A drabble about Major Iqbal, first fic ever. Obviously this is based on the character portrayed in the Dhurandhar movies and not real life people.
Enjoy!
Word count: 2.003 words.
Being the wife of a man like Iqbal was not something you had expected. Growing up you had simply thought that your father would either marry you off to a son of his business partner or you would settle as a spinster. A marriage to a Major of the ISI was not something even in the realm of possibilities. It was for your cousins, who knew how to be the life of the parties, charm visiting businessmen and in general were loud, fun, and outgoing. Not you, you who preferred to disappear upstairs when your father’s guests arrived. Who simply longed for a quiet, content life where you could read, paint and simply be and not have to be made a spectacle of or pretend to be more outgoing that you in truth were. And perhaps if you had to imagine a husband it would be a warm and gentle man, who would never raise his voice or hands on you and who would be a good father to any children you would have.
So, imagine your surprise when your one evening your father is hosting some of his contacts for dinner, and not just any contacts. As you came down the stairs you heard their voices before you saw them. Rehman Baloch, one of your father’s more criminal contacts, his cousin Uzair Baloch, one of the Khannani brothers (You always forgot which one was which) and Major Iqbal. His deeper, raspy voice sounding quite pleasant if you were truthful to yourself. Entering the dining room, you offered a soft “Walaikom salam” glancing at each man before taking your seat. You eat quietly and efficiently as the men continued the talk of politics and business, your mother keeping the façade of the gracious host as she urged the man to eat more. Perhaps if you had looked up from your plate just once, you might have noticed the espresso-coloured eyes that barely left you.
A week later the proposal arrived and of course your parents accepted immediately, not even asking you if you wished to enter into the most sacred bond with a man like Iqbal. And a month later, in a lavish nikkah, attended by the crème de la crème of Karachi society, your father’s contacts, distant relatives and a whole bunch of people you never truly knew, you with a soft Qubool Hai became Mrs. Iqbal Kashmiri, his begum.
Settling into his home went quite well, and he was a kind husband. Never raising his voice or hands (one night it hit you that that part of your wish did come true, even if it was not the whole aspect of his personality). Sharing his bed, you found was not the troublesome task your mother had made it out to be. He was considerate, made sure you were comfortable and didn’t mind your shy nature that had you hiding away in the crook of his shoulder the entire time, only soft gasps and whispers of his name escaping you as you finally experienced the gentle consuming pleasure that the novels your mother hid, described.
It wasn’t until the morning after your wedding that another aspect of your married life showed itself. Having dressed in a soft pine-coloured kurta with a matching dupatta half draped carefully over your hair you made your way to the dining room. Stopping in your tracks then you saw a little girl, no older than five, perhaps 6 years old seated next to your husband, quietly eating a piece of freshly baked paratha. Seeing your somewhat shocked face Iqbal told the little girl, Laiba to go play in the other room. A woman you hadn’t been introduced to yet took the girl away. Iqbal explained it all to you then, when you confessed that your parents hadn’t told you anything but the fact that you would be marrying Iqbal.
“I have been married before; the marriage was strained but my daughter was born from the union. My daughter isn’t like other children, but she is no less deserving of love and kindness. She just needs some more attention and a more controlled and quieter environment, so she feels safe. I had told your parents when I came with the proposal, and they simply told me that you did not mind.” The explanation was to the point, but you noticed the undertones. He had never meant to hide anything from you, and he had quite the protective edge when it came to his daughter. And so, the next words flowed from your mouth, perhaps the most he had heard you speak so far. “They didn’t tell me. My parents have a vested interest in our marriage, and I think they would have told you I was fine with anything as long as you did not call the wedding off. But I don’t have an issue with your daughter. I only wish I had known so I would have had some time to prepare.” And with that the matter was closed.
It only took two weeks for Laiba to warm up to you. The girl’s quiet nature suited your own quite well. Underneath that quiet nature was a kind soul that thrived on the loving attention you bestowed upon her. Letting her cling to you when she wanted comfort, braiding her hair, feeding her with your own hands when she wanted to be stubborn or refused to eat, to letting her curl up between you and Iqbal in bed when nightmares would wake her in the middle of the night.
Most mornings you woke early, gently waking Iqbal who had taken to sleeping with his arm around your waist and his legs comfortably entwined with yours. After he has woken and let you out of his sleepy grasp, only after mumbling “Bas das minute aur, Jaan” did he truly let you go. Honestly, who would have thought the fearsome major was so cuddly in private. But you would be lying of it didn’t settle an anxious part of your heart, the part that had worried you would be confined to a loveless marriage. After getting ready you would leave Iqbal in your bedroom, of course he has stolen a kiss or two, either pressed to your lips or to the marks he had left the night before. Walking down the hallway to the third bedroom away from yours, you find Laiba already starting to wake on her own. Having taken over from the caretaker Iqbal had always hired “You married me and made me your wife, which in turn makes me her stepmother and I will not have someone else take care of her if I am here, husband.” In quite a stern tone was all the pressure your husband needed to let go of Sofia for a full-time basis. Helping the still sleepy child get ready, you helped her bathe and dress before brushing her soft lush hair and braiding it in a plait to match your own.
After having breakfast as a family, something Iqbal now enforced having quickly found out it was the easiest way into his quiet begum’s heart. He would leave for work, pressing a soft kiss to Laiba’s forehead and a chaste one to your lips, stealing a longer one when you would walk him to the door, stealing your breath and making your body heat up in ways that still surprised you.
A month into your marriage you found out that your father-in-law was still very much alive. You overheard Iqbal giving orders over the phone, when he hung up, he noticed you standing in the doorway of his study. “I imagine you have some questions” He murmured in the deep voice you finally admitted to liking. Nodding as you sit down, you looked at your husband expectantly, wordlessly telling him to explain himself.
With a sigh he sat down next to you. “My father is a horrid man, he is loud, abusive, and thankfully now resigned to a wheelchair. But he has a venomous tongue that I would rather keep away from Laiba and you. The only thing I have left toward him is a duty, to make sure that he is provided for until he finally dies. I- I didn’t tell you because I know you and your heart. You’d want to see him, see if he truly is as horrible as I would tell you. But where you would see a father-in-law all he would see is another to abuse, and I do not want you to trough that. I am being honest I also don’t want you to witness the way he tries to get under my skin, the verbal abuse, my ears ring when I leave after visiting and my agitated state is not exactly pleasant to be around. I know that I should have told you, but I just wanted to keep this, my actual family, safe and whole.” He explains as he cups your cheek, his hand warm and calloused and watches as you just give your full attention to him. You see the way he stutters on some words, how he swallows more than usual and that his eyes are burdened when he speak and finally how his hands grip yours, almost like he needs an anchor. And you know that this is riddled with trauma, a deep trauma that is not easy to explain or to disregard but must be handled with care and underneath that the same instinct that fills him, to protect you and Laiba from everything. So true to your nature you don’t fuss.
“From now on you will not hide a single thing from me, your burdens are not just yours to bear.” You murmur as you climb into his lap, and he leans back letting you straddle him, eyes widening a little at the intimate position you initiated. “I won’t press you in this, I don’t wish to meet him. But I don’t want you to hide anything either.” You whisper before pressing a soft kiss to his lips, a comfort. “You are my husband, my home and the only place where I do not have to fulfil a role forced upon me, where I must pretend to be something I’m not. You are a wonderful father to Laiba, and I know that when the time comes and we have more children, you will be equally as wonderful with them. That is who you are in my eyes, and this nor his words make it any less.” You whisper before pressing a final kiss to his lips and intending to rise, only to find he won’t let you, his arms wrapped tight around you as he stares at you like you are salvation and sin all in one, a deep part of his tormented soul finally settling. That night he doesn’t just hold you as he sleeps, he has buried his face in your breasts and holds you more like one would a teddy bear. You don’t mind, just hold him as you fall asleep as well.
Your days would be filled with taking care of Laiba, playing games with her, colouring, watching movies, reading while she napped with her head in your lap. A stepdaughter she might officially be, but in your heart, she was nothing more than a daughter you had been blessed with. Most afternoons you gave the cook the day off and cooked dinner yourself, the domestic routine grounding you. And if you were being entirely truthful, watching Iqbal politely devour the meals you had lovingly prepared, praising your food and hands left you feeling content and cherished. For he never took a thing you did for granted. And the evenings were for settling Laiba in bed after enjoying some time with each other, curled up on the soft plush sofa Iqbal had ordered after witnessing firsthand how his wife tended to curl up like a cat while reading or watching the television. Thus, your life settled in a predictable routine, but one you cherished. No dawats, no one who demanded you to pretend to be someone you were not.
Just you, your loving husband, and a daughter you cherished.
Well that is. I do hope you enjoyed it<3, let me know what you think.
౨ৎ — husband major Iqbal loves fucking you in prone bono || mdni, smut
Idk how many words :3
Major Iqbal stands by the window, his broad, solid chest rising and falling with peaceful anticipation.
Through the glass, the manicured gardens of their official residence are bathed in the soft amber glow of dusk.
He is the image of authority and elite —the thick, jet-black beard, the styled hair, the gold-rimmed aviators pushed up into his hair, the last of a fine cigar smoldering in a crystal ashtray.
He is a man built of secrets and a calm, coiled violence that he keeps leashed.
Outside these walls, you are is his flower.
He turns when you enter the study, your footsteps hesitant.
You are exactly as the whispers described you before you had met the older major: cute and petite, with genteel manners.
A softness in his hard world.
His eyes sweep over you. You are wrapped in a modest expensive shawl, a simple cotton salwar kameez with your hair flowing behind you in waves.
He crosses the room in three long strides, and his large veiny hands find your waist. He lifts your chin with a knuckle and gives you a look of pure reverence.
"Meri shehzaadi," he murmurs, the voice a low gravel.
He kisses your forehead, a gentle brush of lips. He treats you like glass. Like a bloom he must protect from the harsh sun. In public, no hand touches you but his, and it is always a sheltering touch.
But the night is yours . And the Major has other names for you.
The shift happens when he guides you into your luxurious bedroom. The heavy oak door clicks shut, and the temperature in the room seems to rise by ten degrees.
He shrugs off the formal military over coat, letting it fall to a chair. The leather holster beneath it is gone, stripped away in the study, leaving him in a simple navy blue shalwar kameez that strains against the powerful breadth of his shoulders.
He is silent as he takes off his watch, rolling up his sleeves, exposing his smooth but able looking forearms.
The gentle husband who kissed your forehead is gone, In his place is the Major. The Angel of Death.
He points to the bed , his expression darkening with lustful dominance, assured of himself and his commands. "Face down, ass up."
You obey, her heart hammering inside your rib cage. Turning and lying on your stomach, your small, plush body sinks into the mattress.
A few anticipated seconds later you feels the bed dip as his weight settles over you. He doesn't rush but he’s impatient.
Finally he pulls ypur shalwar down, exposing the generous curve of your ass and the soft, dusk skin of your thighs. He makes a sound of pure, masculine appreciation—a low growl from deep in his chest.
His hand lands on the small of her back, a heavy, possessive weight. He likes to remind you of his ownership at all times.
He slides it down, over the mound of your ass, squeezing the soft flesh firmly. "My bunny," he says, the words a stark contrast to the cultured, gentle tone he uses with his colleagues. Now, his voice is thick, dripping with raw carnality. “Itni narm… bilkul tayyar”
He removes his attire before continuing with the night’s festivities.
Iqbal guides your legs apart with his knee, before settling over you—his body a heavy, comforting blanket of muscle and heat.
His cock is already hard pressing against the cleft of your ass, dragging through the wetness he finds waiting for him. The major doesn't push in immediately. He just rocks against you, letting you feel his size, his control, letting the anticipation coil tight in your belly.
“Tum mere gulistan ka sabse haseen gul ho.” he whispers against your ear, his beard scratching against your sensitive neck. "Everyone sees that i’m only soft for you jaan."
He shifts, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance teasingly, making you lef out soft whines. Whines calling out to him and his cock.
"Par idhar..," he continues, pushing forward just an inch, stretching you in reward "you're my bunny. My little cocksleeve. And I don't share my bunny with anyone."
Iqbal sinks into you in one long, unbroken glide. The prone position means he slides deep immediately, the angle perfect, his weight pressing you flat into the mattress.
You gush around him feeling utterly filled, trapped in his heat with not one way to escape. There is no escape from the sheer size of him stretching your cunt.
A choked sob escapes your swollen lips. He stills seeing your distress , buried to the hilt.
"Shh," he soothes, the sound a deep vibration against your back. But it is not a comfort born of pity. It is the satisfaction of a man who has fully claimed what is his. "Breathe bunny. Let me feel how tight you are."
He waits, patient as a hunter, until your body unclenches around him. Then he begins to move.
Iqbal’s strokes are long and deep. He pulls out slowly, letting you feel every ridge and vein, before pushing back in with a firm, deliberate thrust that rocks your whole body forward on the bed smushing your face deeper into the delicate pillows of your marriage bed .
He fucks you with a lazy, devastating power. Savouring you before consuming you.
He controls everything —The pace, depth, angle, thrust. He reaches down and grips your hip, tilting your pelvis to take him deeper. He finds your clit with his fingers, rubbing possessive circles in time with his thrusts.
"Bas aese hi," he grunts, his voice tight due to you squeezing his dick oh so deliciously. "That's my good bunny. Taking all of me."
The intimacy is overwhelming. His heavy balls slap against your wet cunt. The sound of your bodies joining fills the room—the wet squelch of Union, the slap of his skin on yours , ragged breathing and moans make the effect of the air conditioner almost negligible .
Iqbal leans down, covering your petite frame completely, his chest to you back as his lips finding the curve of your shoulder. He bites down gently, a possessive mark, as he resumes fucking into you.
The major loves this —The dominance. The way your small body yields completely to his larger one.
He loves the duality of it—that this same woman who blushes when he brings her a flower is now a whining, dripping mess beneath him, taking his cock like a good little bunny. He loves having her pinned, helpless, entirely at his mercy. His. His.
"I'm going to fill you," he growls, his rhythm quickening, losing its languid control. "I'm going to pump my cum deep into this tight little cunt. And you're going to take it. Every. Last. Drop."
He drives himself harder, his grip on your hip bruising. He grinds against your ass, his thick cock swelling inside you.
You are sobbing out his name in the sheets, lost in the sensations, the raw command in his deep voice.
He comes inside you with a guttural groan, a sound of a raw man. He buries himself to the base, his body shuddering against you as his cum floods your insides. He stays there, twitching inside you, his weight a warm crushing blanket.
Minutes pass. The only sound is the both of yours breathing. He pulls out slowly, watching his seed leak from your swollen, reddened cunt. He rolls you over gently, pulling you into his arms, your head tucked under his chin.
