband 😭🤣 he wants to kill ours 😭😭😭
Also, to my readers, I have an unconventional idea but it is related to the F1 fandom (I don’t know how many of you follow F1), specifically to Max. If anyone is interested in being tagged in the same—do comment or you can DM me as well.
Warnings: MAJOR DHURANDHAR: THE REVENGE SPOILERS. Mentions of blood, gore and death. Mention of Harleen and Jasleen’s fate. Angst. OOC!Hamza. OOC!Iqbal.
February 2010
Muridke, Pakistan
If anxiety had a face, it would have been the widened dark eyes and frizzed hair pulled back in a loose bun wearing a loose kaftan kurta and an equally loose trousers, slender yet trembling fingers wrapped around the steering wheels of the rented sedan while Aarisha glared at the device in her hands, cursing the fluctuating network of the city and the narrow yet crowded roads that obstructed the route.
The surroundings were a blur in the their mind, the focus completely on finding the two men that were hellbent on killing one another and making a widow out of an innocent woman—for reasons they thought valid, justified by their own ideals and varying worlds.
“Yaar, yeh network ko bhi abhi hi gayab hona tha?” The woman in the passenger seat groaned, frantic eyes glancing outside the window of the car as if the roads would answer her irritated question.
“Last location kya thi?” Drisana hissed, hand digging into the horn but the vegetable seller was an equally stubborn man, especially at the sight of two disheveled ladies and no man. But unfortunate for him, the former pilot was in no mood for entertaining misogyny, particularly when it came from an elderly with grey beard and sparse hair on head.
A hand reached to the side of the driver’s seat, rolling down the window to poke her head out of the car and yell profanities that had Aarisha flinching in her seat, her face twisting in discomfort while she glared at the woman in kaftan.
“—teri biwi ko bewa karne mein time nahi lagega mujhe! Side hata apna thela warna udda dungi tujhe aur tere tamataron ko!”
“Araam se bhi bol sakti thi,” came the small voice from her side as Drisana rolled the window back up, huffing in annoyance while watching the hawker push his cart to the side.
Her dark eyes—stormy from the anxiety and fear that brewed in her chest—moved to the wife of the Indian agent, the glare pining her into the seat as the former pilot growled quietly in her mouth, “I don’t need lessons on public etiquette right now.”
Usually, Aarisha would have had a reply for the biting words, but their circumstances were anything but the brief normality they had settled into—the normality that was left far too behind to return to, because now? Their respective partners could no longer bear the sight of each other’s living faces; their families no longer capable of living peacefully in overlapping horizons.
“Last updated location kisi choti si ga—”
The words were interrupted by the car skidding to an abrupt halt, Drisana’s heaving breath fading under the weight of sharp tang of gunpowder and fire in the air, sounds of bullets flying and men grunting overshadowing the panicked whisper of the sheltered wife as she was quickly dragged out of the car and made to crouch against the body of the sedan by the former pilot, who had never thought that her military skills would be used in a situation such as this.
A hand muffled Aarisha’s little sounds while sharp eagle eyes studied their surroundings, taking in note of the rangers on the roof and the men in normal Paithani kurtas, but among those men, she recognised a familiar face—not dressed in the uniform of the rangers, but fighting with them.
“Rizwan?” Drisana breathed out, not in confusion but in realisation that the entire time, she and Iqbal were surrounded by men that wished to see the latter dead.
Her hand fell from Aarisha’s mouth, mind fogged by the conflict of emotions that tightened her chest—was she supposed to be happy that her country was safe until the courageous men took breathe, or disappointed for she knew little about the men she had lovingly called ‘bhaiya’ once, unbeknownst to their true selves?
“Location kya hai, Aarisha?” She queried, voice blank with all the emotions suppressed by the looming doom that came closer with every spent second. The weight of truth that even a moment’s late could probably cost her lover’s life kicked out all the other thoughts, only one revolving in her mind—a goal.
Reach Iqbal as soon as possible.
“Pass ka goods station.”
The former Squadron Leader nodded, slowly inching closer to the curve of the hood of the sedan, peeking over the panel to see if any shooter had turned the muzzle of their guns in their direction. But fortunate enough for them, all of them were far too preoccupied to spare attention to escaping ladies.
“Back seat mein jhuk kar baith jao,” Drisana whispered to the woman kneeling on the concrete road with her hands pressing against her ears, trying desperately to muffle the loud noises echoing in the streets of the town of Muridke.
“Par—”
“Bharosa hai na mujhpar?” She queried, interrupting the polite protest of Aarisha, cupping her hand gently and squeezing it reassuringly before reaching up to slowly open the back door by an inch, and then more—just enough for the new mother to slip in.
Crawling like a caterpillar, the wife of Hamza Ali Mazari slowly got into the car, not seating on the backseat but settling on the floor, face propped against her arm on the center arm rest. Her doe-eyes glancing through the windows with fear in the brown pools as Drisana slid into the driver’s seat with her head bent in an awkward angle, starting the car.
