I think i love Major Iqbal โน๏ธโจ
(Trying something new)
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I think i love Major Iqbal โน๏ธโจ
(Trying something new)
I HAD TO MAKE IT ๐ญ๐ญ๐ญ
Okay face card tf
veins on his neck ๐
I have nothing appropriate to say about this fine shyt ๐๐
ยขum ho gaya ๐
A Hearth of Smokeless Ash (Major Iqbal ร Mallika) ~ Part 1 ~
WARNING - The characters are fictional. This content is strictly for 18+ peeps (None of the below 18 people are saint here though). This story includes some mythological concepts of religion written with literary liberty. Take fiction as fiction. I have tried to change my writing style and make it more descriptive for some of my future plans, so please give me your reviews about this chapter so that I can make up my mind for something. Quite long chapter, 5.7k words, buckle up babies!
The summer in Karachi had broken every record, a relentless furnace that turned the city into a breathing inferno. The air outside was thick with sulphur, each inhalation a dry, choking gulp that seemed to scorch the throat before it even reached the lungs. Sunlight hammered the streets with a whiteโhot glare, making the asphalt shimmer and vibrate as if the very ground were trying to melt away.
Heat rose in visible waves, distorting the silhouettes of rickshaws and the distant outline of the Arabian Sea into trembling mirages. Sweat clung to skin the moment it appeared, evaporating instantly, leaving a salty crust that prickled like fine sand. The city pulsed with a low, oppressive hum, a collective sigh of exhaustion that rose from every balcony, every crowded market, every exhausted laborer who dared to step outside.
Then, as if the universe had decided to punish the heat with its own cruel joke, the heavy teak door of Major Iqbalโs Clifton mansion swung shut behind him, and the world outside ceased to exist. A violent, almost supernatural chill slammed into the hallway, dropping the temperature by what felt like thirty degrees in an instant. Condensation blossomed on the antique glass windows, thin silver threads tracing delicate lace across the panes.
The mansion exhaled a damp, icy breath that seemed to swallow sound, the usual clamor of Karachi, honking horns, distant calls to prayer, the relentless buzz of generators, was muffled into a reverent silence. Inside, the air was still, heavy with the scent of polished wood and a faint, almost metallic tang that hinted at the hidden chill of the houseโs ancient stone foundations.
Major Iqbal stood before a towering antique mirror, its gilt frame catching the weak, filtered light that managed to sneak through the heavy drapes. His reflection showed a man carved from command, broad shoulders, a jaw set in a perpetual line of authority, eyes that glittered with a cold, calculating fire. He moved with the precision of a soldier, each motion deliberate, each gesture a testament to years of honed discipline. His fingers, calloused from years of gripping weapons and steering jeeps through hostile terrain, fumbled over the heavy brass buttons of his ISI uniform. The metal was cool against his skin, a stark contrast to the furnace that seemed to burn beneath his uniform.
โAnother day, another battle,โ he thought, the words forming silently in his mind as he tightened the top button. โSleep is a luxury for men without targets!โ A flicker of fatigue brushed the edge of his consciousness, a deep, subconscious wave of exhaustion that felt like a phantom fever licking at his insides. He rubbed his temples with the heel of his palm, dismissing it as mere burnout from the relentless operations that had kept him awake for nights on end.
โStand up straight, Major Sahab,โ he told the tired face in the mirror, forcing his shoulders back into a perfect, textbook military posture. โThe enemy doesn't care if your chest burns.โ There was a raw, ugly kind of arrogance in it. He was not merely an officer, he was a force of nature, a tactical genius whose confidence was as unbreakable as the alloy of his sidearm.
The heavy door to the master suite opened without a sound, and the chill of the mansion seemed to deepen, as if the house itself were holding its breath. Mallika lay amid a nest of dark silk sheets, her long, midnightโblack hair fanned out like spilled ink across the pillow. The strands clung to her forehead, a few rebellious locks escaping to frame a face that was both ethereal and startlingly real. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open to reveal a depth of darkness that seemed to swallow the light.
In that instant, Iqbal felt the world tilt, the scorching pressure in his chest, the relentless thrum of his internal heat, met a sudden, shocking counterpoint.
She looked up at him, her disheveled state, rumpled silk slipping from one shoulder, the delicate lace of her camisole torn at the edge, a hint of her breast peeking through, igniting a feral spark in his gaze. Her lips, slightly parted, were a shade of rose that seemed to draw the very heat from his body toward them. โYouโre staring Major sahab,โ she whispered, her voice a soft, velvety caress that echoed in the silent room.
He did not answer with words, instead, he crossed the space between them in a single, fluid stride, the heat radiating from his skin like a living ember. The moment his lips crushed against hers, the contrast was explosive. His mouth was a furnace, scorching and demanding, while hers felt like absolute, soothing ice, a paradox that sent shivers down his spine and fire through his veins.
The kiss was brutal, possessive, a claiming that left no room for hesitation. His tongue plunged deep, tasting the cool mint of her breath, the faint trace of jasmine that clung to her skin, and underneath it all, the sweet, addictive flavor of surrender.
Mallikaโs bare arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers digging into the thick hair at his nape, pulling him closer as if she could anchor the blazing star that he was. The contact was intoxicating, a chemical relief that seemed to flatline the restless, burning pressure that had been building in his chest since dawn. Each press of her body against his was a wave of cold water crashing over a volcano, steam hissing where the two elements met. She was an endless abyss, quietly drinking his energy down to nothing, her coolness a silent promise that she could absorb his heat without ever being filled.