His hand strokes your hair, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your temple. The Major is back, the gentle protector, wiping a tear from your cheek.
"Meri gulaab ," he whispers, the tenderness returning but his cock, still half-hard, pressed against your thigh. A gentle promise of the multiple hours ahead of rough love making.
pic from pinterest
note: I hate this…I hate having a writing slump..I don’t know how this turned out..I promise you this is not my best of works but yeah.
Everyone believe Iqbal was a man hardened by time, but he always knew that the sinister inside him wasn't learned; he was born with it.
His khuda wasn't the kindest to him , taking everything he loved one by one till he was only left with a daughter, a fragment of the love of his life. The flower he kept inside the halls of his mansion, before he had to hold her lifeless, cold body in his arms. Bidding goodbye to the last good thing he had known.
Nothing wavered his faith, he was still the old, reserved man at heart despite all his wrongdoings, he had never once committed a sin as unholy as you.
He was 39 years old, his world did not have the space for a 'not modest', undignified 24 year old who spent most of her day confining in men that she knew she would never see again once the night had passed
But he wanted her
Phone calls
Late drives
Meeting in hotels
He wanted her till he decided he did not need the stain on his reputation of being the all holy, the dutiful man .
What he did not know was you weren't letting go, not in this life.
Major Iqbal was the angel of death, a man who had the greatest of men breaking under his gaze, but what about the only women who scared him?
You make me cry
You make me kill
You make me wanna die
And we break up
And we get back
I wanna fucking die
" Aapko laga aap humne chor sakte ho Major sahab?"
Trigger warnings- Crazy! Reader and Iqbal, Stalking, Invasion of privacy, sexual content, degradation, very conservative themes at points, drinking, drug consumption, self harm, voilence, blood etc
A/N- This story is my reply to the people who keep writing the Madonna-whore complex it pisses me off a LOT, also so long since I wrote a crazy fl. Hope you all would like it
[ Disclaimer - This is a fanfiction based on the Indian movie franchise - Dhurandhar. Characters mentioned in this fic are based on the fictional versions depicted in the movie and not their real life counterparts. All the characters except y/n belong to thel makers of the movie.]
Warnings - smut, consensual somnophilia.
{A/N - here's a very short oneshot, not proofread. I hope nobody gets offended by this. Please skip it if you're uncomfortable with somnophilia.}
masterlist
It was half past two in the morning when Iqbal walked in through the front door of your home and was met with the usual silence of early morning.
He was exhausted.
The debriefing had gone wrong, his plan to create an insurgency on the other side of the border had gone wrong and while testing the arms brought in the new consignment, one of the rifles had heavy recoil which left his shoulder aching. Overall he had a very bad and frustrating day, by the end of the day he was all pent-up.
He opens the bedroom door quietly, the sight he finds nearly brings him to his knees.
You're sleeping on your side of the bed, a half-open book laid on your stomach, which looked like you fell asleep while reading it. The thin strap of your night gown had slipped off one shoulder. The short gown had ridden up, exposing your lace panties and smooth legs.
Your chest rose and fell as you took rhythmic breaths, your hair sprawled on the pillow, framing your face.
His eyes softened and he moved towards the bed.
He gently took away the half-open book before placing it on the side table and brushed the hair strands away from your face.
He looked at you, tracing his eyes over your face. Taking in your features.
You looked cute.
His heart feels full at your sight, but he feels something else tighten too.
Reluctantly he pulls himself away and towards the shower.
He undresses and looks into the mirror, his eyes rested on the specks of blood on his face, it's not his blood ofcourse.
He loves you, you make it easy for him.
He gets under the shower and scrubs away the sweat and dirt until the water runs clear. He hums as he feels his muscles relax as the warm water runs down his body.
After he's done he slips on just sweatpants and sighs. Thoughts of sleep overtake his mind.
But all of that goes out the window when enters your room again and his gaze lands on you.
He slips in beside you, careful not to wake you up as the bed dips under his weight. He sits against the headboard with his arms crossed on his bare chest to keep them from inching towards you.
He's still too damn pent-up and he needs to relieve it. He stares at the ceiling as his pulse rises, the wet spot forming on his sweatpants is the least comfortable thing and his cock keeps growing every second.
He should not have a problem to touch you. He had done that before. Would it be selfish to disturb you?
He just needs to get it out of his system, he thinks and turns his head to you.
He fails to stop his hand from moving, placing it on your ass, he's studying your face for any reaction but it won't come. He slowly starts kneading the flesh, careful enough to not wake you up.
He hooks his fingers into your waistband and slowly drags them down until they're completely off.
He holds his breath for a moment before wrapping his large hands around your thighs and pushing them apart, now he kneels in between them getting a closer view at your cunt. It glistens in the dim light, already wet and leaking.
He bites the inside of his cheek and wonders if you would be mad but you did tell him that you liked being used by him.
He runs two of his fingers up and down your slit, making you shift ever so slightly. He finds your clit and starts rubbing it in circles, your hips shift and you let out small whimpers. He thrusts two fingers inside your cunt and you let out breathy moans.
After a minute or so he pushes his sweatpants down, his hardened cock springs free. He pulls his fingers away, rubbing your slick on his cock, he fists his cock a couple of times and then presses his tip to your entrance.
You start squirming under him.
He slides in slowly.
Your breathing speeds up for a moment before you open your eyes, slowly.
“I-Iqbal?” You said, gasping as he slid in completely, stretching your hole.
“Shhh…meri jaan,” he said.
He gave you a moment to adjust before moving his cock in and out of your pussy.
“Ah…ahhh,” you moan, wrapping your legs around his hips, pulling him closer.
He buries his face into your neck, trailing open mouth kisses along the curve.
You grip onto his shoulders as he increases the pace. You arch your back to adjust yourself and that just sends his thick cock reaming into your sweet spot.
Your legs are already shaking. Close, you were already close, you don't even remember when the build up happened.
“Jagana nahi chahatha tha lekin tum itni haseen lag rahi thi —ngh— mujhe nahi laga ki tumhe bura lagega.”
Your grip on his shoulders tightened, your nails digging into his skin, deep enough to leave a few marks. Your moans get increasingly loud at each smack of his hips. Your eyes rolled back in your head, toes curling in.
“Oh, oh…Iqbal–”
He grunts in pleasure.
Your thighs seize as your orgasm throttles through your tired and spent body feeling your slick rush around his girth as you tremble below him.
A quick warm kiss on your cheek made you sigh, relaxing into it as he sped up and unloads himself inside you.
He pulls out and collapses beside you.
“Missed you.” You whisper.
“I missed you too.” He replies.
He kissed you, passionate and open mouthed.
You make out until sleep starts evading both of your senses again. You use your last bit of strength to drape an arm across his chest.
The last thing you remember is him pulling the blanket over you and pressing a kiss to your forehead while his thumb traced the diamond ring on your finger where your hand lay on his chest.
Summary - Iqbal keeps you late even after office hours.
[ Disclaimer - This is a fanfiction based on the Indian movie - Dhurandhar. The characters in this fanfic are based on the fictional versions depicted in the movie and not their real life counterparts.]
Warning - smut
Words - 2.1k
masterlist
The wall clock ticked past 8:00 p.m.
You already shut down your computer, slipped your notebook into your bag and reached for your scarf.
Finally,
The factory had emptied almost an hour ago, the whirring of the printing machines had long gone quiet. Only a few security personnel remained outside.
Just as you stood, the familiar voice of Major Iqbal came from behind the half-open cabin door.
“Y/n.”
You froze for a second before making your way towards the cabin, peeking inside his office through the half-open door.
“Ji Major Saab?” You asked.
He looked up and then beckoned you to come inside.
Suppressing a sigh, you stepped in.
“Ji?”
Without a word he slid a thick stack of files across the polished desk.
Your heart sank.
“Yeh reports aaj raat tak complete ho jani chahiye.”
You stared at the pile.
“Lekin sir… already aatt baj rahe hai…”
His gaze sharpened.
“Toh?” he leaned back in his chair “Kaam poora karke hi ghar jaiye.”
You swallowed.
“Sir… main subah sabse pehle yeh kaam kar doongi.”
A long silence followed.
“Subah mujhe meeting hai,” he removed his glasses, placing them neatly on his desk. “Aur mujhe adoora kaam pasand nahi.”
You looked helplessly at the files.
“Isme toh…kam se kam do ghante lagenge.”
His lips tugged into a faint smirk.
“Toh phir do ghante ruk jaiye.”
You clenched your jaw.
“...Ji.”
Picking up the files, you turned towards the door to go back to your desk.
There was something unreadable in his expression, not concern just simple certainty.
You lowered your gaze.
“Ji, Major Saab.”
You dropped the stack of files onto your desk with a quiet thud before sinking into your chair. With a sigh, you opened the first file, and began sorting through invoices, production reports and shipment details, neatly sectioning them into different piles. The distant footsteps of security guards echoed through the corridors. The clock continued its relentless ticking, each minute reminding you that home was getting further away.
An hour slipped by unnoticed, sticky notes covered the edge of your desk and numbers blurred together until you rubbed your tired eyes for the third time.
Major Iqbal continued his work behind the closed office door, yet his presence lingered reminding you that leaving early is not an option.
By the time you reached the final few files, the clock had ticked past 11 o'clock.
Your shoulders ached from leaning over the desk for hours, you stretched your stiff fingers before signing off another report, suppressing a yawn while reaching out for the last file. Outside the large factory windows, the compound lay wrapped in darkness. You wondered if the Major was still working or simply waiting for you to finish.
You got up from your chair with a sigh, picking up the stack of files and making your way towards his cabin.
You knocked on the door before opening it and going in.
He was relaxing in his chair with a glass of whiskey in his hand.
“Yeh lijiye,” you said, placing the stack on the desk, you picked a few files from the stack and made your way around the table, stopping beside him.
You leaned over a little, placing them in front of him and flipping them to certain pages.
As soon as you leaned over, the faint traces of your vanilla perfume and coffee filled the air around him.
“Yahan pe aapke signature chahiye.” You said.
He picked up his pen, placing signatures.
You continued showing him the reports, telling him a few things but he paid no attention to it, he turned his face towards you, you were standing close, close enough for him to be intoxicated in your scent. He watched the way your lips moved, his eyes following the curve of your jawline to your neck. He noticed the first button of your shirt was undone, giving a glimpse of the black lace bra along with your cleavage.
After a few minutes you finally noticed that he wasn't paying any heed to your words, so you tilted your face towards him to find him already looking at you.
“Major Saab?” you called quietly.
He blinked and cleared his throat, his attention snapping back to the files.
After everything was done you finally stood straight, closing the last file and putting it along with the other files.
Before you could walk away, his hand shot out, wrapping tight around your wrist.
Your eyes widened and a surprised gasp left your mouth at the sudden contact.
He pulled you towards him, you stumbled in your heels, your legs gave out and you fell onto his lap.
A shocked sound leaves your mouth and before you can even get up and apologize, his hand comes around your waist pulling you closer.
You refused to meet his eyes, your cheeks burning in embarrassment at the sudden movement.
“Yeh aap kya kar rah hai major?” You whispered.
He didn't answer, instead buried his face into your neck, breathing you in.
Your breath came out uneven, your heart racing. His beard scraped against your neck.
You let out a gasp when he placed an open mouth kiss on your jawline. His mouth moved towards your lips.
He stopped at the corner of your lips, “Mashallah, aap bohut haseen lag rahe hai…” he murmured.
He cupped your face, his hand rough against your soft, flushed skin. Your eyelids started drooping.
Then he placed his lips on yours, you froze for a second before melting into it.
The kiss was gentle initially but then his mouth started moving in hunger. He bit your lower lip making you yelp, he slipped his tongue inside your mouth, he pulled you so close to the point your breasts were pressed against his chest.
He pulled away letting you breath, his lips moved towards the exposed skin of your neck once again.
His teeth grazed your collarbone, his hands wrapped around your thighs, he stood up abruptly, your hands gripped his shoulders for support.
He placed you on the wooden desk, standing between your legs. You could feel his bulge against your inner thigh, it aroused you even further. He continued his assault on your neck, kissing and biting the sensitive spots.
Your lips parted, letting out sweet little moans that felt like honey to his ears.
His hands explored your curves before he gripped the fabric of your shirt and ripped it apart, a few buttons popped at the impact. He slid it down your shoulders and threw the now useless cloth away.
He pulled away to take a look at you, your cheeks were all flustered, your lips were red and plump, your chest heaved up and down.
He clicked his tongue, and brought both his hands to grope at your chest through the lacy bra. He gave your boobs a firm squeeze, your nipples hardened under his fingers, he pinched them through the fabric, making you moan.
You unhooked the bra letting it fall off, revealing your boobs to his lust filled eyes. He placed his hand around your bare breast and then clasped his mouth around your right nipple. Warmth engulfed around your pebbled nipple. You let out a whimper when he sucked it harder, his other hand squeezing your other boob. A cry escaped you when he bit your nipple, he sucked on it for a little while before moving to the other nipple and doing the same.
He moved down, kissing from between your breasts till he reached your trouser buttons.
He got on his knees and then looked up at you.
“Aap ne toh waqai bohut kaam kiya hai, aap ko toh inaam dena hi hoga.” He said.
He undid your belt and slipped the trousers down your legs along with your panties.
The cool air was a sharp contrast to your warm cunt.
His large hands gripped your thighs pulling you to the edge of the desk, you could feel his warm breath on your slick pussy.
He kissed your inner thighs and then placed a kiss directly on your clit.
His tongue slid up and down your slit, running firm circles on your clit.
Your breathy moans turned into whimpers, your hands gripped his hair pushing him further into your cunt.
“Major saab…” you whimpered.
His hold on you tightened when he heard you moan his name.
He bit your clit gently, sucking on it. He pinched your nipple making you scream.
He brought his fingers, running them up and down your slit before plunging them into your cunt.
You screamed at the sudden intrusion, the ring on his index finger felt ice cold.
He moved his mouth away from your clit, replacing with his thumb, rubbing circles on it while he finger fucked your tight hole.
“Major!” You screamed as he stretched you out with just his fingers.
Your eyes rolled back due to the over stimulation.
You came around his fingers as soon as he increased the pace.
He removed his fingers and brought it to your lips, you wrapped your lips around his fingers tasting yourself.
You realized then, he stood completely dressed while you were stark naked, sucking off his fingers.
“Leth jao.” He said pushing your shoulders down.
You did as he told and laid down on the table, a shiver ran down your body as your back hit the cold wooden surface.
You heard his belt buckle before he brought his cock out. Thick and pulsing.
Iqbal's fingers pressed into your hips, leaving bruises as he loomed over you.