The next few moments were a blur—the car moving in reverse before the sedan sped through the road, hitting a guy in a green kurta accidentally, but the car didn’t stop. A bullet crashed into the back mirror, shattering it until the evidence of its sheer existence was the pieces that gathered on the leather. The impact elicited a loud yelp from Aarisha, but the car couldn’t stop—not anymore because someone had began to target the moving vehicle.
Silver body of the sedan was adorned with bullet holes, some pierced through while others left only dents on the aged metal, a blurry figure disappearing into thin air amid chaos of conflicting groups—brushing past death and destruction to chase the path that lead either to despair or to chance relief.
The path that led to the goods station of Muridke.
Cargo boxes in vibrant colours towered against the clear sky and blazing sun, tall and heavy on the concrete foundation that stood an inch or two above the ground level. The railway track ran parallel along the horizontally built freight yard, barren except for the stationary rail tankers filled with petroleum meant to be transported across the country.
The car wasn’t parked, it was abandoned the second the concrete was close enough for the anxious woman behind the wheel to jump out safely, leaving behind a bewildered Aarisha in the back.
“Mere liye toh ruk—”
Words were ignored in favour of the sight of a tall figure running, dressed in a muted brown with hair shaved away and blood matting his skin, crazed look in dark and deep-set eyes while a menacing smile tugged on his lips. A soft sigh of short-lived relief escaped Drisana’s lips, legs halting in exhaustion before her gaze flicked over his shoulder and at the dark figure haunting him like a phantom.
Her anxious eyes filled with immediate tears—whether of fear or something far more overwhelming, she was not quite sure—breath shallow and uneven as she charged in the direction of her partner.
“Iqbal!”
The Angel of Death stopped, body freezing in complete shock at the familiar voice that should not be anywhere near the dreaded town of aged stones, but in the quiet walls of the ancient mansion of limestones that had became surprisingly a palace of solace for them.
“Fakhta?” His voice trembled, barely audible, as strong arms wrapped around the curve of her waist, body towering over her petite figure protectively. Careful hands cupped her face, concerned eyes watching her as he questioned her, “aap yaha kyu aayi? Apko yaha nahi hona chahiye, apki jaan ko khatra ho sakta hai—”
Slender fingers wrapped around the collar of his Paithani kurta, shifting their bodies until it wasn’t Iqbal’s back facing the approaching figure of Hamza but the stubborn front of Drisana. Her back pressed to her lover’s front while the fingers slip away from his collar to wrap around his wrist—almost a protective shield.
The advancing devil halted, not only because of the shift of the bodies, but because of the call of his name from the lips of his wife—jogging over with all the grace a mother recovering from postpartum could muster, wearing a dusky pink kurta that flowed with her movements. Eyes darkened with bloodlust widening at the sight of two women, who should be nowhere near the place, flickering between the two with a deep conflict taking root.
A battle of mind that compelled him to complete his mission and slay the beast that had tainted his nation in blood while his heart relented at the sight of the newest appearances—the ones he could not let witness the brutal side of him.
“Aap dono ko yaha nahi aana chahiye tha,” growled the man clad in black, a warning as well as a man trying to tame the beast inside him.
Iqbal’s hand on Drisana’s hips tighten protectively, furious gaze fixed upon the Indian agent while his mind was a battleground for a conflict—as was everyone’s in the present situation. His mind and heart both sang in union to drag his Fakhta to safety, a place he knows would be safe for her, but a small piece of heart desired to extract his revenge as well.
A payment in blood for betraying him and his trust.
But was blood truly more important than safety of the only woman after his deceased wife who made his heart stop and race at the same time?
“Bhaiya, please, I know it would feel impossible to but inhe chod dijiye,” the former pilot vocalised, perhaps, for the first time begging to someone on behalf of another. A tear escaped the holy boundary of her lash line, followed by another, and another until there was not a light drizzle but a downpour of fear condensed into water.
Hamza’s jaw tightened, teeth grinding against each other with barely concealed fury as his obsidian eyes stared at the man hiding behind his partner to save his life—a blow to his inflated ego, the intelligence officer was sure. Long fingers curled into a fist, heart pumping adrenaline while suppressed wraith threatened to break through all the self-imposed restraints and butcher the man responsible for many innocent deaths.
“Samne se hat jao, Drisana,” he murmured, voice calm like the winds before a storm. A force gathering all that is left in him—anger, despair, guilt, grief, bloodlust—everything that had been the fuel driving him forward whilst surrounded by perpetuators of terrorism in a foreign land.
The said woman shook her head, back pressing deeper into the chest she had laid her head upon countless times, counting breaths and listening to the lullaby of rhythmic heartbeat on sleepless nights. Her nails dig into the tanned skin of the wrist, leaving behind crescents and even drawing a sliver of metallic blood that gathered in her nail bed. Her lips trembled indeed, fearing what the man crazed with avenging his motherland would decide, but she remained firm in her stance.
One that she vocalised with a clear voice—a threat or perhaps, a condition. A price Hamza Ali Mazari—or perhaps, one paid by Jaskirat Singh Rangi—would have to pay to buy the revenge he longed for.