His hands roamed with a practiced urgency, sliding down her sides to grasp the curve of her hips, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin silk. He lifted her effortlessly, the silk sheets rustling like whispered secrets, and laid her back upon the bed. The mattress sighed under their combined weight, the springs protesting softly as they shifted. He hovered over her, his chest heaving, the heat of his breath fogging the air between them in short, visible bursts.
โYou feel like fire,โ Mallika gasped, her voice trembling with a mixture of awe and desperation. He smirked, a dark, predatory curve of his lips. โThen let me burn you until thereโs nothing left but ash of our love.โ His words were low, rough, a promise and a threat rolled into one.
He lowered his head again, this time tracing a path of searing kisses down her neck, his tongue lapping at the pulse point where her blood hammered like a drum. Each lick drew a moan from her throat, a sound that was both a plea and an affirmation. He nibbled gently at her earlobe, his teeth grazing the delicate skin before he sucked softly, eliciting a sharp gasp that mingled with the chill of the room.
His hands found the hem of her camisole, and with a swift, decisive motion, he pulled it upward, the silk sliding over her head to pool around her wrists. Her breasts were revealed, full and heavy, the nipples already peaked and aching for attention. He lowered his mouth to one, taking the hardened tip between his lips, sucking firmly while his tongue swirled around the areola. The heat of his mouth contrasted sharply with the coolness of her skin, sending electric jolts straight to her core. She arched her back, a silent cry escaping her lips as pleasure coiled tighter in her belly.
โMore,โ she breathed, her voice raw. โGive me all of it.โ He obliged, his free hand sliding down to cup her other breast, squeezing and rolling the flesh between his fingers. He switched sides, his mouth devouring the other nipple with the same fervor, his teeth lightly scraping before he sucked harder, drawing a loud, wanton moan from her. The sound was primal, a raw expression of need that seemed to vibrate through the very walls of the mansion.
His descent continued, his tongue tracing a wet line down her sternum, over the soft ridge of her abdomen, and finally to the slick heat between her thighs. He inhaled deeply, the scent of her arousal mingling with the faint trace of sandalwood that clung to her skin. Without hesitation, he spread her legs wider, his thumbs parting the delicate folds to reveal the glistening evidence of her desire.
He lowered his head, his tongue finding her clit with unerring precision. He flicked it rapidly, the sensation making her hips jerk involuntarily. Then he slowed, sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth, his teeth grazing lightly as he drew it deep. Her back arched again, a hoarse cry tearing from her throat as waves of pleasure crashed over her. He alternated between soft, languid licks and fierce, sucking motions, each movement designed to push her closer to the edge while simultaneously drawing his own heat deeper into her cool embrace.
Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him tighter against her as she gasped, โDonโt stopโฆ Please!โฆ Iโmโฆ Iโm closeโฆโ
He felt the familiar tightening in his own pants, the scorching pressure building to a nearโpainful intensity. Yet he resisted the urge to rush, savoring the exquisite torture of giving her pleasure while feeling his own fire threatened to consume him. He slipped a finger inside her, feeling the velvety warmth clutch around him as he began a slow, deliberate thrust, curling his fingertip to stroke the spongy spot that made her moan louder.
โYouโre so wet,โ he growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against her thigh. โYou're so tempting Mallika.โ She answered with a broken whimper, her nails digging into his shoulders. โThen take it allโฆ I want to feel youโฆ Inside meโฆโ
He withdrew his finger, slick with her essence, and positioned himself at her entrance. The head of his cock, engorged and throbbing, pressed against her slick folds. He paused, savoring the moment. Then, with a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.
The sensation was explosive. His cock, a searing rod of pure heat, slid into her velvety depths, the friction creating an insatiable sensation, leaving them forever craving more. Mallika cried out, a sound that was half scream, half sigh, as her walls clenched around him, trying to hold the passion he brought. He began to move, each thrust a deliberate, powerful plunge that drove him deeper, his hips grinding against hers with a rhythm that was both brutal and reverent.
โFeel me,โ he commanded, his voice hoarse. โFeel how I burn inside you.โ She met his gaze, her eyes dark pools of desire and surrender. โI do! Ahh fuck! I do!โ
He increased his pace, the bed creaking in time with their frantic coupling. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a primal soundtrack to their dance of heat and ice. He leaned down, capturing her mouth in another searing kiss, their tongues dueling as he continued to thrust. Each time he pulled back, a rush of cool air brushed over his heated cock, only to be swallowed again by her tight, welcoming heat.
Her hands roamed over his back, nails raking lightly, leaving faint red lines that contrasted with the sheen of sweat that began to bead on his forehead despite the chill of the room. She could feel the heat radiating from their bodies. Yet she welcomed it, her own body responding with waves of slick pleasure.
โYouโreโฆ Youโre amazing,โ she panted, her voice breaking with each thrust. โDonโtโฆ Donโt stop!โฆโ He growled, a low, animalistic sound that resonated in his chest. โI wonโtโฆ Iโll take you until thereโs nothing left in your mind but me.โ
His movements became more urgent, his thrusts deeper and more forceful, the head of his cock striking the sweet spot inside her with unerring accuracy. Her moans grew louder, her body trembling as the pressure built to an almost unbearable crescendo. She could feel the familiar tightening in her lower abdomen, the coil of pleasure winding tighter with each thrust.