His cock was thick and heavy, pressing against your entrance. He pushed inside you in one brutal thrust. You screamed at the burn, your pussy stretching around his girth.
He gave you a few seconds to adjust before thrusting in and out of you, pulling back only to slam inside again. He pulled your legs over his shoulder, the new angle creating more friction. Your boobs swayed at the force of his hips slamming into yours.
“Major!” You screamed as he bottomed out, he let out a quiet chuckle watching your pussy take all of him.
He pinned your hands above your head with one hand while his free hand pinched your nipple.
The cabin was filled with wet, obscene sounds as he fucked you, his cock pistoning in and out of you. He climbed over the desk, folding your legs, putting you in a mating press, the desk rocking under your combined weight.
“Oh god! Major I'm coming…I'm coming…please” he grinned wickedly, watching you plea, you came for the second time that night, your warm cum engulfing his length.
He groaned low, his hips jerked as he neared his climax. With one final thrust, he spilled his hot cum inside you. The thick fluid painting your velvety walls.
He collapsed on top of you, though mindful not to crush you under his weight. He pulled out slowly.
Your eyes fell on the wall clock, it was already past midnight.
“Bohut…derr ho gaya, Major saab.” you said, still panting.
You sat in the passenger seat as Major Iqbal drove quietly beside you.
After you got up to get dressed and go home, he gave you his overcoat to wear since he ripped your shirt apart and offered to drop you home.
You didn't deny his offer knowing it wouldn't be safe for you to go alone at this hour.
A comfortable silence settled between you.
He stopped the car in front of your house.
He turned towards you and leaned in placing a gentle kiss on your lips.
“Thank you…” you whispered.
He nodded.
You got out of the car, walking towards your house, he stayed there until you went inside.
The digital clock on your bedside table blinked 2:38 a.m.
Sleep refused to come.
You had turned over your pillow twice, switched positions and even tried reading, yet your mind kept going back to what happened a few hours ago.
With a frustrated sigh, you pulled the blanket over your face.
“Maybe this was a mistake…” you muttered to yourself.
Your phone, lying beside you, vibrated against the mattress.
Ping.
You frowned.
Who would message at this hour?
Major Iqbal.
Your heartbeat immediately quickened.
Instead of a text message there was a single file.
Video.mp4
A video?
Confused, you tapped it.
A fixed angle, high up in a corner.
Your breath caught.
It was CCTV footage from his cabin.
Your stomach dropped.
It was a recording of what had transpired between you both. The monochrome footage was clear enough to identify the woman as you.
Your thoughts spiralled instantly.
What if someone checked the recording?
What if security has already seen it?
What if…
Your phone vibrated again.
Daro mat, the footage has been officially deleted.
Every copy, every backup linked to the camera, no longer exists.
synopsis once, home was where they found each other. Now, it is where grief, silence, and unspoken words slowly turn two people who love each other into strangers.
cws miscarriage, infertility, grief, alcoholism, emotional distress, themes of depression.
[Masterlist]
The air inside the grand banquet hall felt impossible to breathe.
Every corner of the estate glittered beneath the glow of imported crystal chandeliers, their reflections dancing across polished marble floors and expensive jewelry alike. Laughter echoed through the room in carefully measured bursts, conversations flowing between politicians, businessmen, military officers, and socialites who had spent their entire lives perfecting the art of pretending.
Tonight was another one of your mother's gatherings. A celebration of status. Of influence. Of appearances. The kind of event she adored. The kind of event you had spent your entire life hating.
You stood near the edge of the courtyard doors, half-hidden behind a towering arrangement of white lilies, your fingers wrapped tightly around the embroidered edge of your saree. The fabric felt suffocating against your skin. Everything did.
Your mother was somewhere inside, probably introducing herself to someone important. Your relatives were undoubtedly gossiping. And you— You were searching for your husband. The realization alone felt strange.
Years ago, if someone had told you that you would one day enter a room and instinctively search for Major Iqbal amongst hundreds of faces, you would have laughed in their face. Back then, you couldn't stand him.
Back then, he had been nothing more than a stranger your mother had selected for you. A decorated military officer. A respected name. A prestigious rank. A perfect husband on paper. Your mother's dream. Your nightmare. You remembered the weeks leading up to your wedding with startling clarity. Every argument. Every plea. Every desperate attempt to convince your family to reconsider. None of it had mattered. For your mother, your marriage was never about your happiness. It was about securing a position. A title. Bragging rights. The daughter of a prominent family marrying Major Iqbal. People would talk about it for years. And they did. Just not in the way she expected.
Because despite the lavish decorations, despite the gold jewelry draped around your neck, despite the photographers running around trying to capture the "perfect moments," you had looked absolutely miserable. You hadn't smiled once.
Not during the ceremony.
Not during the photographs.
Not even during the departure.
Every picture captured the exact same expression.
A frown. A glare. A look of complete and utter devastation.
Months later, once the awkwardness between you and Iqbal had begun to fade, those photographs became his favorite source of entertainment.
You still remembered one particular evening. Rain had been falling softly against the windows of your bedroom while you folded laundry on the bed. Iqbal had somehow found the wedding album. A disaster. A terrible, terrible disaster. For nearly an hour, he had sat there flipping through the pages while trying—and failing—not to laugh. The more he looked, the worse it became. At one point he had laughed so hard he actually had to remove his glasses.
"Y/N."
You had immediately recognized the tone. The dangerous tone. The one that meant he was about to say something infuriating. "Nhi."
"Maine kuch kaha bhi nhi."
"Aapko kehne ki zaroorat bhi nhi."
He had grinned. Then pointed at a photograph. "Main bas aapki khubsorati appreciate kar rha tha."
You had looked. Instant regret. It was one of the close-up shots. Your expression looked less like a bride and more like someone attending a public execution.Your own. "Iqbal."
"Ji begum?"
"Iqbal."
"Boliye?"
You had lunged for the album. He had pulled it away. You had tried again. He had stood up. At six feet tall and unfairly athletic, he had simply held the album above his head while you glared at him from below.
"Khuda ki qasam," he had laughed, "logo ko lag rha hoga aapko kidnap kar rhe hai."
"Vo hi toh kara aapne."
"Nhi."
"Arrange marriage thi na."
"Toh kidnapping thode na thi."
"Aisa lag rha tha aap utha kar le ja rhe hain."
His laughter had only grown louder. The sound had filled the room.
Warm.
Unrestrained.
Happy.
A sound that had slowly become your favorite thing in the world. Eventually he had caught your wrist before you could launch another attack on the album. The teasing had faded from his expression. Softness replacing it. The same softness that always appeared when the two of you were alone. "Har tasveer mein kitni pyaari lag rhi hain aap."
You had rolled your eyes. "Jhoot."
"Main mazak nhi karta."
"Itni badsoorat lag rhi hu main en mein."
"Aap khafa lag rhi hain en mein."
"Main khafa thi."
"Ji." His thumb had brushed across your knuckles.Gentle. Familiar. Comforting. "Meri begum lag rhi ho har tasveer mein."
The very first genuine smile of that entire wedding. The same wedding where you had believed you could never love the stranger standing beside you.
You had been wrong.
Painfully wrong.
Because somewhere between shared cups of evening tea, late-night conversations, forgotten anniversaries that he somehow remembered, and quiet mornings where neither of you needed words...You had fallen hopelessly in love with your husband.
The years that followed should have been beautiful. For a while... They were. Until the first pregnancy. Until the first miscarriage.
You still remembered the silence inside the hospital room. Nobody had known what to say. Least of all you. Iqbal had simply held your hand during the drive home. The entire journey.
Not once had he let go. You had cried yourself to sleep that night. He had stayed awake beside you until dawn.
Then came the second pregnancy.
Hope returned. Briefly. Then another miscarriage. The third.
The fourth.
After a certain point, you stopped buying baby clothes. Stopped discussing names. Stopped decorating the spare bedroom. You couldn't bear to. Each tiny sweater folded neatly into cupboards felt like another reminder of someone who never came home.
The grief settled between you quietly. It wasn't loud. It didn't announce itself. It simply existed. Like an invisible wall neither of you knew how to climb. You withdrew into yourself. You stopped speaking about babies. Stopped mentioning hospitals. Stopped allowing yourself to imagine birthdays that would never arrive.
Iqbal watched. Helpless. He wanted to comfort you. He truly did. But every attempt seemed to make you cry harder. So eventually...He stopped trying. Not because he didn't care. Because he thought giving you space was what you wanted. You interpreted that silence differently. You believed he had stopped trying.
Stopped hoping.
Stopped grieving.
You couldn't have been more wrong. Every miscarriage broke him too. He simply broke quietly. Work became longer. Missions became more frequent. He returned home more exhausted than before. The nightmares began. Then came the drinking. At first it was only during military dinners. Then weekends.
Then after particularly difficult operations. Eventually... Whenever the silence inside the house became unbearable.
Alcohol dulled everything.
The memories.
The empty bedroom.
The questions neither of you asked anymore.
The look on your face whenever another friend announced her pregnancy. You never blamed those women. You smiled. You hugged them. Bought gifts. Then came home... Locked yourself inside your bedroom... And cried where no one could hear. Every newborn photograph. Every baby shower invitation. Every tiny pair of socks hanging in supermarket aisles... Felt like another reminder of everything you had lost. And tonight... Standing inside your mother's extravagant banquet... Watching your husband ask the bartender for another refill... You felt that same helplessness all over again. And somehow that had affected you more than any other thing ever could. Because by then you had realized something terrifying.
Your eyes found him instantly. Standing beside the bar. A crystal glass dangling loosely from his fingers. Another empty one already abandoned on the counter. His smile looked wrong. Too wide. Too forced. His posture remained straight, military discipline refusing to abandon him even now, but you knew him too well. You saw the glassiness in his eyes. The slight delay in his reactions. The exhaustion hidden beneath the expensive suit. And worst of all—The alcohol. Your stomach dropped. Because this wasn't home. This wasn't a private evening where you could gently take the glass from his hand and convince him to sleep. This was your mother's party.Your relatives' favorite hunting ground for gossip. One mistake. One scene. One drunken moment. And by tomorrow every single person in the city would be talking about Major Iqbal and his alcoholic tendencies. Your fingers tightened around your saree. Across the room, as if sensing your gaze, Iqbal looked up. For a brief moment, your eyes met. Something unreadable flickered across his face.
Pain.
Guilt.
Maybe recognition. Then he lifted another glass. And your heart sank. Because you knew exactly how this night was going to end. And no matter how desperately you wanted to stop it You weren't sure he would let you.
Your stomach dropped as you watched Iqbal raise another glass to his lips.
Third.
Maybe fourth.You had already lost count.
From across the hall, you could see the subtle changes nobody else would notice. The slight looseness in his posture. The way his smile lingered a little too long. The way his normally measured movements carried an unfamiliar carelessness.
To everyone else, Major Iqbal still looked composed. To you, he looked like a disaster waiting to happen. Your fingers tightened around your clutch. 'Please don't make a scene. Please. Not here. Not tonight.' As if sensing your thoughts, your mother suddenly appeared beside you. Her perfume hit you before her words did.
"Vo kya kar rha hai?" The disgust in her voice made your shoulders stiffen. You didn't answer. You couldn't. Because you already knew. You were watching it happen. "Aapni bezzati karwa raha hai vo." Your mother's eyes remained fixed on Iqbal.
"Nahi." The word came out before you could stop it.
"Nahi?" She looked at you. "Aas paas dekho, Y/N."
You didn't need to. You could already feel the stares. The whispers. The judgment. People pretending not to look while staring anyway. The kind of people who spent their lives waiting for someone important to fail. And tonight, Major Iqbal was giving them exactly what they wanted. "Main unse baat karti hoon"
Your mother scoffed. "Yeh sab karne se pehle tumhein unse baat kar leni chahiye thi."
The words struck deeper than they should have. Because she thought this was about shame. About reputation. About appearances. She didn't understand that your panic wasn't for yourself. It was for him. You knew what would happen tomorrow. People would laugh. They would gossip. They would reduce years of service and sacrifice into one drunken evening. And none of them would know the nightmares that kept him awake. None of them would know why he drank. None of them would care. Before you could move toward him, Iqbal looked up. His gaze swept across the room. Then landed on you. Immediately, his face softened. A smile appeared. The kind that once made your heart skip. The kind that now filled you with dread. Because it wasn't quite right. It was unfocused. Fragile. Broken around the edges.
"Y/N!"
His voice cut through the hall. Conversations faltered. Heads turned. Your eyes squeezed shut for a brief second. Ya Allah. When you looked again, he was already making his way toward you. Or attempting to. His shoulder clipped a passing waiter. He muttered an apology. Then nearly walked into a decorative pillar. The room had gone noticeably quieter. Every step he took felt like another blow to your chest. By the time he reached you, your heart was hammering so hard it hurt.
"Y/N." He smiled again. For a second, you saw a glimpse of the man you loved. Then the smell of alcohol hit you. Strong. Overwhelming. Painfully familiar. His arm landed heavily across your shoulders.
The weight nearly made you stumble. Instinctively, you grabbed his wrist to steady both of you. "Iqbal." Your voice came out barely above a whisper. "Ghar chalein."
"Nahi." The answer was immediate. Childishly stubborn. His forehead dropped against your shoulder. "Nahi."
A few people nearby exchanged glances. You wanted the floor to open and swallow you whole. "Iqbal, please." His fingers found yours. Holding them. Playing with them absentmindedly.
As if the two of you were alone. As if there weren't dozens of people watching. As if your mother wasn't standing three feet away. As if he wasn't drunk. A small laugh escaped him. Then another. "Janti haina..." Your stomach sank. That tone never led anywhere good. "Nafrat karti thi aap."
"Ya allah."
"Yaad aaya."
"Iqbal."
"Nafrat karti hain aap." A grin stretched across his face. "Nikah ke din aisa lag rha tha jaise maar dogi mujhe."
Several relatives were openly staring now. Your face burned. "Iqbal, enough log dekh rhe hain."
"Mara hi toh hai." He pointed at you. Completely serious. "Apne pyaar mein." Someone nearby snorted. You wanted to disappear.
"Iqbal, scene na create karo."
"Apki biwi ko apne pyaar ka izahaar karna gunha hai ab?"
"Iqbal, bas karo."
"Ji jaisa aap kahe." He nodded firmly. Then immediately lost his balance. You caught him before he could fall. His grip tightened around your arm. And suddenly the amusement vanished from his face. So quickly it made your chest ache. For a moment, he just looked at you. His expression strangely vulnerable. Almost sad. "Itne saalo baad bhi kitna pyaar karti hain humse."
The room disappeared. The noise disappeared. Everything disappeared. Because for a second, he didn't sound drunk. He sounded broken. Like a man asking a question he was terrified to know the answer to. Your throat tightened. "Iqbal..."