“Agar inhe marna hai toh mujhe bhi marna hoga.”
“Nahi—” Iqbal began, protective instincts crying out as an arm curled around her waist, trying to drag her back and shift their bodies until it was him being the protective shield and not Drisana—as it is supposed to be.
“Aap chup rahenge?” She hissed, turning around on her feet and trying to push him back, anger dripping into desperation as fingers gather the bloodied kurta.
The sight of her distorted face—hair messy and frizzy from the speed of the past few hours, eyes wide and swollen red, frantic as they search his dark ones, tears staining her flushed cheeks while her lips tremble—broke whatever composure the major was left with, his arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her into his chest as his nose nuzzled against her temple, inhaling her scent and memorising the warmth of her body pressed into his.
Just in case, it was their last embrace…
A last respite if fate had decided against them.
“Jaan,” Aarisha started, breath still heaving from the jog, slowly—as if approaching a wounded animal—stepping towards her raging husband. Her hand outstretched, an invitation just as it was a silent ask for permission, brown orbs softening at the blood that stained her husband’s skin and clothes.
“Main janti hu apke liye kitna zaroori hai usse marna, kitna intezaar kiya hai apne iss samay ke liye. Lekin main Drisana ko bhi samajhti hu,” she breathed out carefully, her eyes firm upon her husband, trying to calm the beast even though she, herself, wished the man clad in the brown kurta to die—why shouldn’t he when blood of innocents stained his hands?
But she knew the dread of a mother, whose husband could die any moment, whose child could become fatherless any second merely because of the cruel world. She lived in such dread every breathing moment since she found out her husband’s true identity—something she was immensely proud of, and yet, fear clung to her like a shadow every time Hamza kissed her brow and left for work. And truth be told, she couldn’t imagine Drisana going through the suffering—losing the father of her unborn child—whose mere thought had kept herself awake at night.
“Main bhi ek maa hu, jisse har din apne pati ko maut ke muh mein jaate hue dekhna padhta hai. Har din bass yeh dua karni hoti hai ki aap surakshit mere aur humare bete ke pass wapas aa sake. Har din bass yeh chinta rahti hai ki kahi apko k-kuch ho na jaye,” her voice trembled, eyes filling with tears as months of fear is vocalised and the guard of a strong woman falls only a little to show the face of an afraid wife.
Her brown eyes flicked to the guarded expression of Iqbal, hatred dissolved into the colour of mud before they soften at the sight of Drisana clinging to him, as if he would disappear the second her fingers let loose.
“Main janti hu ki woh admi reham ke layak nahi hai, par Drisana? Ya uska baccha? Woh toh yeh deserve nahi karte.”
For a moment, stunned silence reigned the goods station—not even a bird crying out overhead—as the said words were processed by the two men. One’s fist loosening as his heavy gaze fell upon the petite woman with her hand stretched, the mother of his dear son calling out to him, while another’s arms tightened around the former pilot hiding in his chest, eyes widening in surprise as he looked at her in amazement as well as a gnawing fear.
“Meri jaan…meri fakhta…k-kya yeh sach hai?”
Never in his life had Iqbal imagined himself stuttering, especially in front of a woman he had promised to protect and love with his very life. The woman he was supposed to be the pillar of, meant to be strong for. Yet, here he stood, facing his death and being told that she carried his child in her—and suddenly, the thought of dying was no longer comforting but haunting. The thought that he would have to leave her and their unborn child alone in this world—completely alone and unguarded.
Face still buried in his chest, her eyes opened, glancing up at him through the long shelter of her lashes as she nodded—the action little against him as a little hiccup escaped her quivering lips, muffled in the fabric of his kurta while her hand pressed right above his frantic heart.
The confirmation felt like a blade to his chest, his breath hitching while his face dipped, lips pressing a lingering kiss to her temple as he tried to keep the stinging tears at bay, refusing to cry in front of anyone but her. His scent engulfed her completely, lips making it a mission to kiss the rolling tears away, assure her that everything would be fine—even though he doubted the reality of his words.
“Main apko aur humare bacche ko kuch nahi home dunga,” he whispered against her skin, fingers rubbing gentle circles on her back while he rocked her like one rocks an agitated child.
“Aur aap?” Her question came trembling, voice cracking as her face emerged from his chest, tears glistening under the bare sky, eyes searching his as one of her hand moved north, cupping the side of his face. The soft flesh of her thumb brushed against dried blood that claimed the side of his face, wiping the crimson away as salt dotted her cheeks.
With great difficulty, Drisana peeled her eyes away from him to look over her shoulder, pleading gaze meeting the devil’s.
“Please, bhaiya, inhe jaane do. I swear, hum yaha se kahi dur chale jaenge. Kisi ko kuch pata bhi nahi chalega ki hum kaha gaye ya zinda bhi hai ya nahi. H-he will leave all this blood work—b-bass hume jaane do. Humare liye nahi toh humare bacche ke liye, p-please.”
The devil stopped—breath stalling completely as his mind raced back in time, past the life of Badshah of Karachi and King of Lyari, before he was Hamza Ali Mazari, an Indian intelligence agent—at the sound of that ‘bhaiya’, the desperate call of a pleading sister.