โIโmโฆ Iโm going toโฆโ she gasped, her words fragmented by the intensity. โCome for me, Jaaneman,โ he ordered, his voice a raw, feral whisper. โLet goโฆ Let me feel you shatter around me.โ
She obeyed, her orgasm crashing over her like a tidal wave of icy fire. Her inner muscles clenched violently around his cock, milking him with fierce, rhythmic contractions. A loud, unrestrained moan escaped her lips as waves of pleasure washed over her, her body arching off the bed, her back forming a perfect curve as she rode the peak.
The sensation triggered his own release. With a guttural roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the mansion, he thrust one final time, burying himself as deep as he could before his cock began to pulse. Hot, thick streams of cum erupted, filling her with his scorching seed.
They remained locked together, both trembling, their breaths ragged and uneven. His forehead rested against hers, the heat of his skin contrasting sharply with the coolness of hers, a delicate balance of fire and ice that left them both dazed and satiated.
Slowly, he withdrew, his softening cock slipping out with a wet, slick sound that echoed in the quiet room. A trickle of his combined release trailed down her thigh, glistening in the dim light. Mallika lay there, her chest rising and falling, her hair fanned out like a dark halo, a satisfied smile playing on her lips despite the exhaustion evident in her eyes.
He moved to the side of the bed, his movements deliberate, his uniform still immaculate despite the heat of their encounter. He reached for the silver tray on the nightstand, where a delicate porcelain cup of chai waited, steam curling upward in fragrant spirals. He poured the steaming liquid into the cup, the aroma of cardamom and ginger filling the air, a warm counterpoint to the lingering chill of the room.
โHere,โ he said, his voice softer now, edged with a tenderness and teasing that belied his usual arrogance. โDrink this. Your morning ritual of energy.โ
Mallika took the cup with both hands, the porcelain cool against her palms. She brought it to her lips, sipping slowly, the heat of the tea spreading through her chest. She glanced up at him, her eyes soft, admiring the way the light caught the sweat on his brow, the way his uniform clung to his muscular frame.
He smiled, a rare, genuine curve of his lips that softened the harsh lines of his face. โYou are my home Mallika,โ he whispered, his thumb brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead.
He rose, smoothing the front of his jacket with precise, practiced motions, ensuring every brass button was aligned, every crease sharp.
Mallika watched him, her admiration evident in the way her eyes followed his every movement. She rose from the bed, the silk sheets whispering against her skin, and walked to him, her bare feet silent on the cool marble floor. She reached up, her fingers lightly tracing the line of his jaw, then slipped her hands beneath his jacket to feel the steady beat of his heart against his palm. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, his lips cool against her skin.
With one final, lingering look, he turned and strode toward the heavy oak door, his boots clicking against the marble with a disciplined cadence. The door swung open, and the blast of scorching heat from the summer hit him like a wall, a stark contrast to the icy sanctuary he had just left. He paused on the threshold, taking a deep breath of the dry, furnaceโlike air, feeling it sear his lungs, then stepped out into the blazing day.
Inside, Mallika closed the door softly, the sound muffled by the thick wood. She returned to the bed, pulling the silk sheets over her shoulders, the fabric cool against her heated skin. She poured herself another cup of chai, the steam rising in delicate curls, and sat by the window, watching the city pulse with life and heat beyond the glass.
Even the usually bustling EโStreet, lined with colonialโera facades and modern glass storefronts, seemed to sigh under the weight of the heatwave. Pedestrians moved in slow, deliberate steps, their shirts sticking to their backs, their faces slick with sweat that evaporated almost as soon as it appeared.
Against this backdrop, Mallikaโs boutique stood like an oasis of restrained elegance. The shopfront was a deep mahogany door set into a limestone faรงade, flanked by tall, arched windows draped with sheer ivory curtains that fluttered lazily in the occasional breeze that managed to slip inside. A discreet brass plaque beside the door read, in elegant calligraphy, โMallika Atelier โ Couture for the Discerningโ. The glass panes revealed a glimpse of the interior, racks of raw silk in shades that ranged from the palest blush to the deepest midnight, each bolt catching the light and throwing it back in a soft, almost liquid gleam.
The air was cool, tinged with the faint, comforting aroma of sandalwood incense that curled from a small brass burner on the reception desk. Soft, ambient music, a slow, melancholic rendition of a classic ghazal, played from hidden speakers, its notes weaving through the space like a silken thread.
Mallika herself was the embodiment of the boutiqueโs refined aura. She moved with a grace that seemed to make the very floorboards sigh in admiration. Her midnightโblack hair was swept back into a low, intricate braid, a few loose strands framing her face like delicate ink strokes. She wore a simple, ivory linen palazzo kurti with dupatta draped over her shoulder. Her makeup was minimal, a touch of kohl that accentuated the depth of her eyes, and a nude lip that let her natural beauty shine through.
The first wave of elite clientele arrived just as the boutiqueโs clock struck ten. A sleek, black Mercedes pulled up, and out stepped three women whose presence alone seemed to command the streetโs attention. They were the wives of corps commanders, politicians, and intelligence chiefs, women whose lives were woven into the very fabric of Pakistanโs power structure. Their attire was a study in understated luxury, customโtailored chiffon sarees in muted pastels, delicate gold filigree jewelry that caught the light with every subtle movement, and designer sunglasses that hid eyes from the scorching sunlight.
Mallika greeted them with a warm, genuine smile that never quite reached the depths of her eyes, a smile honed by years of navigating the delicate dance between hospitality and discretion. She ushered them inside, her voice low and melodic, each word chosen with care.