His eyes lowered. A faint smile returned. But it wasn't happy. It looked tired. "Ji begum." The words were soft. Too soft. Then he rested his forehead against yours. Completely oblivious to the audience. Completely unaware of the scandal he was creating. "I love you."
The silence around you felt deafening. Your eyes burned. Because years ago those words would've made you smile. Tonight they only made your heart hurt.
You loved him too. You loved him enough that watching this felt unbearable. Enough that every drunken stumble felt like watching someone slowly drown. And standing only a few feet away, your mother's expression had turned cold as stone. The look in her eyes told you this wasn't over. Not even close.
The silence surrounding the three of you was almost tangible now. Conversations had resumed throughout the hall, but not with the same ease as before. Curious glances continued to drift in your direction every few seconds, each one settling like another weight upon your shoulders.
Iqbal, however, remained blissfully unaware. His forehead still rested lightly against yours for a lingering second before something over your shoulder caught his attention. Slowly lifting his head, his gaze landed on your mother.
A bright smile spread across his face.
"Aray..." he chuckled softly, straightening himself with an effort that was far less graceful than he imagined. "Ammi jaan!"
Before you could stop him, he slipped his hand from yours and took two uneven steps toward her. Your heart sank.
"Iqbal..." you called quietly, already moving after him.
He stopped before your mother with all the sincerity of someone who had forgotten the tension in the room entirely.
"Assalamwalaikum."
Your mother looked him up and down. Not at the distinguished military officer everyone admired. Not at the man who had spent years serving his country. Only at the glassiness in his eyes. The faint flush on his cheeks. The unmistakable scent of expensive alcohol lingering around him. A smile appeared on her lips. It never reached her eyes.
"Waalaikumassalam... Major sahib."
The deliberate formality wasn't lost on you. Iqbal, unfortunately, laughed as though she'd welcomed him warmly.
"Bohot khoobsurat intezam kiya hai aap ne."
"Hm."
Her gaze flickered toward the half-empty crystal glass still dangling loosely between his fingers.
"Lagta hai aap ne bhi intezam ka poora faida uthaya."
The words were polite enough that anyone overhearing would think nothing of them. You heard the insult beneath them immediately.
Iqbal simply smiled. "Aaj kaafi purane dost mil gaye."
"Haan," she replied smoothly. "Dost toh mil hi jaate hain... kabhi kabhi insaan khud ko kho deta hai."
Your stomach tightened. "Iqbal," you interrupted gently, reaching for his wrist. "Chalein? Bohot der ho gayi hai."
He looked at you with genuine confusion. "Abhi?"
"Haan."
"Nahi..." he smiled lazily. "Abhi toh mehfil shuru hui hai."
He turned back toward your mother. "Soch raha tha... agar ijazat ho toh aaj raat yahin ruk jaate hain. Subah uth kar thodi madad bhi ho jayegi."
Your mother let out a soft laugh. It wasn't kind. "Madad?" She folded her hands neatly in front of herself. "Major sahib... meri mehfil ki fikr chhodiye." Her eyes lingered meaningfully on the glass in his hand. "Pehle apni fikr kar lijiye."
You felt your cheeks burn. Iqbal merely smiled sheepishly, assuming she was teasing him. "Haan... woh bhi theek hai."
Then your mother looked at you. "Waise bhi..." she continued casually, "tumhara kamra toh kaafi arsa pehle kisi aur ko de diya tha."
For a heartbeat, you couldn't breathe.
"Itni badi haveli hai," she went on. "naukaro ke quarters khaali hain. Agar tum dono rukna chaho... toh aaj ki raat wahan guzar sakte ho."
The words landed with frightening precision.
Not loud.
Not angry.
Simply...dismissive. As though you were no longer a daughter returning home. As though your husband was no longer worthy of crossing the threshold.
Iqbal only blinked. Still smiling faintly. He hadn't understood. But you had.
Every single word.
Something inside your chest seemed to fold in on itself. You lowered your gaze before anyone could see the tears gathering there.
"Meharbani," you said quietly, your voice remarkably steady despite the ache in your throat. "Humein ab chalna chahiye."
Your mother didn't stop you. She simply inclined her head once and turned back toward her guests. Just like that. As though the conversation had never happened.
You reached for Iqbal's hand again. This time, your grip was firmer. "Chalein."
He frowned slightly. "Itni jaldi?"
"Haan."
"Lekin—"
"Please." Something in your voice must have reached him. He studied your face for a long moment before giving a small nod.
"Theek hai, begum."
The driver had already brought the car around to the entrance by the time the two of you stepped outside. The cool night air hit your face immediately. It should have felt refreshing.
Instead, it only made the smell of alcohol clinging to Iqbal's clothes more noticeable. He leaned on you more heavily as you guided him toward the back seat.
"Aram se, sahib," the driver said respectfully, opening the door.
Iqbal smiled absentmindedly before sliding inside. You followed. The door closed. The city lights blurred past the windows as the car pulled away from the estate. For several minutes... Neither of you spoke. The silence was broken only by the low hum of the engine. Sitting this close, the scent of the old single malt on his breath mingled with the faint smell of his hair oil. Beneath it all was the familiar scent that had always reminded you of him.
It should have been comforting.
Tonight...It wasn't. You noticed the fine sheen of perspiration along his temple despite the cool evening. His tie had loosened slightly. The top button of his shirt had come undone somewhere during the evening. He looked...tired. So impossibly tired. Without opening his eyes, he shifted closer until his shoulder rested lightly against yours. His fingers searched lazily across the seat before finding your hand. They curled around it instinctively. As though they'd done it a thousand times before.
"Begum..." he murmured.
Your chest tightened. You stared down at his hand around yours. So warm. So familiar. The same hand that had held yours through hospital corridors. The same hand that had squeezed yours during sleepless nights.
The same hand that now seemed to reach for you only when alcohol silenced whatever walls he had built around himself.
A tear rolled silently down your cheek. Then another. You carefully slipped your hand free.
Not harshly.
Not angrily.
Just...gently.
He frowned in his sleep but didn't wake. Your composure shattered.
"Ek dafa..." you whispered, your voice breaking. "Sirf ek dafa... mere liye mazboot ban jaiye."
He didn't answer. His breathing had already evened out. He had fallen asleep. You covered your mouth with trembling fingers to muffle the sob that escaped. Outside, the city continued as though nothing had happened. Inside the car... It felt as though your heart had broken all over again.
By the time you reached home, the house was silent. You helped him inside, guided him carefully to your room, removed his shoes, loosened his tie, and pulled a blanket over him.
He barely stirred. Within minutes, he was asleep. You weren't. The night stretched endlessly before you. You sat beside the window long after midnight, a book lying forgotten in your lap. You hadn't turned a single page. Your thoughts refused to leave the same place. Maybe... he had finally grown tired. Maybe every miscarriage had taken something from him too. Maybe every time he looked at you... he saw another child who never came home.
You wrapped your arms around yourself. The thought settled deep inside your chest. Maybe he's only staying because he feels responsible.
'Maybe I've become another burden he quietly carries.'
You didn't know that, at almost the same moment, the sleeping man behind you murmured your name softly in his dreams. You never heard it. Dawn arrived without you having slept at all. And when morning finally came... Everything returned to the routine that had slowly become the shape of your marriage.
You prepared breakfast before sunrise.
Tea.
Paratha.
Eggs.
The lunchbox he carried to work every day.
You moved through the kitchen with practiced efficiency, completing each task almost mechanically. Iqbal entered the dining room dressed immaculately for work. Freshly bathe. Uniform perfectly pressed.
Nothing remained of the man who had stumbled through your mother's banquet hall the previous evening except the exhaustion hidden behind his eyes. He paused when he saw breakfast already waiting. He sat. You served him quietly.
Neither of you mentioned the party. Neither of you mentioned your mother. Neither of you mentioned the tears. The silence between you had become fluent. He finished eating. Collected his briefcase.
"Main chalta hoon."
You answered softly. "Allah hafiz."
"Allah hafiz."
The front door closed.
And the house fell silent once more. Day after day, the pattern repeated itself. He left before the city had fully awakened.
You spent your mornings tending to the house, reading when the chores were done, trying desperately to lose yourself in words that never held your attention for long.
By evening, he returned home exhausted. He greeted his father. Answered Jahangir's questions about work. Listened politely. Spoke very little. Before dinner, he disappeared briefly into his study.
Inside, mission files waited in neat stacks across the desk.
A crystal tumbler.
An old bottle of single malt, opened so many times it had become part of the room itself. And tucked quietly into one corner of the desk... your wedding photograph.
He rarely looked directly at it anymore. He didn't have to. Every line of your face was already etched into his memory. He poured himself one measured drink. Not to celebrate. Not to forget you.
But because, for a little while, it softened the weight he carried—the faces of soldiers he'd lost, the pressure of command, the hospital rooms he wished he could erase from both your memories, and the helplessness of watching the woman he loved grieve in a way he could never fix.
He had convinced himself that giving you space was mercy. You had convinced yourself that his silence meant disappointment. Neither of you knew how wrong you were. And so the days continued. Not with arguments. Not with hatred.
But with an unbearable quiet that slowly settled into every room of the house, leaving two people who loved each other deeply wondering, in silence, whether the other had already begun to let go.
Looking back now, there had never been a single moment where you could point to Major Iqbal and say, that was where everything began to fall apart.
Because in the beginning, it hadn't. The beginning had been gentle. Unexpectedly gentle.
Your marriage had started as nothing more than an arrangement orchestrated by two families, but somewhere between shared meals, sleepy conversations after long days, forgotten cups of tea growing cold on the bedside table and quiet evenings spent reading beside one another, the unfamiliarity had dissolved into companionship.
Into friendship.
Into love.
You had found yourself waiting for the sound of his footsteps outside the front door every evening. He had found himself lingering at the dining table long after dinner simply because you were still sitting there.
For a man who had spent most of his life surrounded by soldiers, discipline and duty, coming home had slowly begun to mean coming home to you. And for the first time in years, perhaps ever, he had someone waiting for him. Someone who asked how his day had been. Someone who noticed when he skipped meals. Someone who quietly ironed his uniforms without ever being asked. Someone who remembered exactly how he took his tea. Likewise, you had found in him something you had never expected.
Safety.
He never raised his voice at you. Never belittled you. Never mocked your opinions. He listened. Even when he disagreed. Even when he was exhausted. He listened.
Looking back, you would later wonder whether that had been what made losing each other so unbearable. Because there had never been a lack of love.
Only a lack of words.
His mother adored you. Not because you had married her son. But because, somewhere along the way, she had begun to love you as though you had always belonged there.
When your first pregnancy ended in miscarriage, she never once allowed anyone to utter the careless phrases society reserved for grieving women.
"Allah ki marzi thi."
"Abhi toh umar hi kya hai."
"Dobara ho jayega."
She silenced every one of them. Instead, she tucked the blanket around your shoulders herself. She warmed oil between her palms before gently massaging your scalp. She braided your hair when you didn't have the strength to lift your own arms. She sat beside your bed for hours, telling you stories from her own childhood simply so the silence wouldn't swallow you whole.
Whenever Iqbal left for work, she took his place beside you. Sometimes neither of you spoke. Sometimes she simply held your hand. Never once did she make you feel as though you had failed anyone.
Not as a wife.
Not as a woman.
Not as a daughter.
"Meri beti..." she would whisper whenever tears escaped you again. "Allah ne tumse kuch nahi cheena. Bas waqt abhi tumhare haq mein likha nahi gaya."
You had believed her. Because she had said it with the kind of certainty only mothers possessed. Then, barely months later...
She was gone.
It happened so suddenly that the house never truly understood what had changed. Visitors arrived. Neighbours recited prayers. Relatives filled every room with condolences that sounded rehearsed. People came.
People left.
Life continued.
For everyone except Iqbal. You had never seen grief settle so quietly inside a person. He accepted every condolence with the same polite nod. Offered everyone tea. Thanked them for coming. And the moment another guest entered the drawing room... He disappeared. Sometimes into the courtyard. Sometimes onto the veranda. Sometimes into his study. Anywhere people couldn't see him. He spoke less. Smiled less. Laughed...Not at all.
It frightened you. Not because he was angry. But because he wasn't. He had simply... retreated somewhere you couldn't follow.
The first evening you found him standing alone in the study, a crystal tumbler rested in one hand. An unopened bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch sat on the desk.
You frowned. "Iqbal?"
He looked over his shoulder. His expression barely changed. "Ji?"
Before he could pour the amber liquid into the glass, you reached forward and gently wrapped your fingers around the bottle. He didn't resist. He simply looked at your hand. Then at you.
"Kya kar rahi hain aap?"
You swallowed. "Yeh sawaal toh mujhe aapse poochna chahiye."
"Bas ek peg hai."
"Nahi." Your voice remained soft. "Bas ek peg nahi hai."
Silence stretched between you. You slid the bottle farther across the desk. "Mujhe pata hai aap takleef mein hain."
"Main theek hoon."
"Mere saamne mazboot banne ki zaroorat nahi hai."
"Main natak nahi kar raha."
"Kar rahe hain." He looked away. You stepped closer. "Yeh mat sochiye ke mujhe kuch nazar nahi aa raha."
He sighed quietly. "Baat karne ko kuch nahi hai."
"Hai."
"Nahi."
"Hai."
"Maine kaha na... kuch nahi hai."
Your eyes stung. "Mujhe Ammi ke chale jaane ka dukh hai..." His brows knitted together. "Lekin usse bhi zyada dukh is baat ka hai..." Your voice cracked. "...ke aap yeh sab akele seh rahe hain." He didn't answer. "Aap mujhe apne saath khada hone bhi nahi de rahe."
Still nothing.
You reached for his hand.
Cold.
Motionless.
"Iqbal...Please...Mujhse baat kijiye."
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, almost inaudibly...
"Jab main chhota tha..." His voice was strangely distant. "Mujhe lagta tha Abbu bohot ache aadmi hain." You stayed silent. "Mujhe lagta tha Dadi bas sakht mizaj hain." Another pause. "Mujhe samajh hi nahi aata tha ke Ammi un dono ke saamne itni khamosh kyun ho jaati thi." A humourless smile crossed his face. "Main bachcha tha."
"Mujhe lagta tha har ghar aisa hi hota hai." His jaw tightened. "Phir jaise jaise bada hua...samajh aaya ke Ammi ko kabhi is ghar ka hissa samjha hi nahi gaya. Bas bardaasht kiya gaya. Logon ke saamne unki izzat ki jaati thi. Mehmaan aate toh Abbu misaali shohar ban jaate. Dadi misaali saas. Aur jaise hi sab chale jaate... Taane phir se shuru ho jaate."