Perhaps, not from blood.
Definitely, from heart.
Eyes filled with rage soften into a strange mix of nostalgia laced in conflict as the beast gave way to a young adult wronged—a son left fatherless for a piece of land, a brother whose elder sister was butchered after atrocities no woman should endure, and a brother who became a monster in the eyes of the criminal system to save his younger sister. The small piece of guilt suddenly became a heavy burden on his broad shoulders, that regret of not being present when Harleen was robbed of her dignity as well as life, the despair of not being able to stop men from tormenting and kidnapping Jasleen.
Her heartbreaking screams still echoed in his ears, the memory of her tied up hands and legs flashing in front of his eyes like a cruel reminder of destiny.
The vision dissipated but the sight that greeted him remained somehow, achingly, the same. Of a sister calling him, begging him to change the course of fate that now rested in his hands with tears in her eyes and trembling lips.
The crack of her voice tugged at his heart strings, but the fire of vengeance was only subdued, but not extinguished still.
“Jaan.”
The press of Aarisha’s hand on his chest dragged him out of the plague of his thoughts, eyes shifting away from Drisana to look at the petite woman he loved with all his being—every limb, every inch, every bit of his soul.
“Jaane do unhe,” she whispered, pressing the slope of her forehead on his chest, right where his heart raced only for her, longing for her touch alone and the soft purrs of their son sleeping on his abdomen—the weight infinite times better than the weight of duty that he carried on his shoulders.
Hamza—or perhaps, Jaskirat in his alias’s body—stood motionless, arms slowly rising to keep his wife by close to his side while a realisation settled on his shoulders with an invisible startle: the fate of the growing family was in his hands, and every choice felt like the wrong one.
The right one? Well…there was simply none.
No path a journey through which all of them could emerge complete and content.
His eyes—green as the Jadeite found in the depths of Burma, or as it call it now, Myanmar—dart in between the two sights that fuel the conflict in his mind.
The dark locks slowly unravelling from the messy bun, tips grazing his forearm. Brown orbs that is his first sight in the morning when he wakes up and last as he drifts off to sleep hidden from his gaze under the fall of her lashes. The long bridge of her nose pressed firmly against the linen shirt underneath his coat and vest, uncaring of the scent of blood and violence clinging to him.
And then, his eyes rise to the couple in front—wrapped into each other with desperation seeping from their skin, Drisana’s face pressed into Iqbal’s shoulder while his face hid away in the crook of her neck. His arms draped around her, one hand pressed in between her shoulder blades while the other rested on her waist, holding her as if slightest of slack in grip would lead to her disappearing in front of his eyes. A sight he was sure the universe had seen himself and Aarisha in when they found out about the little bundle of joy coming into the world.
The only difference? He was a man fighting for his country and the people that were slighted, while Iqbal? He was a man fighting for what he was led to believe by his surroundings—a hatred deep rooted from childhood and watered by the society.
@natkhat-sa-shyam @noahspenanddiary @young-monk @summerlogsin @potterwitch4 @sayalieeee @stardustsighs @sammyartcherub @midnightaashiq and all my mutuals muah ✨
Thanks to @unconsciousxreality, @tobyig, and @greatcrestednewt for tagging me :D
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Currently working on: The Kes/Batch long fic (Working title is Blur of Consequences), a one shot of when Kes and Echo met before the events of Blur, and I'm currently in the planning stages for Fi/Jesse fic (ᵕ ó ᴗ ò)
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Currently Reading: Started the Republic Commando novels, halfway through Triple Zero
Currently working on: Tattoo 'map'/showcase for my oc Roscoe Arazu, as well as worldbuilding for mandalorian culture again
Last google search: "raptor tail dinosaur" - I was doing some creature design and needed a good ref aha
Tagging (no pressure !!):
@ladyknight33 @whoops-junk-drawer @dick-djarin
Last songs: I Want To Know What Love Is - Foreigner, Everybody Wants To Rule The World - Tears For Fears, Time - Pink Floyd
Currently Watching: nothing in particular. Mostly tornado videos on the ol ‘tube
Current Obsession: STAR WAR!!!! TAR WARS!!!! CLONES!!!
Currently Reading: my own writing! I’ve passed the “writing spree” stage and entered the “reread your own fics and then kick yourself for not finishing them” stage.
Currently Working On: Various outfit/set design pieces for my ocs! I’ve finally pushed myself to flesh out the places these people are visiting/living. I’ve had them for almost three years and I’ve only just gotten around to it. But hey! I’ve gotten round to it! Yay!
Last Google Search: Ehlers Danlos Syndrome (I may have it, I was googling symptoms, lmao). And the one before that was “normal blood pressure by age group”. So I guess I’m more of a hypochondriac than I thought i was?