โKhush Amdeed, ladies,โ she said, gesturing toward a plush chaise lounge arranged before a low coffee table. โPlease, make yourselves comfortable. Iโve prepared a selection of iced teas, hibiscus, mint, and a hint of rosewater.โ
The women settled, their silk sarees rustling softly as they adjusted themselves. Mallika moved with the practiced ease of a hostess who knew exactly when to refill a glass, when to offer a compliment, and when to simply listen. She poured the tea into delicate crystal glasses, the liquid catching the light and throwing tiny rainbows across the polished marble surface.
As the ice clinked against the glass, the conversation began, light at first, then gradually slipping into the currents of gossip that flowed through Karachiโs elite like an underground river.
โDid you hear about the reassignments at GHQ?โ began the wife of a corps commander, her voice a soft murmur that seemed to carry despite the boutiqueโs hushed ambience. โApparently, General Karim is being moved to the northern command. They say itโs a promotion, but the whispersโฆ they say itโs a quiet exile after the Balochistan incident.โ
Mallikaโs eyes flickered with interest, but her expression remained serene. She inclined her head slightly, as if to invite the speaker to continue, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her own glass.
โYes,โ replied the wife of a senior politician, her smile thin and knowing. โAnd thereโs talk of a new intelligence officer being appointed, someone from the ISIโs internal audit wing. Rumor has it heโs got a reputation forโฆ thoroughness. Some say heโs already digging into the recent arms deal scandal thatโs been making rounds in the press.โ
The third woman, the wife of an intelligence chief, leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her gaze intense. โYou havenโt heard the half of it. Thereโs a dossier circulating, classified, of course, about a covert operation in the Arabian Sea. Supposedly, it involves a joint venture with a foreign power, and the paperworkโs gone missing. If it surfaces, it could shake the entire naval command.โ
Mallika listened, her mind a quiet repository. She absorbed the snippets, the halfโtruths, the veiled threats, and stored them away like precious gems in a velvet pouch. Her role was not to react, not to interject, but to be the silent vessel that allowed these women to unburden themselves, to feel heard in a world where their voices were often filtered through layers of protocol and expectation.
When the tea was finished and the conversation had wound down to polite pleasantries, Mallika rose with a graceful ease that belied the intensity of her inner focus. She escorted the ladies to the door, her smile warm, her parting words gentle.
โThank you for coming,โ she said, her voice a soft caress. โDo let me know if you need anything else for the upcoming gala. Iโll have the samples ready by Friday.โ
The women nodded with polite exchanges. They stepped back into the blazing heat of EโStreet, their silhouettes disappearing into the shimmering haze as the boutiqueโs door clicked shut behind them.
Silence fell over the shop, thick and velvety, broken only by the faint hum of the airโconditioning unit and the occasional distant honk of a rickshaw. Mallika locked the front door, turned the brass knob, and slipped through the heavy curtain that separated the public showroom from the private atelier at the back.
The transition was instantaneous, the bright, curated displays gave way to a room bathed in softer, more intimate light, a sanctuary where creativity could breathe unfettered.
The back room was a study in controlled chaos. Shelves lined the walls, holding bolts of fabric in every imaginable hue and texture, raw silk, organza, brocade, velvet, each labeled with delicate handwritten tags. A large, antique wooden table dominated the center of the space, its surface scarred with years of use, ink stains, and the faint imprints of countless pins and needles. Upon it lay a sketchpad of thick, creamโcolored paper, a set of charcoal pencils ranging from soft to hard, a ruler, a compass, and a small tray of erasers that had seen better days.
Mallika settled into her chair, the leather creaking softly beneath her weight. She pulled the sketchpad closer, the paperโs texture inviting under her fingertips. Her mind, still humming with the fragments of gossip she had just heard, began to translate those whispers into lines and shapes. The charcoal pencil moved with a sharp, aggressive precision, each stroke deliberate, each line a manifestation of the idea she felt surging through her brain.
She began with a series of intersecting geometric patterns, triangles, hexagons, and overlapping circles. The lines were bold, dark, and unyielding, echoing the rigidity of the structures they symbolized.
The room seemed to hold its breath. The only sound was the soft scratch of charcoal on paper, a rhythmic whisper that blended with the faint whir of the ventilation system. Mallikaโs eyes flicked occasionally to the window, where the harsh sunlight of EโStreet was filtered through the heavy drapes, casting a muted, amber glow across the floor. She was oblivious to the world outside, lost in the act of creation.
As she worked, a lone fly, drawn perhaps by the faint scent of sandalwood or the warmth of the lamp hovering over her desk, drifted lazily through the air. It circled once, twice, then, driven by some inexorable impulse, alighted upon the freshly drawn line of a hexagon she had just completed.
The instant its tiny legs made contact with the charcoal, a sudden, almost imperceptible flash occurred. The flyโs wings, delicate membranes that had moments before been beating in a frantic, desperate rhythm, shriveled and turned to a fine, gray ash that drifted downward like snowfall. Its body, no longer able to sustain the minuscule electrical charge that had coursed through it, curled inward, blackening and disintegrating into a speck of dust that settled upon the paper.
Mallika, absorbed in the flow of her sketch, maybe oblivious to the incident, glanced briefly at the spot where the insect had landed. She saw only a faint smudge, a darker fleck amid the charcoal lines, and, assuming it was merely a stray bit of graphite or perhaps a speck of soot from the lamp, she lifted her fingertip and gently rubbed it away. The smudge disappeared, leaving the underlying line untouched, and she resumed her drawing with the same quiet passion, her charcoal pencil moving as if nothing had interrupted the rhythm.
The flyโs demise went unnoticed, yet, in the subtle alchemy of the moment, something had shifted. The charcoal lines she drew now seemed to pulse with a faint, almost imperceptible warmth, as if the insectโs essence had been transmuted into the very medium she worked with.