He stared at the untouched glass. "Mujhe us sab se nafrat thi. Unhein har baat par maafi maangte dekh kar nafrat hoti thi. Unhein muskurane ki koshish karte dekh kar nafrat hoti thi. Sabse zyada nafrat is baat se thi ke main kuch kar nahi sakta tha."
His fingers curled around yours.
Barely.
"Maine bachpan mein hi ek baat ka vaada kar liya tha......agar kabhi meri shaadi hui...toh meri biwi ko kabhi yeh ehsaas nahi hone dunga ke woh is ghar mein parayi hai."
Your throat tightened. He looked at you then. Eyes red. Not from drink. From grief.
"Hamari shaadi ke baad...Bohot saalon baad...Ammi ko maine waqai khush dekha tha." A faint smile appeared. "Pata hai kyun?"
You shook your head.
"Aap ki wajah se." He smiled sadly. "Ajeeb baat hai na...Aap dono ek doosre ke itne kareeb itni jaldi aa gaye."
He remembered the afternoons he'd return home to find the two of you sitting in the courtyard, shelling peas together. Or laughing over some old family recipe. Or arguing over how much cardamom belonged in kheer.
"Aap dono ne is ghar ko ghar bana diya tha." His smile disappeared. "Aur ab...Yeh ghar bohot khaali lagta hai."
Silence settled again. Then, almost absentmindedly, he murmured,
"Woh apne pote ya poti ko dekhe baghair hi chali gayin."
The words slipped out without thought. Not as blame. Not as expectation. Simply another grief. You lowered your eyes. The wound was still fresh then.
One miscarriage.
One impossible loss.
The sentence hurt...But not enough for either of you to realise how deeply it would echo years later, after hope had been broken again and again.
You stepped closer until there was almost no space left between you. Without saying another word, you wrapped your arms around him. For the first few seconds... He remained stiff. Almost unsure of what to do. Then, slowly... Very slowly... He rested his forehead against yours. His shoulders sagged. The weight he'd been carrying finally visible. He never cried. Not once.
But for the first time since his mother's passing... He allowed himself to lean on someone else. And that night... The untouched glass of whisky remained exactly where you had left it.
Grief did not leave Major Iqbal overnight. It lingered. In quieter evenings. In empty chairs at the dining table.
In the instinctive urge to call out for his mother before remembering there would never be an answer. The weeks that followed were slow. Painfully slow. It took him time to find his way back to himself. To laugh again. To lose himself in work instead of memories. To return to the version of the man you had married. He never truly stopped grieving. He simply learned how to carry it.
And through it all, the two of you found yourselves growing closer. Hardship had a peculiar way of doing that. The late-night conversations became longer. The silences became more comfortable. A single glance was often enough for the other to understand.
Some wounds remained unanswered, but they no longer felt impossible to bear when you were bearing them together. Yet grief rarely leaves without taking something with it. For Iqbal, it left behind a habit. At first, it was harmless. Or at least that was what he told himself. One glass of whisky after particularly exhausting days. Sometimes none for an entire week. Sometimes two evenings in a row. Never enough to cloud his judgment. Never enough to interfere with work. It was simply... there.
A quiet ritual at the end of difficult days. A crystal tumbler. A measure of old single malt. Ten minutes of silence before returning to the rest of the evening.
You noticed it, of course. But you never thought much of it. He remained the same man. Still attentive. Still patient. Still reaching for your hand whenever the two of you walked together. Still asking whether you had eaten. Still reminding you to carry a shawl whenever the evenings turned cold. So you told yourself it was nothing more than another way of grieving.
Another wound that time would eventually heal. Neither of you knew then... that grief has a way of changing shape. Sometimes it disappears. Sometimes it simply waits for another reason to return.
The second loss did not break either of you. Not immediately. It simply left another crack in a foundation that had once felt indestructible. By then, condolences had become routine. Prayers had become familiar. The silence that followed every hospital visit had become something neither of you questioned anymore. But the world around you never stopped talking. Jahangir did. Not directly. Never directly. He never looked at either of you and spoke the words aloud.
Instead, he would mutter them under his breath to relatives, old acquaintances, or trusted servants, never caring whether those words found their way back to your ears.
"Pata nahin aaj kal ke mardon ko kya ho gaya hai."
"Mera beta bhi..." He would shake his head before letting the sentence trail away. "Khair... Allah behtar jaanta hai."
Or sometimes—
"Ghar ka chiragh hi na jal sake to daulat ka kya faida?"
Every unfinished sentence carried a meaning louder than the words themselves. The servants heard. The relatives heard. Eventually... So did you. And so did Iqbal. He never confronted his father. Not because he agreed. But because experience had taught him that Jahangir's pride only grew louder when challenged. Instead, he quietly ensured you were never left alone during family gatherings.
His hand would find yours beneath the dining table. His chair would always be beside yours. He answered every intrusive question before anyone could direct it at you. Small things. Things no one else noticed. But they never erased the sting of words already spoken.
The losses continued.
Third.
Fourth.
Each one taking something invisible with it. Hope. Ease. The effortless joy that had once filled your home. Somewhere along the way, both of you stopped speaking about the future. Neither of you dared to decorate it anymore. Even the dreams you once whispered to each other before sleeping became fewer, quieter... Until one day, they disappeared altogether. You still loved each other. Perhaps more than ever.
But grief had a cruel way of standing between two people who wanted nothing more than to hold each other.
By the fifth miscarriage... You no longer recognised yourself. The woman who laughed too loudly at Iqbal's terrible jokes. The woman who insisted on watering every plant herself. The woman who filled every room with conversation... Had quietly disappeared.
You spent more time alone.
Sometimes reading the same page for nearly an hour without understanding a single word.
Sometimes sitting beside the bedroom window, watching the evening settle over the garden without truly seeing it.
Iqbal tried. God knew he tried. He sat beside you. He brought you tea. Asked if you wished to go somewhere. Suggested short walks in the evenings. Sometimes he simply reached for your hand. More often than not...
You gently pulled away. Not because you didn't love him. But because every kind gesture reminded you of what you believed you had failed to give him. And every time you withdrew... Iqbal convinced himself you simply needed more space to grieve.
So he stepped back.
Not knowing that every step away only convinced you he had stopped wanting to be close to you.
One afternoon, while Iqbal was still at work, a hesitant knock echoed through your bedroom. You looked up. One of the younger housemaids stood nervously at the doorway.
"...Begum sahiba?"
You offered a tired smile. "Ji?"
She twisted the edge of her dupatta between her fingers. "Ijazat ho to... ek baat arz karni thi."
You nodded. "Boliye."
She lowered her gaze. "Main... pet se hoon."
For a brief second...You forgot how to breathe. The girl hurried to explain.
"Maine socha tha ke shayad kuch arse ke liye kaam halka kar diya jaye... ya agar mumkin ho to..." She looked almost guilty. "...thodi si tankhwa barha di jaye."
She wasn't cruel. She hadn't meant to hurt you. If anything... She looked ashamed for bringing it up. You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced yourself to smile.
"Bas itni si baat?" She looked up uncertainly. You folded your trembling hands together. "Aaj se... jab tak bachcha paida nahin ho jata... tum ghar par aaram karo."
Her eyes widened. "Lekin Begum sahiba—"
"Tumhari poori tankhwa milti rahegi."
She stared at you. "Sach?"
You nodded. "Bachche ki fikr karo. Ghar ki nahin."
The young woman nearly burst into tears. "Dua dein gi aap ko..."
You only smiled. "Jao."
She thanked you over and over before quietly leaving the room. The door clicked shut. And the smile vanished.
Another child.
Another woman.
Another family waiting for a new life.
Your friends from university had children now. Your younger sister carried her first baby. Even your mother's old dog had recently given birth to a litter of puppies. Everywhere you looked...Life continued. Life grew. Life blossomed. Everywhere... Except within you. The thought broke something inside you.
Almost without realising where your feet had carried you...You found yourself standing outside the nursery. The room had remained locked for months. No servant entered. No dusting. No cleaning. No one dared. Your fingers trembled as you unlocked the door.
A stale silence greeted you. You stepped inside barefoot. A thin layer of dust clung to the soles of your feet. The curtains remained exactly where you had left them. The tiny cradle stood beside the window. Soft toys waited patiently on the shelves. Tiny clothes still folded inside the wardrobe. As though someone would come looking for them tomorrow. Your chest tightened painfully. With shaking hands, you opened the wardrobe. One by one... You lifted the impossibly small clothes into your arms.
Then another.
And another.
Until they slipped through your trembling fingers, falling into a growing pile across the floor. Your breathing became uneven.
"Main nahi..." You whispered to no one. "main nahi kar sakti ye sab..."
You reached for another box. Your elbow struck the bedside lamp. It crashed against the wooden floor. The sharp sound of shattering glass echoed through the silent house.
You flinched. Then finally... You broke. A sob tore from your chest. Another followed. And another. The front door had barely closed downstairs when Iqbal heard the noise. Glass. Breaking. He abandoned his briefcase without a second thought.
"Y/n!"
His footsteps thundered up the staircase. He reached the nursery and froze. The room looked untouched by time... Except for you.
Standing barefoot among broken glass, scattered baby clothes and dust, shaking so violently it looked as though you might collapse. His face drained of colour. He crossed the room in seconds.
"Y/n." His voice was gentle. Alarmed. "Kya hua? Kahin chot to nahin lagi?"
You didn't answer. Only cried harder. He looked quickly over you, searching for blood.
"Y/n." He knelt in front of you. "Meri taraf dekho."
Nothing.
Your shoulders shook uncontrollably. His own voice began to tremble.
"Y/n... meri baat sunno."
Slowly... Your tear-filled eyes lifted to meet his. He spoke carefully. Every word chosen with love. Not judgement.
"Mujhe nahi lagta... aapko ye sab akele jhelna chahiye."
A pause.
"Mujhe lagta hai... humein kisi professional se baat karni chahiye."
Another pause.
"Kisi therapist se."
Your expression changed instantly. "...Kya?"
"Main tumhe khona nahi chahata. Sochiye—"
"Aapko main pagal lagti hoon?"
His heart stopped. "Nahin—"
"Aapko lagta hai mujhe dimagi bimari hai?"
"Y/b, meri baat sunno—"
"Aap mere bare mein ye sabh sochte hain?"
"nahi." He took another careful step. "Bilkul nahin."
Tears streamed uncontrollably down your face. "Sab ko lagta hai mujh mein hi kami hai."
"Y/n..."
"Main hi buri hoon."
"Nahin."
"Main hi kisi kaam ki nahin."
He reached for your hands. You tried to pull away. He didn't let go. Not forcefully. Just firmly enough to keep you from retreating even further into yourself.
"Bas." His own voice cracked. "Bas... meri taraf dekho." You finally looked at him. His eyes glistened too. "Maine kabhi nahi kaha tumhare ander koi kami hai. Main bas ye kaha... ki aap dard mein hain. Aur main nahi janta es dard ko kam kaise karun."
His forehead rested against yours. "Dar lagta hai mujhe. Boht zyada."
You began crying even harder. Without another word... He wrapped both arms around you. This time... You didn't resist.
The two of you slowly sank to the dusty wooden floor, surrounded by tiny clothes that had never been worn, broken glass that neither of you cared to clean, and dreams that neither of you yet knew how to mourn.
His freshly pressed uniform gathered dust. He never noticed. The only thing he held onto...Was you.
That night, after everything had fallen apart inside the nursery, sleep found the two of you long after exhaustion did.
Neither of you remembered when your eyes had finally closed. You only remembered waking once in the middle of the night, your cheek resting against his shoulder. His arm was still around you. It had been the safest you had felt in months. For that one night... His words had managed to quiet the storm inside your mind. Not completely. But enough for you to believe—if only for a few hours—that perhaps the two of you would find your way back to each other.
Morning arrived anyway. As it always did. The sunlight slipped quietly through the curtains, painting soft streaks across the bedroom floor. You opened your eyes first. For a brief moment... Nothing felt different. Then the memories returned. The nursery. The tiny clothes scattered across the floor. The broken lamp. His arms around you. The tears you hadn't realised he had been holding back himself.
You turned your head slightly. Iqbal was still asleep. Peaceful. The faint crease between his brows hadn't disappeared even in sleep. Your fingers almost reached for his hand. Almost. Instead... You quietly slipped out of bed.
Downstairs, everything unfolded exactly as it always had. The pressure cooker whistled. Tea was prepared. Breakfast was laid out. The servants moved through the house in practiced silence.
When Iqbal entered the dining room, already dressed for work, your eyes met for only a second. Just long enough for both of you to remember the previous night. He almost said something. You almost smiled. Neither happened.
"Chai thandi ho jayegi." It was the only thing you managed.
He nodded quietly. "Shukriya."
Nothing more. Nothing less. And somehow... That hurt more than either of you expected. It wasn't awkward. Awkwardness implied unfamiliarity between strangers. This was something else entirely. The two of you had shared countless silences before. Comfortable ones. Sleepy ones. The kind that needed no words because love spoke loudly enough on its own. This silence...Carried too many words. Every sentence either of you wanted to say became trapped behind the fear of saying the wrong thing.
There had once been mornings when you would wake tangled together beneath the blankets. Half asleep, you would bury your face against his shoulder while he laughed softly before pressing a kiss against your forehead.
Sometimes he would refuse to leave the bed until you smiled.
Sometimes he would disappear downstairs only to return with a cup of tea balanced carefully in one hand.
Those mornings belonged to another lifetime. Now... You woke before him. Or sometimes... You never slept at all. Hope had become frightening. Once, it had been the thing that carried you forward. Now it felt dangerous.
Every hopeful thought reminded you of hospital corridors. Of tiny heartbeats that never stayed long enough. Of empty nurseries. Of folded baby clothes waiting for someone who would never wear them. You couldn't bear another beginning if it meant surviving another ending. So you stopped allowing yourself to hope. Without realising it... You had begun surviving one day at a time. Nothing more. Sleep abandoned you most nights.
You would lie awake until dawn, staring into the darkness while your thoughts circled the same questions over and over again.
By the time exhaustion finally claimed you, the sun had already climbed high into the sky. Sometimes you slept through the afternoon. Sometimes until the orange glow of sunset filled the bedroom. The curtains remained drawn. The room remained dim. Some evenings you didn't even notice how much time had passed until the grandfather clock downstairs struck six.
Only then would you force yourself out of bed. Wash your face. Tie your hair back. Walk downstairs. If you had enough strength, you cooked dinner yourself. If you didn't... The servants quietly prepared the meal instead, never asking questions they already knew the answers to.
Iqbal noticed everything. The untouched breakfasts. The sleepless nights. The books lying open to the same page for days. The curtains that remained closed. The smile that visited your face less and less.