Tagging (first time, kinda nervous 👉👈)
@t9909-gk @qalanthe @mistycatt (can I tag people who aren’t my mutuals?? What is etiquette) @eobe (oh no I don’t have ten. Send me to the plinko or something)
hi I’ve never done one of these even though I’ve been tagged in a bajillion of them
here we go..
last song: graduate by third eye blind
currently watching: clone wars… again
current obsession: obi wan still. Specifically I’ve been thinking about obi wan directly after order 66 but haven’t drawn it because I don’t usually like drawing sad stuff.
currently reading: rogue planet !! Yay Star Wars book
currently working on: drawing Obi wan. I want to draw him in mando armor and also do some codywan art. I have a whole list of things my friend Finn wants me to work on lol. Also my codywan fic I’ve been working on for months that I’ve hardly made progress on. I’m no author lol
last google search: “jar har” I was trying to type Jar Jar but something went wrong in the process 😔😔💔💔
tags (you don’t have to lol): @finlayflop @atomicheart99 @therestlessbones @coolskeleton66 @coquette-corpsie @saigesays @yapofalltrades
last songs: gommene gommene ft hatsune miku by kikuo, ego renegade boy ft kagamine len by flavor foley, king for a day by green day
currently watching: heated rivalry, South Park, and sw rebels
current obsession: anakin, Vocaloid, and friedrich Engels (I know everyone's favorite trio). Also vtubers cause im getting back into live2d
currently reading: random medical and forensics case studies and also fan fiction (for Star Wars and Dexter!)
currently working on: 3 indie game projects, a vtuber rig who I've been procrastinating, 2 fan fics (one which I posted and is time travel but hasn't had an update in like idk how long and another which I hope can see the light of day one day), a cal kestis and oc drawing for a moot (I love them/p), a codywan drawing that's stuck in the idk what I'm doing stage, and an anidala drawing in a similar stage
last Google search: ao3 (pretty self explanatory)
last songs: Across the Stars, How Lin-Manuel Miranda Orders a Pizza by Daniel Thrasher, Heart Attack by Demi Lovato and Mr. Darkside by Sub-Radio
currently watching: The Clone Wars 2008, probably gonna rewatch some Star Wars movies, probably gonna rewatch Tom Holland's Spider-Man trilogy in preparation for Brand New Day
current obsession: Star Wars (the prequels and the clone wars)
currently reading: Clone Wars: Wild Space
currently working on: The first fanfic in my Happy AU series where Palpatine dies, Padme lives, there's no Empire, and everyone is happy apart from Anakin apparently (don't worry he'll get there). I'm trying to write it realistic in the sense that this is what I think would have really happened if the story played out like this, but I think only the first story will have any politics in it. I love the in universe politics of Star Wars, I think they're fascinating and I wish there was more information out there on it, but there's not. Making random stuff up is exhausting. I don't want to do too much research, so I'm just going to write Happy Skywalker Family fluff and angst instead of galaxy altering shit lol
Google search: How do court trials work in Star Wars? (literally no info on Wookieepedia...)
No pressure tags: @magmeter @user24709 @evildala @herowithfears @vaderscurls @aquaeclipse @anakin03986 @panakin-crywalker + Anyone else who wants to join in!!!!
last songs: underground, i choose you, ufo, sugar free venom, instruction, magic clock
currently watching: taxi driver season 2, good morning call, trying to force myself to finish jjk, gonna start if wishes could kill and the other maze runner movies
current obsession: f5ve
currently reading: myriad and random aot fanfics
currently working on: doing as much revision i can for end of year exams then i'll carry on with my mystery fanfic
last google search: ammonia (i needed the structural formula for an equation)
npt: @holyspirit6 @fairyprincessqueen14 @unapologeticpristinelamb @divinebitch16 @actually-an-angel @t-bird510 + open tags!
Current obsession: the beauty in simplicity, and the parallels between people and nature; within things that just exist and how everything is interconnected + MERMAIDS 🧜🏼♀️
Reading: rereading some Seneca. Also decided to get more into Anaïs nin’s writing (delta of Venus is very interesting…) + satanism and witchcraft by Jules Michelet
Currently working on: my filmography journal — movie analysis, film theory & production, just trying to watch more films again + my favorite the psychology of cinematography (which I love exploring)
Last Google search: some essay ‘the humanness of morality’
Disclaimer: This story is a work of art and fiction and doesn’t wish to hurt anyone’s emotions or beliefs. Characters shown are purely inspired from their portrayal in the movie ‘Dhurandhar’ by Aditya Dhar and don’t glorify their real-counterparts. The author also does not support terrorism and condemns all the acts of terror mentioned in the series. Any resemblance to a real person is purely coincidental. Hate speech will not be tolerated.
Author’s Note: My posts might decrease in amount as my mother is back for summer vacation and she goes 👀 when I am typing a lot because she thinks I have a boyfriend (I wish mummy 🤧). But I won’t be dead for sure 😈 (new series incoming?)
Also, listen to this while reading this chapter:
Warnings: MAJOR DHURANDHAR: THE REVENGER SPOILETS. Mentions of death and intentions to kill. Heavy on emotions. Angst.