Hours slipped by. The sun outside began its slow descent, casting longer shadows across EโStreet, the heat gradually easing into a warm, amber twilight. Inside the atelier, Mallikaโs focus never wavered. She shifted from the broad geometric framework to finer details, delicate filigree that would trace the edges of a ceremonial coat, a series of abstract symbols that would be embroidered onto the lining of a gala dress, each one a silent sigil meant to convey elegance, class and strength.
Her charcoal pencil, now worn to a blunt tip, left deep, rich marks that seemed to absorb the light around them. She paused occasionally to step back, her eyes scanning the evolving design with a critical yet appreciative gaze. A faint smile touched her lips when a particular arrangement of lines resonated with the design she imagined.
She folded the sketchpad gently, placed it inside a leather portfolio, and slipped it into her bag. The boutiqueโs lights dimmed as she turned off the main lamp, leaving only a soft glow from the emergency nightโlight that cast a faint, silver hue over the room.
She walked back through the curtain, entered the showroom, and flipped the sign on the door from โOpenโ to โClosed.โ The brass plaque caught the last of the waning light, its letters gleaming like a promise. With a final glance at the empty aisles, Mallika stepped onto the sidewalk and walked toward her car, her mind already drifting to the next day's tasks, the gala, the fittings, the whispered conversations that would once again find their way into her sketches.
The night had settled over like a thick blanket, the cityโs usual roar muffled by the oppressive heat that still clung to the streets despite the hour.
In the dining room, a long mahogany table stood beneath a single chandelier whose crystals threw soft, fractured light across the polished surface. A modest spread lay before them, steaming bowls of lentil dal, fragrant basmati rice studded with caramelized onions, and a plate of tender, spiced kebabs that still held a whisper of heat from the kitchen.
Mallika moved with the quiet grace of someone accustomed to orchestrating elegance. Her dark hair was pulled back into a loose bun, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face, and she wore a simple silk nightgown that fell just above her knees, the fabric whispering against her skin with each step. She set a crystal goblet of chilled water before Iqbal, the condensation beading on the glass like tiny pearls.
Iqbal, now in a loose kurta, sat opposite her, his posture rigid yet relaxed. โHow was the day?โ Mallika asked, her voice low and melodic, each syllable chosen to keep the atmosphere soft.
He took a sip of water, the liquid cool against his throat, and let the silence stretch for a heartbeat before answering. โIt wasโฆ routine. A few deals cleared, nothing out of the ordinary. I met Shafiq at the headquarters this afternoon. We went over some minor intelligence adjustments, nothing that would keep you up at night.โ He offered a small, soft smile. โHis wife stopped by your boutique today, looking for fabric for the upcoming gala. She seemed pleased with the designs you showed her.โ
Mallikaโs eyes lit up, a genuine smile touching her lips. โOh yes! She was there with her two friends. I set aside a few lengths of the midnight silk, she has an eye for the subtle.โ She reached across the table, her fingertips brushing his knuckles briefly before withdrawing. โYou should rest early. Tomorrowโs briefings will be long.โ
He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching. โI will. Thank you for the dinner, my love.โ He lifted his goblet in a quiet toast, the clink of crystal barely audible over the low hum of the refrigerator.
They ate in companionable silence, the occasional clink of cutlery the only sound breaking the stillness. The conversation drifted to mundane topics, the weather, a new boutique opening on Tariq Road, the latest episode of a drama serial she followed.
When the last bite was taken and the plates cleared, Mallika rose to collect the dishes, meanwhile helped to clear the table.
Later, after they had retired to their bedroom. Mallika lay on her side, keeping her palm on Iqbal's biceps, the rise and fall of her breathing steady and soft. Iqbal laid onto his back, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders, and let the darkness envelop him.
Sleep came unevenly, in the depths of his mind, images began to coalesce, sharp, jagged, and utterly alien.
He found himself standing in a narrow, stone-walled corridor, the air thick with a scent of silt and decay. The walls were slick, as if coated in a thin film of ice that refracted the dim light into eerie, shifting patterns. At the far end, a figure stood silhouetted against a faint glow, Shafiq, his posture rigid, his eyes wide with an unspoken terror.
Without warning, the shadows along the walls began to stir. They detached themselves like living ink, crawling forth in countless, minuscule tendrils that resembled as a swarm of insects. They moved with a purpose, slipping over Shafiqโs skin, seeking the seams where his flesh met the darkness.
Iqbal watched, helpless, as the tendrils did not merely bite. They latched onto the very essence of his shadow, gripping it with a insistent pressure. Slowly, agonizingly, they began to peel, drawing the darkness away from his body like a shroud being ripped from a corpse. Each pull elicited a guttural, soundless scream from Shafiq, his visage contorting as the shadow stretched thin, then tore, leaving behind a raw, luminous wound that pulsed with an inner light.
Shafiqโs form began to flicker, his edges blurring as the darkness that defined him was siphoned off, leaving a hollow, almost spectral outline that throbbed with a painful, internal pulse.
Iqbalโs own chest tightened, a sensation unlike any physical pain he had known. It was as if a furnace had been ignited deep within his veins, a searing heat that surged through his blood, threatening to burst forth. He tried to move, to shout, but his limbs felt anchored to the stone floor, his voice caught in a throat that burned with an inexplicable fever.
The nightmare reached its end when the last tendril of shadow was wrenched free, and Shafiqโs body convulsed, a silent explosion of light and ice erupting from his core. The corridor filled with a blinding, whiteโhot flash that seemed to swallow sound, then collapsed into an oppressive, suffocating darkness.