He wanted to help. God knew he wanted to. But every attempt seemed to push you a little further away. So he convinced himself... Perhaps she still needs time. Perhaps tomorrow will be easier. Perhaps if I stop reminding her of what we've lost... She'll begin to heal.
Tomorrow became next week.
Next week became months.
Work no longer distracted him the way it once had. Mission reports blurred together. Meetings became longer. He volunteered for assignments he would once have delegated. Anything that delayed going home to a house filled with memories he no longer knew how to face.
And when even work failed... He returned to the only habit that had ever managed to quiet his thoughts. The bottle locked away inside his study. One measured glass.
Then another.
Never enough to forget you.
Only enough...
To stop his own mind from replaying every hospital room, every tear, every apology you had whispered for something that had never been your fault.
Even then... Every evening ended the same way. He would leave the study. Walk past the wedding photograph resting silently on his desk.
And think only of you.
Always you.
No matter how much silence had settled between the two of you, there had never been room in his heart for anyone else.
In the end, it wasn't grief that separated you two. It was everything you both mistook for the truth... and everything you, and Iqbal were too afraid to ask.
a/n- based on request, hope you all would like it, interact cutu ded by writing this incoherent af
Trigger Warning- 18+,dom!Iqbal sub!reader ,rough sex, age gap, spanking ,some fluff, breeding kink once again ,very dub con i dont know how that happened lol,gun play, NOT PROOF READ!
Note- I of course dont support terrorism in any form this is only and only for the character potrayed by Arjun Rampal
Word count - 6.9k
The canopy of the bed fell way high above your head, the netted curtain fell like a shower and above all the overwhelming smell of roses and jasmine that flooded your head, they were bunched together carefully hanging from the over head in stripes covering the whole span of the bed, your heart has beaten uncomfortably in your chest, the queasy feeling that brewed in your stomach, you were a dutiful daughter did everything your father had asked you to all your life to keep his name and reputation clean , safe, protected, caged but you allowed it for your dearest abbu and what did you get in return? To get married off to a man almost 15 years older than you.
Iqbal was the last man you thought you would have married maybe even one of your cousins would have been a reasonable match, or the burger bacche of your college but no he decided on the broody quiet grump who you have seen twice in your home living room smoking away a cigar and now you were supposed to be his good little wife. You were angry at yourself, that you found yourself bending to your family's ,your father's decision for such an important thing in your life.
Iqbal stood like a stone beside you throughout the whole thing, you couldn't even tell if he was even looking at your zoning out or.. Well there was this other times where you felt like he was eye fucking you which wouldn't make sense for the dignified disciplined man he was. Other than that he remained quiet , so quiet that you were utterly nervous about a thing you had been so sure about and trained for your whole life , for being a wife.
Iqbal found himself walking into a place that has always been his before tonight, the room held its breath at him entering slow, yours eyes flickered close to dampen out the reality of the situation,he didn't say anything not a word just closed the door behind him with a click that ringed like a death sentence. You wanted to keep your eyes shut forever but then it grew slowly, the curiosity to understand the man you had been handed over too, with each rustle of his fine sherwani as he moved, the sound of metal meeting wood as he took off his watch and his breathing that only grew deeper with each passing second.
You peeked only to find him already looking at you through the mirror, you were caught. You instantly lowered your gaze, cheeks burning at the intensity of his gaze but tried to procure some normalcy by pulling the kadhai of your anarkali, the door wasn't closed it was locked, the bed decorated with rose petals for your sweet sacrifice. He stalked over to the bed, settling right beside your shoulder brushed against yours. You couldn't think, you didn't expect this immediate closeness at all. You had prepared yourself for the sweet talk of holding hands, not this immediate possession.
“ Y/N” he breathed over your neck and you felt physically destroyed into pieces, his voice was so deep and said with an effortless tone that flowed calmly but the command was clear each time. “ Ji?” “Khush ho?” He asked not really expecting an answer, sliding his coarse hand down till they got a hold of yours, what was supposed to be romantic,soft looked clinical as he searched through your hand tracing each design under his thumb. There was a twinge in your heart for how mechanical it all felt if this is what the rest of your life was supposed to be spent? To be with a man like your father who wouldn't find the time to understand if you would actually live your life in the shell of what you could have been.
Iqbal's beard tickled at your skin stopping your trail of thought, you didn't notice him lean into your palm inhaling at the rose milk scent with all his passion, “ Mashallah” Another tremor ran down your back in another unexplainable sensation that threatened to take over the hurt. “ Apni marzi se shaadi ki hai aapne?” he looked up, the deep brown void of his eyes swallowing you,you paused for a fraction - it was by all means done with your willing but that tad bit of you had to kill itself to mould into your father's demands. “ Ji, apne mann se kari hai” You mumbled pulling down the crimson veil off your head at your shoulder.
“ Mann se kari hai, par kya dil se kari hai?”
“ Aapne kari hai dil se?” you shot back, surprising yourself but his presence had been too dizzying keeping you befuddled. You expected anger at the audacity but he chuckled, his eyes crinkling with pure admiration. He huffed pulling the loosely draped cloth down your shoulder more to see your silhouette without the obstruction of the dupatta.
“ Aapko kya lagta hai rishta aapke abbu ne chuna hai? Maine hi aapko dekha tha do baar mujhe door se dekhte hue aap pasand aagyi toh maine nikaah ke liye puch liya par lagta hai aap is faisle se itna khush nahi hai”
You lowered your gaze, cheeks flushing into oblivion you didn't know that the man lounging with your father had eyes for you all along , “ Nahi …hum kush hai” You whispered, twisting the ring at your finger.
“Mujhe aisi khoobsurat biwi ki naemat mili hai aur aap mujhse poochh rahe hain ki kya main ne apni dili khushi se is shadi par razamandi di thi? Hum bhi bahut kush hai”
You smiled before you knew it, chest heaving with excited breaths waiting for him to close the distance, he lips brushed against your like a soft breeze, the smell of the coffee he had mixed with the natural masculine scent of him, the silk of his clothes all of it flooding your head, you let yourself get pushed in the mattress ready to give yourself to him.
Iqbal did not hurt you not for a second, gently guiding you through everything with a patience that betrayed the hunger that simmered inside him, he had seen you twice peeking out from behind the wall in your simple kurta and an emotion that had not stirred in him throughout his whole life bleaking to his heart, avoiding his father taunts about marriage to devote himself to work he found himself wanting to be married. When you cried out when he entered you, he felt his heart break in two but insanely harder at the sight of your tears, so he held himself and the monster inside him back leaning down to press kisses to your temple till you have adjusted to his thickness.
The first month of your marriage passed in marital bless, Iqbal was so much more than you expected him to be and he clearly wasn't a grump but a lovesick man who wouldn't get enough of you, calmly waiting for you to talk more than what would be considered informal. That was his one complain from you, you never talked to him more than necessary not because you were shy because you thought it wasn't dutiful, proper to talk so much in front of him even shameless to torture him with the blabber of your whole day.
You wiped the sweat beading at your forehead, your hair tied up in a messy bun that was half undone from behind. Your dupatta tied at the side, your blush pink kurta sticking to your skin through that wetness, flour patted onto your cheek working in the sweltering heat in the kitchen, the smell of korma filling the kitchen as you worked to knead the dough. It's not like he did not keep the house help but you just liked cooking for him, you didn't hear the muffled footsteps as he strode to you over the sound of your own irritated hiss and the consistency got too slimy. Iqbal swept you off your feet, you gasped before giggling at the familiar sensation of his hands wrapping around your waist, he twirled you once before settling on the cold marble counter.
“Kitni pyaari lag rahi hai aap” He murmured appreciatively, his hands tugging your neckline up possessively before trying to kiss your sweat slick cheek,
“ Choro na Iqbal, kya kar rahe hai aap? Koi dekh lega”
“Toh kya hua, begum hai aap hamari”
You hit at his chest trying to hold back the wild smile that was painting your face at this proximity.
“ Aapne toh kitchen ko hi apna ghar bana diya hai kabhi humare saath bhi baith liya karo”
His hand moved quickly keeping both your palms flat and pinned at your sides, it was supposed to be sweet but it felt scarily exciting to know that even his effortless grip could hold you down easily, you swallowed watching him inch closer till his lips met your again in a soft and slow rhythm. You half chuckled turning your head away mid movement, for a second there Iqbal frowned a deep and ugly one for not getting what’s his but he trains them back into neutral.
You noticed it, without much words you have learned to communicated by observing people and though how much you admired and felt loved in his presence there was something off about him, about the parts that he kept to himself and that was also part why you hesitated to talk to him because the ugly truth about a traditional marriage was that despite being well educated you had no autonomy and all the power for your happiness laid in his hand, it was for him to decide what he wanted to be to you the man now or the quiet statue you saw at your wedding, so you avoided questioning it.
You don't know if he felt the shift, but he moved, reaching into the front pocket of his shirt pulling out dainty silver anklets,
“ Yeh kya hai?”
“ Aap toh humse baat nahi karti socha yahi kar lenge”
he nodded at the anklet, flicking them soft, hearing the mellow chime hum through the kitchen. He sat down on his knees clasping them in place, “ Iqbal please aise accha todhi lagta hai” embarrassed at a man so much older than you kneeling to you, you tried to pull back your feet “ Nakhre bahut karti hai aap” You gave up into his hand because what else could you have done.
Iqbal has been occupied with work lately, the time of his arrival increasing with each passing night and with the same brooding expression he would walk through the door and sigh ever so softly when he saw you wide awake and waiting for him, it was the same as any other day only this time his shoulders fell heavier, his eyes darker and the sigh deeper almost a snarl.
“ Iqbal aap theek toh hai na?”
For the first time you gathered enough courage to ask him something out of mundane homely tasks,
“ Tumhe ek baar mei baat samajh nahi aati hai waqt se so jaaya karo”
his reply was short and clipped out of character for the way he had been cherishing you for the past month, you fell quiet the pain of your heart settling in your wrists.
“Aur yeh kya haal kar rakha hai kamre ka”
He turned to watch the clothes piled up into a heap by the bed which you were too lazy to clean up and even lazier to call and explain to the maids the order at which they were to be arranged.
“ Karti kya ho pura din ghar pe?”
you felt yourself grow smaller at each word, all the puff leaving your chest,
“ Aur yeh kya phen rakha hai?”
He nodded at your slip night gown with pure disdain at the satin that covered nothing. You shrank further pulling the bedsheet up to your chin wondering why you asked him anything at all.
Iqbal noticed but he did not comment on it walking to the bathroom with his fist clenched almost as if to hide something, the second he stepped back out again freshened up he was a different man altogether. Nervous,skittish with how you were laying on the very edge of the bed turned away from him , “ Gussa hogayi?” he tried to joke, leaning slow from behind to burrow his face into your neck, you shrugged him off scooting further away.
“ Sorry meri jaan, kaam se thak aata ho aur tumhe mere vajah se itni der ko jagah hua dekhta toh aur takleeq hoti hai mujhe”
“ Mujhe daatne mei nahi hoti?” you whispered hiding further into the pillow
“ Sorry thoda gusse mei tha kuch bhi bol diya, itni pyaari ..um…dress? Pheni hai aapne mujh jaise budhe ko thodi samajh aayega” he cupped your breast from behind, nuzzling his nose into your shoulder. You wanted to give in but the hurt still remained fresh so you didn't react to him at all. Iqbal got the idea and pulled back, keeping enough distance for your bodies to not touch while you slept, but you knew he was looking at you, his gaze searing through your back, through the thin fabric of your gown. At some point you were more scared than you were mad if this was his actual self and the lovely gestures were maybe a facade.
The next morning Iqbal tailed you like a lost dog while you refused to talk to him. Eventually he gave up and just watched as you put down plates with more force than required ‘slamming’ them on the dining table. “ Y/N” he half whispered but you didnt answer, “ Maaf kardo” he tried again holding your hand as you moved to throw down the cutleries as well, “ Bolo kya chaiye aapko?” “ Humne kuch nahi chaiye” you finally huffed something out over the lump in your throat, Iqbal left quietly this morning fighting the urge to kiss your temple and bid you goodbye like usual because you clearly did not want to be close with him right now.
By afternoon you had started feeling guilty about the way you ignored his desperate attempts and it didn't look right either that such an older man had to walk around in circles for your opinion and you understood he was just frustrated from work and didn't mean to snap but the possibilities for that behavior scared you, when you were cleaning up after your lunch you saw it his tiffin box tucked at the end of the kitchen slate hidden behind the stack of dishes in front of it.
The idea had formed before you allowed it, the end to your first couple argument and it was sweet in idea, you would dress and go by to drop his tiffin box and forgive him for all the things he said last night. You put on the kurta you wore in your college days, and had seen Iqbal's eyes stop at it when you were skimming through your clothes before a function once, he didn't say he liked but his eyes spoke for him. The butter yellow complimented nicely against your skin tone, it different than the intricate suits you had moved to after marriage because you were living in the house of one of the most reputed man in pakistan, luxury wasn't a choice it was mandatory for the public image and this road side stall brought kurta maybe stood no chance in front of the fine silk but Iqbal had admired it and so did you.
It was with printed large pink patterns, the same patterns on the light dupatta that you had draped carefully over your shoulder and head, feeling a college girl again, but you were married now with Iqbal's lunch box in your hands, chand baali in your ears, the bangles in your hand stacked and first time going to see what burdens him so much that he is weared out when he returns home, a chance to understand him better.
“ Bashir mujhe Iqbal ke daftar chor dijiye” “ Begum sahiba.. Iqbal sahab ne mana kara hai” “ Aise kaise mana kara hai hum bol rahe hai na leke chalo” “ Sach mei unhone mana kara hai” “ Agar aap humne nahi leke jaoge toh hum auto se chale jayege fir dekhna Iqbal ji kitna gussa karenga” You poked at his shoulder and he couldn't do anything other than listen to the lady of the house.
Inside of the office was normal, just like your father’s had been with all the cubicles leading to a big room at the end, illuminated by yellow lights and closed off from the rest, Iqbal’s office. You held the tiffin box walking slowly to his office, most of the people were confused as to why the boss’s wife was here at all dressed in all pastel in this gloomy mood. The office was empty, his leather seat cold from his long absence “ Iqbal?” You called out three times with no reply from anyone, a familiar man entered the room, his face furrowed, hair disheveled
“ Y/N aap? Aap yaha kya kar rahi hai”
He faltered standing straight and respectful
“ Sajid voh bas Iqbal ji apna tiffin bhool gaye vahi dene aayi thi”
“ Mai de doonga aap ghar jaiye”
he reached out but you held the box closer to yourself cutting off any possibility of him getting a hold of it, well because he wasn't exactly allowed to touch you.