Late February 2010
Iqbal’s Ancestral Mansion
Nights trapped in the sandstone walls had many degrees and variations—some spent in heavy rage brewing in the air after the Brigadier had drunk himself crazy and began to spat sharp-edged insults, some were quietly peaceful when Iqbal sat down with Laiba and Drisana in his daughter’s room, others were surrounded by a thick layer of tension after the major had sat down on the couch while his father continued to rave about his achievements while the Godfather of ISI sat knowing the truth.
The nights were colder still while the days had become pleasant, winter slowly giving way to the moderate summers of Karachi. But the temperature in the mansion had been dropping ever since the distinctive sound of tyres halting in the courtyard fell distantly on the only woman of the family.
Iqbal had been under tremendous pressure in the last few days, something about unknown gunmen targeting important men.
Drisana knew just well why those men were important, but she had retorted to silence, quietly thanking whosoever had eliminated the dead weights of sin from the world while running fingers through the luscious locks of her stressed partner—trying to offer him a little comfort and a safe space in the midst of chaos.
She had expected the same old ritual of hearing the hate of Jahangir distantly—never capable of hearing the words, but always the intentions. She had expected heavy footfalls before the door would have opened and the tired major would have quietly approached the bed she sat on, placing a kiss on a peacefully sleeping Laiba’s forehead before he would whisk Drisana away to their shared bedroom. A conversation would have followed before he would disappear for a quick shower and she would heat up food for them. A quiet dinner succeeded by Iqbal holding her close in his arms and conversing about nothing and yet, everything until sleep took both of them.
But that night, nothing was routine.
Laiba was awake still, despite the late hour, her cherub cheek pressed against the former pilot’s lap while her fingers fiddled with the lace hem of the black kurta Drisana wore. A permanent pout plastered on her lips as she shifted—restless, unlike her usually peaceful self—settling against her pillow but her fingers remained tangled in the lace.
“Abbu kab aaenge?”
The question had become a constant before she fell asleep, because a few months ago, her father made sure he was there when she fell asleep. But these days? She sparsely saw him.
“Unhe aane mein der hogi, meri gudiya. Aap so jao,” the lady sitting with her back pressed to the bedrest hummed, rubbing soft circles on the child’s scalp—trying to aid her into relaxing and letting go of her consciousness. After all, it was better for her to not see her father with dark circles underneath his deep-set eyes and tension lining his shoulders.
The child whined, shifting closer to the adult that sat patiently beside her—the only solace in these past few days. Safiya had become overbearing, or perhaps, she always was and Laiba only realised it after Drisana. Iqra was always busy in making sure the mansion worked perfectly while her aapa devoted most of her time to the child. And Iqbal was simply not present most of the times.
The lady hoped that her words sat true and the major came late, because then, at least, the child won’t bear witness to the hatred of her grandfather—something she knew existed, very much evident in the way she drew everyone in colours but used the slowly diminishing black crayon for the wheelchair-ridden man.
But unfortunately, the faraway sounds began—the venom clear but not the words. And yet, it wasn’t the only sound that came.
There was a silence, for a short period of two minutes that felt like years, and then? The vigorous splashing of water, as if someone was struggling to come out of it. Drowning.
“Ammi, yeh kaisi awaz hai?”
Drisana blinked, knowing what was happening outside, but the child deserved to be kept in the dark—away from the brutal reality of the world and the ugly side of her father. For Laiba, her father was a man that loved him and both her mothers—deceased and the one that stepped up—and that would remain the reality for her, as long as the lady sitting beside her took breath.
“Lagta hai dada paani se khel rahe hai, beta.”
The girl nodded with as much seriousness as a child could muster, the action felt by the solemnly sat pilot who continued rubbing calming circles on her scalp, slowly and assuredly lulling her to sleep. And not more than fifteen minutes later, the child snored softly into her pillow, a delicate frown pulling at her eyebrows—much like her father.
And yet, the former Squadron Leader remained sat beside her, not yet wanting to let go of the child and face the brutal reality that would meet her when she would step out of the small world of crayons and innocent hopes—a world that unfortunately began and ended in the four walls of Laiba’s room.
But every person has to ultimately face the reality.
With a deep, composing breath, Drisana slowly stood up from the bed, pressing a kiss on the child’s forehead before she quietly padded out of the room, closing the door behind herself because she unsure of what else will conspire in the night.
The eerie silence of the mansion was spine-chilling, making the light footsteps of the lady echo distantly. But ever more frightening was the sight of the living room—not because it laid out the details of the struggle that must have taken place, but because it was well-kept. The television still danced with a looped video of a man being shot dead while a reporter continued to do her work with dedication. The crystal decanter was half-full with whiskey, the glass beside it empty though.
Nothing out of place.
Hesitant feet slowly approached the adjoining bathroom, breath hitching in chest at the spilled water that slowly dried on the marble.
Death no longer startled her much, having experienced the trauma of losing a parent and then saluting at the funeral of martyred comrades, yet it had always filled her with the unique weight of grief. But the sight of the corpse of the old, bitter man floating in the bathtub only brought her a satisfaction she could not explain.
It was a good riddance—the world eased of the weight of a man who knew only hatred, even towards his family members.