Iqbal jerked awake with a gasp, his eyes snapping open to the blackness of the bedroom. His heart hammered against his ribs, a sheen of sweat coated his forehead despite the icy air, and an intense, boiling fever raged through his bloodstream, a sensation so alien it made his thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm.
He lay there for a moment, lungs heaving, trying to reconcile the visceral terror of the dream with the logical, disciplined mind that had guided him through countless operations. The heat inside him was a contradiction to the frost that clung to the walls, a paradox that left him both bewildered and frightened.
With a effort, Iqbal slipped from the bed, his bare feet contacting the cold stone floor. The chill rose up through his soles, grounding him just enough to steady his shaking limbs. He padded silently across the room, the door to the hallway sighing as he pushed it open, and made his way downstairs to the kitchen.
He reached for the glass cabinet, pulled out a thick tumbler, and filled it with water from the bottle. The liquid was icy, sending a sharp shock down his throat as he drank, the cold momentarily dulling the internal blaze that threatened to consume him.
He set the glass down with a soft clink, the sound echoing in the stillness, and leaned against the counter, eyes closed, trying to steady his breathing. The hum of the refrigerator was the only companion to his thoughts, a low, relentless thrum that mirrored the pounding in his chest.
Just as he began to feel the first tentative threads of composure returning, the secure phone on the wall, a sleek, black device reserved for urgent communications, burst into life. Its sharp, insistent ring cut through the damp silence like a blade.
Iqbalโs eyes snapped open. He moved with a reflex acquired by years of urgency, snatching the receiver and bringing it to his ear. His voice, though edged with the remnants of sleep, was steady.
โYes?โ
On the other end, a voice came through, strained and breathless, each word punctuated by sharp intakes of air that spoke of panic.
โMajor Sahab, we have an emergency. Itโs... It's Shafiq. He is behaving completely wild and violentโฆ Sir, weโve had to put him in solitary confinement.โ
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
OKAY THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING FULL NOVEL STYLE STORY. PLEASE TELL ME IN COMMENTS WHETHER IT WAS BORING OR GOOD! CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM IS ALWAYS WELCOME <3 I JUST HOPE YOU ALL LIKE IT ๐ญ
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Junoon
Dhurandhar!various x oblivious!reader
Summary
In which Alia, a simple college girl with a predictable routine and quiet dreams, falls asleep in her cramped yet comforting apartmentโonly to wake up somewhere she has never been before.
Balochistan.
Not as herself, but as Asiyaโa Hindu Balochi girl living in a world far harsher, louder, and more real than anything she has ever known. The place, the story she saw on screen is now her reality.
But wait, wasn't she supposed to be the side character..? Why is suddenly so concerned about her...so worried about her..?...so obsessed with her..?
Chapter 2
RUKHSAT(Husband!Major Iqbal x wife!reader)
Rukhsat (trans. Departure, farewell)
Genre: Angst, literally no fluff. I am incapable of writing Iqbal fluff.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and is not intended to glorify any real life people or events linked with them.
Trigger warnings: mentions of death, sickness and grief. Iqbal being the pos that he is. Cheating.
P.S. this is longgggg. Probably my longest work ever. And this is the first time I am writing angst, so please lmk your thoughts below.
For eleven years, Y/N had been the heart of the Iqbal residence. Not just the mistress of the house, not just the lady of the manor.
But the heart.
There was a difference.
Anyone could hire staff, anyone with enough money could fill a house with cooks, drivers, cleaners and caretakers.
But very few people could make those people feel like family.
Yet somehow Y/N had managed exactly that.
The kitchen staff brought her vegetables from their hometowns because they knew she loved trying new recipes. Bashir chacha, who had worked for the family longer than Y/N herself had lived there, refused to let anyone else drive her to the market. The younger maids often sat with her after dinner, chatting about weddings, children and village gossip while she folded laundry alongside them despite having absolutely no reason to.
"Begum sahiba, leave that."
"I have two hands, don't I?"
"That's not the point."
"It is exactly the point."
And every single time, the conversation ended the same way.
With the staff sighing dramatically while Y/N continued helping anyway.
She was loved in that house. Truly loved.
The guards smiled when they saw her.
The cooks saved the crispiest pakoras for her. Even the gardeners brought her flowers because they knew she liked fresh blooms in every room.
Sometimes Y/N wondered if strangers would find it strange.
How a woman could be adored by an entire household and still feel lonely.
But loneliness did not care how many people loved you, It only cared about the people who didn't.
The master bedroom sat at the far end of the second floor.
It was large, beautiful, decorated with expensive pieces and empty.
Or half empty, rather.
Every morning, Y/N woke up on one side of the bed and found the other untouched.
Some nights Iqbal came home after midnight, some nights he didn't come home at all, sometimes she woke briefly at three in the morning to find him quietly removing his watch near the dresser, other times she woke to an empty room and the realization that another night had passed without seeing her husband.
The first few years had been good, really good. He loved her, cared for her, bought her small gifts, took her out on sweet dates, had silly fights with her. Their days blurred with soft kisses and sweet gestures and nights ended up with getting tangled on each other. Life was good.
And then, Laiba was born. The pregnancy, instead of bringing them closer, put a distance between them. Y/N was constantly feeling sick during the 9 months, Iqbal was always away with work.
And by the time Laiba was born, the distance was too big for them to cross.
The next few years after her birth, had been painful.
By the sixth year, Y/N had stopped waiting up.