“ Nahi hume apne haath se dena hai”
“ Iqbal sahab office mei hi nahi hai, bahar gay hai kaam se”
on cue came the sound from the room beside, even distant than that more muffled, downstairs, it was from downstairs.
“ Iqbal hai vaha?”
Sajid did not know how to lie to you
“Abhi kisi ka aana allowed nahi hai”
“ Accha theek hai naraaz hai voh humse samajh gayi, par itna gussa kaisa? milenge bhi nahi mere se“
" Please aap ghar jaiye” You pouted tapping your feet at the wooden floor, “ Mai nahi jaungi, Iqbal se bina nahi jaungi” “ Fir aap inteezar kar sakti hai yaha baith ke.. Bas abhi nahi mil sakte” You plopped down on the couch, eyes flickering to the door over and over. “ Sajid chai milegi?” “ Abhi?” “ Ji mujhe abhi chaiye.. Aap hume mana kar rahe hai hume?” He sighed not knowing who to follow the boss, or his wife because upsetting his wife might be a bigger crime than betraying him here.
The second Sajid was out of the door you sprang to the room attached to his office finding the narrow spot in the corner that led downstairs. It was a whole different world all together, alienated from the sophisticated exterior you just saw, the wall painted a dull white and fluorescent light shining overhead and the air was already eerie but you carried on looking for Iqbal.
Iqbal had been viscous since last week when he found out there was a mole in his business, selling away his hard work to his enemies and busied himself in finding and extracting other sources that made it possible by the way he knew- torture. He had been patient handling the work to the most trusted Sajid , but it has been one week and the man was still not opening his mouth and he had to take things into his own hands.
The room was equipped with weapons designed to slowly kill, to inflict such pain that there was nothing left other than surrender. Iqbal rolled up the sleeves of his faded navy blue kurta to his elbows slipping on the black leather gloves moving with a quiet intensity that carried a storm itself scanning through the row after row of the most heinous weapons quietly, Iqbal had already peeled off his nails after the man had gone out his way and struggle and scratch at Iqbal exposed skin violently enough that it was bleeding, but he wasn't satisfied with it, more vexed than usual because his dear wife had not spoke to him once and he needed an outlet to take that out and he was found an excuse today with the blood that ran down his forearm form the cut.
Iqbal decided on a classic saw because he knew it wouldn't cut through on the first blow, that what made the process more fascinating for Iqbal, he leaned in into the chair the man was tied to soughing in agony at his deformed fingers, flailing his hand against the time, “ Abhi bhi waqt hai bol do beta” Iqbal tutted,speaking so softly that the man knew what was set for his fate, Iqbal raised the saw crashing it down his tied arm with sickening crunch.
You saw it eyes wide, standing at the entrance. Your husband was doing this.
“ Bolo beta?” He asked but didn't give him the time to reply, aggressively bringing down the saw over over one the half cut arm in repeated violent motions that were too perfect to be not the ‘norm’ and especially by the look on his face they weren't, he wasn't hesitating not for sliver of his body recoiled by what he was doing ,blood spattered spraying at Iqbal's suit “ BOL BETA BOL” the screamed the sound echoing off the walls.
You stepped back slowly, careful not to catch anyone’s eyes. He is a monster, a monster. The man in the chair you recognised from the dinners Iqbal held at home, how he introduced him to you as an old acquaintance of five years. Five years? And Iqbal didn't struggle to commit something so horrifying to him, so how will a wife of one month stand a chance against his temper, this nature. You were almost out of sight when you moved a little too fast, your ankles chimed faintly over the screams but Iqbal's head shot up, instantly recognising the sound. “ Y/N?” he mouthed.
Your body was in dilemma whether to catch your breath first,to run to keep your heart beating because with no doubt Iqbal had seen you, you dropped the tiffin watched the content fall open on the floor as you ran as fast as you can again marvelling if to take off your anklets first, hands shivering so hard they fell like they would fall off. Cutting off a man's hand was so easy for him what would he do with you since you had made him so upset yesterday, you carried yourself on unsteady legs. Lungs burning for the desperate attempts you made to breathe the panic only growing when you couldn't find your way back upstairs, running into doors after doors and then you froze for a second hearing the heavy boots tracing your footsteps. Those damn anklets gave it away and Iqbal was onto you, you forced yourself to move slowly so the movements wouldn't amplify the sound further getting into the first room beside you.
You fumbled with the knob twice before twisting it open to what looked like a rest room for the times Iqbal stayed back in his house, it was his room you could tell by the cub cigars discarded on the floor on the bedside table , his favourite one and if that didn't give it away there was a frame of you rested atop just beside the cigar from your wedding, cropped so it was only you for him to admire when he couldn't find his way back home and the fear wavered stupidly with the warmth rising in your body.
The room was so sickly drowned with his scent that your head was getting dizzy, chest heaving which felt a lot like excitement. Disgusting;you cringed and then came the final call of the door turning and opening in front of you. Iqbal looming inside without a word.
You stood breath hitched, hand gripping at the desk behind you, still not a word he moved past you, still not a word as he took off his gloves, not a word as he tried to wipe off some of the blood from his kurta.
He hadn't said a word, maybe you could just run away. You dashed to the door without him moving a fraction, just when you twisted the knob in your hand he covered the distance in three long steps , picking you up so effortlessly that you wondered if you weighed anything under at all.
You slipped in his grips, squirming and thrashing to get free while he remained unyielding, jaw shut tight throwing you on the desk. “ Iqbal please mujhe chor do, maine kuch nahi dekha please” You sobbed, slapping your palm at his rock hard chest, Iqbal held you still with that extreme gaze and strength that he did not have to apply to keep you from moving.
“ Shh shh”
He hushed you finally, ignoring your small useless movements to slam his forehead against yours breathing deep and low. Your mind actively worked against your logical conscience, the human urge to survive overshadowed by disgustingly attracted you were to him, even after the revelation of his true self.
“ Kitni haseen lag rahe hoo aaj, uff.. Mujhe milne aayi ho itne sajj ke?” He said his voice husky and hungry, thumb caressing your cheek as if your body wasn't actively breaking into sobs from the fear, from the clear evidence that dampened his shirt the blood brown against the blue of his shirt.
“ Iqbal please hum sach mei kisi ko kuch nahi bolege”
“ Kya nahi bologi? Meri jaan yahi meri jindagi hai is se aapke siwa sab vaafiq hai aapke abbu bhi” before the disbelief of his first few words he could hit you he continued
"Tum nahi jaanti ke mujhe tumhare baap ko maali tor par tabah karne ke liye kis hadd tak jana pada, sirf is liye kyunke wo tumhe mujhe saunpne par raazi nahi tha. Tumhe andaza nahi ke is sab ke peeche meri kitni gehri saazishein thien... kis qadar junoon tha tumhe paane ka, tumhe apni baahon mein qaid karne ka"
He confessed, two glances and he had decided to drain your father financially to have you. There was no doubt your husband was crazy and holding you so fiercely calm. You wanted to be angry but all that came out of your mouth was a bated breath and even that he did spare, swallowing it in his mouth. Clashing your lips with his, you gasped in surprise giving him the opportunity to thrust his tongue into your quivering mouth, your hands flailing uselessly as he carefully but swiftly pulled over the kurta over your head. The air is clammy, goosebumps prickling at your skin.
Fear and arousal churned all together in a dangerous mix pooling in your gut, “ Iqbal-”He tangled his tongue with yours again blurring out every thought in your head for a movement, you only came back to your sense when you felt the cold metal press between the valley of your breasts, tracing up and down over the cleavage formed by the cotton bra "Tumhe lagta hai ke main ne ye sab tumhe paane ke liye kiya, sirf is liye ke tumhe takleef pahchaoon?"your hands did not need containing anymore, your struggles have stopped itself from the sheer paralysing fear. “ Iqbal please aap..yeh kya kar rahe hoo?” the safety was off- the safety was off it was off but you couldn't move, his gaze so commanding that even when your heart threatened to crash you didn't want to go against it.
The revolver sleek body prodded at your skin, it was loaded and he wasn't stepping back if anything, you felt the metal dig harder into your plump flesh, his finger rested dangerously at the trigger, the only comfort was the eye contact he held with you, that kept you captive in place. In your hindsight you could see as he crushed the trigger further, your eyes snapping close but not moving from the position you were in to save your life. The shot went empty but you flinched from the impact, hands going to hold onto his bicep, holding onto the very cause of your fear, nails digging into his skin. Iqbal eyes dragged over your face, watching the fresh tear drop glisten in a sheen line over your eye, the way you trusted him he had never felt his heart beat so frantically like it did at the at the depraved sight of your trust and the cede of your body, you were his sweet victim not upset at the fact he had plotted his way into this marriage, but just watching him doe eyes that were begging him to fuck you.
He glided it over your soft skin, hooking the mouth of the gun beneath the strap of your bra sliding it down your shoulder, unraveling your left breast to his ravenous eyes. “ Iqbal” You whimpered but he ignored it, rubbing at the nipple with the side of the gun, before holding it back in between your breast, sliding it down and over your stomach. Your breath caught when you realised he wanted to stop, tugging the salwar and panties up together with the gun, skidding it down along with his hand.
The freezing cold metal pressed against your clit, making you jolt forward and thrash momentarily before you met his eyes again, lulling you back into submissiveness. He was more handsome up close, wrinkles running around his eyes, the side of his lips along with the scar that ran above the side of his mouth, his moustache and beard thick and salt and paper that he didn't care to cover with fake dyes, just intensifying visually the obvious age gap between you both. “ Iqbal” You tried again, but he didn't budge, sliding your clothes down till you had no choice but to comply by lifting your hips so he could strip you bare.
You were a beautiful mess the innocent cotton panties stopping at your ankles, left breast out of the fabric and body shivering, your clit throbbed against the foreign object , he drowned in the sight of you getting worked up from the fear, his true self, at your how the bud that hid above your folds looked pressed against something so dangerous. Your entrance peeking out from the folds, pink and fleshed raw , he was tempted to push the barrel in but he understood enough to not do that, just teased you with the hard rigid metal that had your toes curling.
He handled it with the perfect pressure, he had learnt that much about your pleasure now, holding the mouth of the gun pressed flat against your slit till the start of your taint, “ Iqbal!” You shrieked, just his name no indication for him to stop or start because deep down you didn't know whether you did or not yourself. “ Ji begum” He rasped, nibbling on the shell of your ear the sweet endearment sound so mocking now . “Please chor dijiye, Iqbal mujhe dar raha hai”
He smirked, tapping the sensitive bundle of nerves and on cue your wetness gushed down more, lubricating yourself “ Dar lag raha hai aapko meri jaan?” He cooed, catching the wetness at the gun, holding up the slick metal in front of your mouth, “ Yeh hai aapka dar?” those trembling lips have been inviting since the day he saw you, he drummed the head at your lips.
“ Open” he demanded, your hands clutching tighter at his bicep only roused him more, testing the patience that he was holding back for one month. He squeezed your mouth open , the end of the barrel hitting at the back of your mouth. “ Suck” He demanded again, this time over your gagging self, turning more vulnerable under his control.
Sucking his cock would have been way easier, the hard edges hurted a little and you knew if he started fucking your mouth himself how hard he would do it so you started yourself. Wrapping your tongue around the line, bobbing your head up and down slowly. Iqbal eyes rolled back at the obedience, he murmured praises against your forehead, about you were his good little wife before latching onto your nipple, engulfing the hard pebble into his mouth, slurping loudly around it, switching between biting and sucking constantly that the pain balanced out with pleasure, but soon he decided he did not want to miss a second of you fucking your mouth.
He stood back eyes digging into your skin, your small palm still wrapped around his bicep for comfort while he barely offered any when he plunged two fingers into your soaked entrance, curling his fingers inside to rub against the spongy part in constant strict movement that didn't give you another option than to accept the abuse on your cunt, his thumb rubbed in firm circles over your clit working proficiently so you could come early and he can shove his dick in you, because at this point he was so hard it hurted painfully
The bulge heavy and insistent over the fabric of his shalwar, you squelched loudly the wetness dripping down your cunt and spreading over the mahogany desk as you moaned around the muzzle. Iqbal liked seeing you contained but he also wanted to hear you whine his name. The gun left your mouth abruptly with a soft pop that allowed you to relax your jaw and mouth, “Iqbal ji please chor dijiye na” You whimpered all while your hips bucked to have his finger deeper, the sentence infuriated him enough for him to want to ram the gun down your throat again because of the obvious lie which he didn't enjoy.
He doubled his efforts on your pussy and had you releasing all over his hand, face nuzzled and drooling at his covered bicep when the gun shot went off making you cling harder to him breaking into a sob on instinct and the realisation The gun had bullets??? And he fired that over your heart?
Despite the horror you had only gotten wetter, clunt clenching unclenching around nothing waiting on what he had trained your body by now, his cock. The sound of your anklets were dampened and restricted under the clothes that bunched up at your ankles first he pulled them off in a harsh motion, then he dropped you on your feet on the floor, you expected him to take you to bed and claim you properly but he dragged in front of the long mirror reclined on the wall. Standing behind you, his six feet two swamping your frame and the view in front of you of your used body
You waited to watch what he meant to do, fixing your eyes anything but what was right in front focusing on the chipped edges of the mirror instead, when you felt him take out his hard dick maybe this is the part he throws you on the bed, but he lines himself against your entrance that was looking comically small in comparison to his tout head, “ Iqbal bed pe-” He snarled, and the next second you known the gun was now at your throat. The muzzle now warmed with bullets fired, and the fear came back in full surge washing over your body in tremors.
“ Maine tumse pucha tumhe kya chaiye?”
you shook your head, grasping at the mirror feeling the stretch of his cut head pushing inside your body.
You could see how desperate your own body was getting how your walls extend to accommodate his thickness, the size difference thrilling but it flushed your cheeks, shyly you lowered your gaze onto the floor to avoid the reality of what’s happening to you
"Khabardar jo tum ne apni nazrein jhukaaeen, upar dekho"
The revolver delved into the hollow of your throat as he impelled you slowly on his dick feeding you inch by inch till you were a crying mess forced to look at your ruins from the fear of the weapon your husband threatened you with. He grunted when he finally buried himself to the hilt, the sound sending spasm through your body resulting in you tightening around him, your eyes flickered struggling to keep up "Tumhe ek seedhi si baat samajh nahi aati? Nazrein mujh par tikaye rakho." he spanked his palm at your ass with unrestrained force that made you wail and slap your palm at the glass. “ IQBAL!”
“ Watch how you take me” You looked down unwillingly at the mortifying sight of hips flush against yours from behind, as he pulled back a little you saw how hard you gripped to keep him inside, his meaty flesh red and throbbing with veins that taut on it brushing deliberate at the gummy walls of your insides, you were too tired,too overstimulated for this torture when he started something worse.