Then the worry seeped in and Drisana turned on her feet, leaving behind the dead body to check on the son that had brought an end to his father’s life with his bare hands. The major who portrayed himself to be unflinching, especially when it concerned the now-deceased Brigadier, and yet, she was sure that the act had costed him something—a piece of his soul or an extra weight on his chest.
Something.
Their bedroom door opened with a low creek, much like the exaggerated ones in horror movies, her petite figure slipping in before closing it behind her—making sure that it was locked.
Iqbal sat on the edge of their bed, head hung low between his tense shoulders while his fingers flexed against thin air between his spread thighs. The change in his appearance was stark—luscious locks her fingers combed through every night gone and in its place, a shaved head that made everything more rugged. Something that startled her enough for her feet to pause her approach.
A soft call of his name escaped her parted lips, capturing his attention. Intense eyes rose slowly, breath stilling in quiet contemplation while the gears of his mind worked hard—debating over whether their closeness warranted her to witness his vulnerability or not. But the need for her warm embrace far outweighed his want to remain aloof, a quiet hand suspended in air in an invitation that won’t be mentioned in any future conversations.
Drisana’s eyes softened, her lips parting in a soft exhale while her smaller hand slipped into his offered one, careful steps halting only when she stood between his thighs. His head lulled forward, forehead pressed against her stomach while his arms wrapped around her waist—holding her close while he tried to breathe through the kaleidoscope of overwhelming emotions.
Betrayal, because the man he had considered to be his brother had been spying on them all along. Anger, because the same man had killed his colleagues like flies. A bone-deep dread, because killing one’s own blood is a sin no sacrifice of hair could erase.
And above it all? Exhaustion.
From having his back sliced open with betrayals he could no longer count on his fingers, the parasite of worry for the two women in his life that chewed away at his sanity—especially now that he knew that a snake sat closer than expected—and the weight of every silence between himself and Drisana after a night he came late. The kind that asked questions without any voice—questions that he could not answer, and even if he did, the answers would only gnaw at them until their carefully threaded love was nothing but strands of hatred.
“Hamza ek Hindustani agent hai.”
Drisana’s breath stilled in her chest, hands wrapped around his broad shoulders halting the soft circles she had been rubbing. Questions swirled around her head, answers to which could only be given by the only friend she had made outside the walls of this mansion.
But right now? Her questions were far less important than soothing the raging beast.
“Abb?” She prompted quietly, eyes closing as her lips moved in a silent prayer—hoping that he doesn’t take a harsh decision. Especially not now—when everything was finally wonderful, and a small weight of uncertainty already sat in Drisana’s stomach since past few days.
Iqbal let out a controlled breath against her, nose nudging against the soft fabric of her kurta before he leaned back, dark eyes finding hers before they move to the small suitcase that sat empty in the corner—waiting to carry the things the ISI major would need for his small trip to Muridke.
A trip that had already filled the former pilot’s stomach with unexplainable dread the very day he had informed her of it. And now? Perhaps, she knew why.
The dread turned into fear—one she could not word, for he needed her to strong at the moment, even though it killed her inside.
“Abb ya toh woh bachega ya phir main.”
“Iqbal—”
He stood up then, interrupting whatever she had to say, towering over her softened figure with his intense eyes caressing every inch of her face. His hands moved north from her face, large palms cupping her cheeks as he leaned down, forehead grazing against hers while he committed her to his memory.
“Drisana, mere liye, please aaj mujhe mat rokna.”
Tears sting her eyes at his words, and suddenly, she realised how her mother must have felt every night before Major Hirdesh Rajput left his family behind for his duty. But there stood a difference that raked a wound in her heart—Iqbal is everything her father had stood against, and yet, she could not deny the love that bloomed between them like the arrival of spring after a harsh winter.
Trembling hands cupped his cheeks while she stood up on her tip toes, pressing a lingering kiss on his forehead before she took a step back, one hand grazing the front of her abdomen before she moved to pack his clothes.
“Jana sach mein zaruri hai?” She queried softly, placing a set of brown Paithani kurta and salwar in the suitcase, chocolate eyes finding his, trying to be brave despite the tears that swim in her eyes. A longing in them that broke his heart, one that begged for a normal life—away from their contrasting worlds and ideologies, one where they were just a man and woman in love.
“Badakismati se, haan, meri jaan.”
Drisana nodded, moving efficiently through the spacious room, gathering his shaving kit and the aftershave she had brought him a month ago, placing his go-to perfume along with his underwear and that one extra cartridge of bullets for his handgun. All with a heavy heart and even heavier eyes, stomach twisting in knots that won’t unravel until she was sure he would be safe.
And knowing the violence the Balochi gang under the leadership of Uzair and Hamza had committed during the Lyari gang war, her heart all but sank to the bottom of her stomach.
She could not lose him.
Not anymore.
Not after everything that had happened.
By the time the sun slowly began to peak through the horizon, Iqbal had already bathed and changed into his traveling clothes, sitting beside the unusually quiet figure of the former pilot on the edge of their shared breath—both of them basking the last few moments of closeness before the reality would come crashing upon them.