By the seventh, she stopped asking questions.
Now, after eleven years of marriage, she simply folded his side of the blanket every morning and continued with her day.
And yet, after all this misery she still loved him. That was perhaps the saddest part.
Not desperately, not hopefully, just quietly.
The way people continued tending plants they already knew would never bloom again.
---
nice outfit ya cunt
๐๐ข๐ฌ ๐๐จ๐ญ๐ก๐๐ซ'๐ฌ ๐๐จ๐ง- Major Iqbal Headcanons
this one's for @dhurander-paglu
Bhimber. Winter. A kitchen.
She is making roti. Her dupatta has slipped off one shoulder and she hasn't bothered fixing it. There is flour on her left cheek and she doesn't know about that either. The stove light catches the side of her face and makes her look like something in a painting โ the tired kind, the honest kind.
He is four years old and sitting on the cold floor beside her feet.
He is not doing anything. He is simply there, watching her hands, the way small children watch the people they love โ without embarrassment, without agenda. Just watching.
She notices.
She reaches down, without stopping the roti, and presses a floury thumbprint onto the tip of his nose. He wrinkles it. She laughs โ not the performance of a laugh, the real kind, the one that lives low in the chest. She turns back to the stove.
He goes back to watching her hands.
He will spend the rest of his life trying to remember exactly what they looked like. He will never quite manage it.
[What came firstโthe man or what was done to him? The rot or the wound?
I keep circling this question, and I keep coming back to the same place: Major Iqbal was not born what he became. He was built. Slowly. By a house that contained two completely opposing forcesโone that taught him he was worthy, and one that taught him worthiness was weakness.
The question is not whether his mother loved him. She did, extravagantly, in the way of women who love in the only direction they are permitted to.
The question is what happens to a boy when the person who loves him best also cannot protect him. What he learns from that. What he decides.]
momma's boy!Iqbal: who was the kind of child who cried quietly. Not loudly, not in a way that demanded attention โ the tucked-away kind, the sitting-in-corners kind. His mother always saw it anyway. She would not make a production of it. She would simply come and sit beside him until it was over.
He grew up to despise men who wept openly. The contempt was intimate. The contempt was something he had done to himself.
momma's boy!Iqbal: whose mother read to him every night. This sounds like a small thing. It was not a small thing. In a house where his father's voice was the loudest presence in every room โ always proving something, always on the edge of itself โ his mother's reading voice was an entirely different register. Slow. Patient. She did the voices differently for each character. When he fell asleep before the chapter ended, she would fold the page and start from the same line the next night.
He grew up believing that stories waited for you. But then again that was a time...a better time.
momma's boy!Iqbal: whose father โ Brigadier Jahangir, decorated, half-useless, proud of things that should have shamed him โ did not beat him. This is important to say plainly: he did not beat him. What he did was more precise than that. He used his voice the way other men use hands. You are soft. You are an embarrassment. You are nothing like what I needed you to be. He said these things at the dinner table. He said them in front of guests. He said them the way other fathers asked for the salt โ habitually, without looking up, without registering that there was a person receiving the words.
His mother, every single time, would reach under the table and press her hand over Iqbal's. Once. Briefly. I see you. I know. I cannot stop this and I am sorry.
She never said any of that out loud.
momma's boy!Iqbal: who brought her things. Stones from the road. A picture of a horse that looked more like a table with legs in the wrong places. A particularly good leaf. He would present these with both hands out, chin down, the full solemnity of a small person giving the only currency they have. She received every single one with equal gravity. She kept the drawings in a box under the bed.
The box was still there when she died. He left the house and left the box. He has not forgiven himself for that. He has also never said so out loud, which means it has nowhere to go.
momma's boy!Iqbal: whose last good day was a Thursday. He was eleven. His father was away on military business and his mother made halwa and let him eat it for breakfast and didn't say a word about it being improper. The winter light came through the kitchen window at a slant. She let him lean against her shoulder and she rested her cheek on the top of his head and they stayed like that until the halwa was done and neither of them spoke because there was nothing that needed saying.
He did not know, that Thursday, that she had been unwell for months and hadn't told anyone.
Older!Iqbal: who lost his mother at fourteen. A February. A quiet death, which is somehow the most violent kind โ no warning, no scene, just a neighbor woman with tight hands and that terrible watching-your-face sympathy. He said shukria and went inside. He sat on the floor of his room until dark. He lay down without eating. He looked at the ceiling until he fell asleep.
His father did not come to check on him.
He registered this the way a seismograph registers a tremor โ not with drama, just with precision. He wrote it in the ledger he kept in his chest: this man will not come for you. account for this. do not forget. He did not cry until three months later, alone in a classroom, over a line in a poem that had nothing to do with anything. He cried until he thought something would break. Then it stopped. He never cried again.
He thought that was grief finishing. He did not know it was grief being sealed behind a wall. Everything he built on top of that wall eventually sank and he never understood why
Older!Iqbal: who joined the military partly because his father expected him not to โ this is the pettiest and most honest thing about that decision โ and once inside it, found that violence had a framework here, and the framework almost felt like safety. He was brilliant at it. He had always suspected he would be. Violence has its own grammar and he had been absorbing it since before he had words for it. He became controlled. Precise. Utterly without mercy.
Every senior officer who praised him for those qualities thought they were praising a soldier.
They were praising a boy who had learned to survive.
Older!Iqbal: who married once. Her name was Maryam. He does not say this to anyone. He does not say it the way some widowers don't say the name of the dead โ not to protect the grief, but because the grief is still exactly where he left it, undisturbed, in a room he keeps locked. He was not a cruel husband. At least not in the conventional sense.