His arm was slung over her slender shoulders, squeezing reassuringly from time to time, her head resting against his chest, his bearded chin resting on top of her head while his empty hand was laced into hers. Her scent engulfed his senses, his fingers tightening against hers as if he too was reluctant to let her go.
But alas! Fate had cruel intentions.
His phone rang by his side, begging for his attention that was devoted to the woman curled into him—very unlike her composed, strong self. Quiet and stormy as she too engraved the moment into her very marrow—something to hold on to until his safe return.
“Jaan,” he hummed quietly, his nose brushing against her strands, catching the whiff of her chocolate shampoo, lips pressing against her temple in a parting gesture before he stood up.
He watched her whimper at the loss of his warmth against her, smaller fingers trying to hold on to him like a child trying to keep her favourite toy close.
“Mujhe jana hoga,” he affirmed softly, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat—every inch of his body only wanting to engulf her in a tight embrace and never let go. But he knew it wasn’t possible, even if he wanted to make it so.
Not this time.
“Thodi der aur ruk jao.”
His eyes softened at her words, leaning down to press another kiss on her forehead, lips lingering long enough to memorise the feel of her soft skin underneath him. But like every thing comes to an end, so did the moment—the man pulling away and standing up tall. Not anymore Drisana’s Iqbal but the Angel of Death himself.
“Hum dobara zaroor milenge,” he whispered, long fingers wrapping around the handle of the suitcase, steps blurring away until he stood at the threshold of their safe haven. He paused there, taking in the figure of his beloved under the soft glow of a new day rising, his heart clenching violently in his chest before he whispered his farewells to her:
“Mera intezaar karna, jaan.”
And he was gone, not like he was never present in the room, for his scent still clung to her like a shadow, for his abandoned clothes were in the laundry bag still. But gone like a fireplace extinguished by the cold pour of a jug of water, or like a hourglass running out of time.
Her stomach churned again—not that it had stopped since she had come across the sight of Brigadier Jahangir’s corpse floating in the water—like her guts were trying to tell her something. As if trying to scream a truth that she hadn’t come across yet.
On instinct, as if her body was on autopilot, she rose from the bed, mechanical steps leading her into the bathroom. A small box remained hidden behind the plethora of skincare products she used, the strip inside it heavy between her fingers despite its small size.
Three minutes felt like an eternity, but the second her phone vibrated beside her, the timer having run out at last—her body froze completely.
But she had to look.
For her sake.
For Iqbal’s sake.
For their future’s sake.
Two pink lines glared back at her, the strip falling from her trembling fingers with a low thud while her vision clouded with tears, breath shallowing while her knees weaken while the weight on her shoulders grew tenfold. This was no longer a joke, and if Hamza and Iqbal were to battle…
She shook her head, refusing to even acknowledge the possibility of a world without him, the mere thought of it making her stomach clench in ache that had her gasping for air.
Drisana moved, wiping away the stray tears that had fallen before stepping out of the bathroom, pulling her hair back in a messy bun before she grabbed the car keys to a spare Jeep Compass that sat in the driveway of the mansion—a vehicle Iqbal had made sure was in a perfect condition, just in case of an emergency.
If only he had known what emergency would it be…
The black SUV sliced through the still empty streets of Karachi that was still yet to rise properly, zooming past traffic lights and breaking all the speed limits to have ever existed in the city streets, her mind set on reaching a single destination in record time:
Aarisha and Hamza’s mansion.
For if anyone was capable of calming the monster that Hamza would become? It was only his wife and the mother of his son.
She did not care that it was still too early to visit the lady recovering from childbirth—she could not when the life of the father of the child growing inside was at line.
And Iqbal wasn’t just that.
He was Laiba’s father—the man that narrated her stories of brave men and women, sitting down beside her to colour flowers like a normal man, pressing comforting kisses on her forehead and tending to scrapped knees or small paper cuts with the gentleness only a father of a girl could muster.
He was also the love of her life—the only man who had pressed his handgun into her trembling hand and asked her to shoot him if it soothed her hurting heart, remembering every little detail about her as if he had a file readied upon her. The man that whispered sweet nothings in his rusty voice, holding her until sleep clouded her every night and kissing her awake every morning.
The man that she would not lose at any cost.
The housekeeper was startled to see the sight of the distorted woman standing in front of the entrance at five in the morning, trying to stutter out a question. But Drisana had no time for questions or their stupid answers, walking past the middle-aged lady and in the direction of the staircase, marching straight to the master bedroom.
She had noticed already that Hamza’s convoy was gone from the doorway—something that did nothing to soothe her anxiety as she banged her fist on the door, breath heavy and eyes cloudy with tears.
“Aarisha! Jaldi darvaza kholo!”
The faint rustling on the other side of the door was drowned by the loud thudding of her heart in her chest.
The door opened to a confused Aarisha standing in loose loungewear with a frown tugged over her features, eyes widening slowly as she took in the sight of Drisana—chest heaving with shallow pants, eyes glassy with tears while her hands trembled by her side, one of them settled against her flat abdomen.