He was also not present.
He was always in the work, in the operation, in the plan โ he told himself that providing was the same as being there, which is something he learned from the very man he hated. Maryam tried. He has to give her that.
She tried in the small persistent ways of people who love difficult men, trying to find whatever was underneath. He did not pull away from her. He just never moved any closer. He has no good explanation for this. He suspects the explanation is that he was terrified.
She deserved better. He knew it then. He knows it more clearly now, which is the particular cruelty of clarity that arrives too late
Older!Iqbal: whose wife died in childbirth. He was not there. He was in Karachi. He was in a room full of men discussing things that do not bear describing, and somewhere in Lahore his wife was dying in a hospital and no one reached him in time. He arrived to a room that was too quiet and a baby in a nurse's arms โ small, furious, screaming with the full conviction of something new to the world.
He stood in the doorway.
He looked at her.
He sat down in a plastic hospital chair.
He did not make a sound.
The nurse had the good sense not to say anything.
Laiba. He named her Laiba. He does not remember deciding this. He remembers only that it felt like the only name there had ever been for her.
[Here is the thing I think about: Maryam left in the way that people leave by dying. His mother left in the way that people leave by dying. The mindโespecially the kind of mind that has been surviving since childhood by finding patterns, by constructing systems, by making the chaos legibleโdoes not always distinguish between the shape of a loss and its cause.
He built a logic out of the wreckage: the people I allow close do not stay.
It is irrational. It is also completely load-bearing.
You cannot argue someone out of a wall they built from their own grief.]
Older!Iqbal: who does not know how to be a father. He knows this. He has no model for it that doesn't include damage โ his own father was a presence defined primarily by what he withheld and what he weaponised. He has his mother, but she was not a father, and what she gave him was given in opposition to cruelty, not in place of it. He is building without a blueprint.
He decides, in a plastic hospital chair, that he will figure it out.
Older!Iqbal: who learns Laiba's world the way he once learned military intelligence โ exhaustively, without sentiment, with total commitment. Laiba has Down syndrome. She has her systems. She has textures she can't tolerate and sounds that undo her and a precise logic for how she needs the world arranged. He learns all of it.
He knows which fabric she'll wear. He knows the exact light level she prefers for eating. He knows that transitions need to be named before they happen and that the naming needs to be gentle and that gentle means his voice, specifically, which is a discovery that keeps catching him off guard.
He did not learn any of this from a book. He watched her. He paid attention. He adjusted.
This is his mother in him. He does not recognise it. The line of continuity is there anyway.
Older!Iqbal:ย who keeps everything she paints. He is not a sentimental man โ there are no soft surfaces in his life and he has been deliberate about that. But Laiba's paintings are not soft surfaces. They are documentation. They are the specific and honest record of how she sees the world, which is more than most people ever produce.
She painted a family portrait once: herself in the center, him beside her, and two spaces left unfilled โ her mother, perhaps, or his mother, or simply space for people she hadn't met yet, or people she knew were missing. He sat beside her when she showed it to him. He looked at the empty spaces for a long time.
He thought about a box under a bed in Bhimber full of his own drawings.
Older!Iqbal:ย whose daughter calls him Baba. Not Papa โ the older word, the softer one. He has never corrected this. She is the only person alive who calls him by anything other than his rank.
He is aware this is the most valuable thing he owns.
He is aware he does not deserve it.
Older!Iqbal: who sits sometimes, alone, in the room where he keeps her paintings. He is not a reflective man. He does not make a practice of sitting with what he feels. But sometimes the quiet gets in anyway.
He looks at the family portrait. He looks at the empty spaces.
He thinks about flour on a cheek and halwa on a Thursday and a reading voice doing all the different characters. He thinks about a box he left behind. He thinks about Laiba's hands when she paints โ very still, very sure of themselves, the brush finding the angle it wants โ and he has seen those hands before, he knows he has, they belong to someone older than both of them, some unbroken line that passed through disaster and came out the other side still reaching for things.
He doesn't know if it's mercy or damnation, inheriting the eyes.
He sits in the room.
He doesn't move.
For a moment โ just this โ he is only a boy who misses his mother.
fin.
author's note: This post is brought to you by insomnia, poor decision-making, and my inability to leave this man alone. I have never written headcanons before. This is my first attempt. Please clap.
comments are appreciated!
They are actually so cute together ๐๐โจ
Only iqbal can ruin uzairโน๏ธโจ
(i feel like he really liked uzair since even in part 2 he kept saying his name ๐ญ๐)
"Gadar macha ke marein." โ his life's motto.
The beast comes out of me actually when I see him.
เคงเฅเคฐเคเคงเคฐ!
#YALINA :
โHe didnโt betray me. At leastโฆ thatโs not what my heart believes.
He did what he did for something bigger than both of us. And somehow, despite all the lies, he still loved me. Maybe not completely. Maybe not honestly. But it was real. And that truth alone is enough for me.
I will always choose him.
Always save him.โ
#HAMZA :
โShe probably hates me now. Or worseโฆ pities me.
I keep thinking about everything we built together and wondering if I destroyed it the moment I chose silence over truth.
Yes, I lied to her. Again and again. But was any mission worth her tears?
I donโt know anymore.
I only know that Iโll never forgive myself for the look in her eyes when she finally understood who I was.โ
I'm not letting y'all forget D1 Hamza.
Posting just for the sake of posting. This is an old edit, I genuinely have no motivation to edit new videos right now.