He slammed back into you one violent thrust and started a punishing rhythm which was way worse than the slow descent before, your whole world world was blurring with how harsh he was being, body jerking forward and threatening to fall down with the heavy rams but he kept you up with one hand snaked around your waist other still holding the silent reminder to comply by your neck. He was smug like he was saving you from collapsing when he was the one who was enabling it, groaning how tight you were while you struggled to breathe around his cock.
Iqbal had mapped and studied each part of your body by now familiar with each curve and where exactly to hit to find your spot, aggressively snapping his hips to meet that spot so you were forced to be drowning in pleasure when your eyes rolled back from the obvious affect, he hit you again your cheeks burning red with the imprint of his palm.
Iqbal had realised you weren't scared of the gun anymore because the second you were going against his words and that didn't exactly feed into his arrogance and it has served it's purpose now, you were aware Iqbal would never hurt you in spite of having all the means to do so. He grabbed your chin forcing you to look yourself, squeezing your cheeks roughly with his palm that was larger than your face “ Dekh khudko” His groaned his tone and speech getting crass,
"Apni haalat toh dekho, ro aise rahi ho jaise tumhe is sab mein maza nahi aa raha”
you clamped around his shaft watching how he was soaking in your tears with an arousal that didn't even feel human anymore it was that primitive. A victory smirk broke through his face in between of the harsh clenched jaw expression before he lost himself to your tightness again cursing out loud and resuming your breaking.
His cock filled you stretched you out the pain of him bruising your cervix so delicious it bordered on pleasure, and estranged from the lewd scene and noises was the dainty chimes of your ankle as your feet fell above the ground with each thrust due to the obvious size difference, while he forced you to watch. Watch as the fear completely left your face leaving behind only greed, that asked him to ruin you more humiliate you the idea fact that you how small you in front of him in every sense of the word at how little control you had of your life and yet he wouldn't hurt you not in the way it would sting your heart.
"Main sabr nahi kar pa raha us waqt ka jab tumhe samajh aayega ke tumhari jagah kahan hai—sirf mere paas. Tum yahan hamesha mehfooz rahogi, meri mohabbat aur meri jaan ban kar."
Your ankles chimed harder, coerced to let out sound louder than they were meant to because Iqbal wanted to hear it so he had of course roughened his pace. His deep thrusts were mind breaking that your consciousness was slipping and instead of being ashamed your eyes were glued to the view in front you when he finally found the energy to complete his broken sentences in between his moans and groans
“ Aur inshallah jaldi hi mere bacchon ki maa banke”
WHAT? Your eyes shot up over the haze you wanted to move to look over your shoulder but his grip kept you still, and you realised you didn't need to look back at all you met his eyes in the mirror, that glance confirmed it for you he was serious about what he just said and that ‘jaldi hi’ clearly meant today.
You found some sense over the high and tried to scoot away only to be met with his hand rubbing at your now swollen bud coaxing, capturing you slowly into a frenzy that meant you were his captive for life. Your orgasm didn't give you relief by drowning out the knot in your stomach, instead it hit you like a tidal wave with your head still stuck on the fact about what followed after, and you couldn't even form a coherent sentence let alone argue with him as his hips started stuttering. “ Meri jaan” he grunted, forcing himself deeper till his tip found your cervix again, holding himself still as he spilled out his load raw. You felt the warmth seep to your stomach as if already taking root.
“Iqbal” you sniffled defeated, falling limp and wanting nothing more to be in his arms. “ Theek hai aap?” he asked picking you up ,you wanted to pout but you only nodded hiding in his chest.
a/n - its is four am while I post this kuch glat shalat likha ho toh maaf kar dena dont slime me
The rain in the cantonment was not a gentle, cleansing downpour; it was a heavy, relentless sheet of grey that turned the military roads into slick mirrors and drowned the distant sound of the evening bugle. Major Iqbal’s sleek car pulled up to the driveway of the bungalow with a harsh screech of wet brakes. Inside, the atmosphere was even darker.
The day had been an absolute disaster. A high-stakes intelligence exchange near the border had been compromised, two of his informants were dead, a critical shipment of files had vanished into thin air, and Bashir had been continuously calling him over Jahangir throwing fits and getting himself sick which had ultimately required a visit from Dr. Ali.
Iqbal felt the invisible, suffocating pressure of his work, the weight of his mulk, and the burning headache behind his eyes that had been building since 5:00 AM.
He kicked the car door shut and strode up the porch, his combat boots heavy and caked with wet mud. His kurta was damp at the shoulders, and his jaw was set in a rigid, tight line. He didn't want conversation. He didn't want tea. He wanted a dark room, a cigarette, and absolute silence to salvage the wreckage of his operation.
He pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped into the foyer, his breath coming in a controlled, tight rhythm.
From the end of the corridor, the light, rhythmic patter of bare feet echoed against the marble.
"Iqbal!"
Sehmat came rushing out of the kitchen, her face illuminated by a wide, radiant smile. She was wearing a simple, breezy cotton kurti, her long espresso-colored hair flowing wildly over her shoulders, entirely untamed. She had been waiting for him for hours, listening to the clock tick, baking a batch of traditional semolina halwa just the way he liked it, hoping to surprise him after what she knew was a long week.
Oblivious to the rigid, vibrating tension in his broad shoulders, she lunged forward with all the innocent, unrestrained affection she possessed, her arms opening wide to throw herself into a warm, welcoming hug around his neck. "Aap aa gaye! Pata hai aaj maine kya-"
Before her arms could even close around his shoulders, Iqbal’s military reflexes and raw, simmering frustration boiled over. He didn't catch her. Instead, his large hands shot out, gripping her forearms with a force that was entirely too rough, stopping her dead in her tracks and shoving her back half a step.
"Piche hato, Sehmat!" his voice boomed through the high-ceilinged foyer, loud and sharp as a pistol shot.
Sehmat froze, her breath catching violently in her throat. The sudden, harsh rejection physically rattled her. Her hands dropped to her sides, her fingers curling into the silk of her dupatta. The bright, eager smile on her face didn't disappear immediately; it fractured, turning into a confused, startled mask as she looked up into his dark, furious eyes.
"Iqbal...?" she whispered, her voice suddenly sounding very small, very young. "Kya... kya hua? Aap theek toh—"
"Kya tamasha hai yeh, Sehmat?!" Iqbal yelled, his voice cutting through her like a blade. He threw his beret onto the table, the heavy brass insignia clattering loudly. "Jab dekho bas yehi fuzooliyat! Tumhe samajh nahi aata ke main kahan se aa raha hoon? Kis haal mein aata hoon?!"
"Main... main toh bas aapko hug—"
"Mujhe nahi chahiye tumhara hug!" he snapped, stepping directly into her space, his towering frame completely blocking out the warm light from the kitchen. His eyes, usually warm when he looked at her, were completely bloodshot and devoid of any softness. "itni bachpana karti ho tum! Ikkis ki ho, par dimaag bilkul paanch saal ke bache jaisa hai! Kab badi hogi tum?!"
"Iqbal, maine kya kiya...?" she choked out, a large, heavy tear finally spilling over her lower lash line, tracing a wet path down her pale cheek.
"Tumne kya kiya? Tum karti kya ho?!" Iqbal barked, gesturing wildly toward the house. "Ek kaam dhang se nahi hota tumse! Sarr par chipkali gir jaye toh poora ghar sarr par utha leti ho, aur kuch bhi bolu toh muh fulaye beth jaati ho! Karti kya ho tum saara din is ghar mein baith kar?! Sirf fuzool gaane gaana aur fuzooliyat sochna?!"
He pointed a long, rigid finger at her face, his chest heaving under his damp shirt. "Ek kaam dhang se nahi hota tumse! Kal maine tumse kaha tha ke woh red file jo table par padi thi, usse almari mein rakh dena safely. Aaj jab maine dhoonda, toh woh file kahan mili? Neeche dining table par! Tumhe ehsaas bhi hai ke agar woh documents kisi gair ke haath lag jaate, toh kya hota?"
"Woh... woh galti se..." her voice broke, a single tear spilling over her lower lash line, tracing a hot path down her pale cheek. She tried to reach for his arm, her small fingers trembling. "Main bhool gayi thi, Iqbal, mujhe maaf—"
"Maaf?!" Iqbal slapped her hand away, his temper blinding him to the absolute heartbreak written across her face. He scoffed, a cold, bitter sound that cut deeper than any physical blow."Ek ghar chalana nahi aata tumhe! Ek zimmedar aurat ki tarah behave karna kab seekhogi? Ya zindagi bhar mujhe ek bacha hi sambhalna padega?"
Sehmat stood entirely still, as if she had been turned to stone by the sheer weight of his anger. The vibrant peach of her outfit suddenly looked tragically out of place against the grim reality of the room. Her chest heaved with a silent, ragged sob.
"Iqbal... main..." she choked out, but the words died in her throat. There was no defense she could offer that his anger wouldn't twist into another flaw.
"Bas, khamosh!" Iqbal snapped, his eyes flashing with a final, dismissive glare. He adjusted his damp collar with a jerky, furious movement, completely shutting her out of his perimeter. "Mujhe ab ek lafz bhi nahi sunna tumse. Mera sar dard se phat raha hai, aur tumhara yeh rona-dhona mujhe aur bezaar kar raha hai."
"Meri poori life yahan dushmano ke beech phansi hui hai," Iqbal continued, his voice dropping into a harsh, venomous whisper that was almost worse than his shouting. "Main baahar mulk ki hifazat kar raha hoon, aur ghar aata hoon toh mujhe ek aisi ladki milti hai jise tameez tak nahi hai ke apne shohar ko space kaise dete hain. Mujhe tumhare is bachpana se chid hoti hai, Sehmat."
Without waiting for her to move, without offering a single look of remorse for the tear-stained face of his wife, Iqbal turned on his heel. His heavy military boots slammed against the marble floor as he stormed down the long, dark corridor toward the back of the house. He reached the heavy mahogany door of his private study, pushed it open with a violent shove, and slammed it shut behind him with a resounding BANG that seemed to rattle the very foundations of the house.
The foyer returned to that suffocating, heavy silence, broken only by the steady, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock and the muffled patter of the rain outside.
Sehmat remained standing in the exact spot where he had pushed her away. Her breath came in short, jagged gasps, her small hands clutching her dupatta tight against her chest as if she could physically hold her breaking heart together. She looked down at the mud track his boots had left on the pristine floor, and then down at her own feet.
A wave of intense, crushing humiliation washed over her.She looked toward the kitchen, where the faint, sweet aroma of the semolina and cardamom still hung in the air. It felt like a mockery now.
She had been so excited to tell him that she had finally managed to fix the broken transistor radio in the living room so he could listen to the news without the static.
“Karti kya ho tum saara din...”
The words repeated in her head, each repetition louder and sharper than the last. He thought she was a burden. He thought she was a child. He thought she was a mistake.
A silent sob finally broke through her lips, and she covered her mouth with her hands, refusing to let the servants or the Brigadier upstairs hear her misery. She couldn't stay here, in this open, exposed foyer where she had been so thoroughly discarded. Turning around, her movements slow and heavy as if she were carrying a physical weight, Sehmat walked toward their bedroom. She didn't turn on the lights. She simply crawled onto the far edge of the mattress, pulled her knees up to her chest, and buried her face deep into the pillows, letting the tears flow freely until the silk of her kameez was damp and her throat felt entirely raw.
Meanwhile, inside the locked study, the air was suffocatingly hot.
Iqbal had thrown his jacket onto the leather couch. He stood by the large mahogany desk, his hands planted flat on the surface, his head hanging low between his shoulders. He was breathing like a wounded animal, his chest heaving under his black kurta.
The silence of the room began to settle, and with it, the red haze of his anger slowly, painfully, began to recede.
“Mujhe tumhare is bache jaisay dimaag se chid hoti hai, Sehmat.”
His own words echoed back to him in the quiet room, sounding incredibly loud, incredibly ugly. He closed his eyes, his knuckles turning white against the wood. The image of her face—the way her bright, joyful eyes had instantly turned dull and terrified, the way she had shrunk back from his hands—suddenly flashed behind his eyelids with the force of a physical strike.
What had he done?
He had taken the filth, the violence, and the failures of his professional world, and he had dragged them right into the one place that was supposed to be clean. He had taken his rage out on a girl whose only crime was loving him enough to wait by the door.
Iqbal slowly let his weight shift, sliding down into his leather chair. He buried his face in his hands, his rough fingers pressing into his eyes until he saw stars. The silence of the study, which he had fought so hard to reach, now felt like a prison. He looked at the heavy oak door, knowing that the distance between him and the hallway was only a few feet, but the damage he had just caused felt miles wide.
The ticking of the grandfather clock in the study felt like a slow, deliberate torture. Ten minutes turned into an hour, and with every passing tick, the suffocating heat of Iqbal’s anger evaporated completely, leaving behind a cold, hollow cavity of pure regret. The burning headache behind his eyes had intensified, but it was nothing compared to the sickening knot tightening in his stomach. He stared at his trembling hands, the very hands that had roughly shoved her away. He could still feel the fragile bones of her forearms beneath his palms, still see the way her radiant, innocent smile had shattered into a thousand pieces of utter confusion and heartbreak.
A sudden, sharp rustle from the upper floor broke the stillness of the house. It wasn't the rhythmic patter of her bare feet that usually brought life to these corridors. This sound was heavy, deliberate, and metallic, the unmistakable clatter of a suitcase latch snapping open.
Iqbal’s heart seized. The fatigue that had weighed down his limbs only moments ago vanished, replaced by a cold spike of panic. He stood up so fast his chair scraped violently against the floorboards. Stepping out of the study, the quiet of the house felt deafening. The mud tracks from his combat boots still stained the pristine marble of the foyer, a grim reminder of the storm he had brought inside. He walked up the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last, his chest tightening as he approached their bedroom.
The door was ajar, casting a thin sliver of pale light onto the dark hallway. Iqbal paused at the threshold, his breath catching in his throat at the sight before him.
The large leather trunk her father had gifted her for their wedding sat wide open on the bed. Sehmat stood beside it, her movements mechanical and completely devoid of her usual grace. The vibrant kurti she wore looked crumpled.She was carefully folding her green silk dupatta, her small hands shaking so violently that it took her three attempts just to flatten the fabric before roughly putting it inside the suitcase.Her face was pale, her nose and the rims of her eyes a painful, swollen red, though her tears had finally stopped flowing.
"Sehmat..." Iqbal’s voice was barely a whisper, devoid of all the booming authority it had carried downstairs. It was cracked, fragile, and laced with an underlying desperation.
Sehmat didn't startle. She didn't even look up. Her small hands simply paused over a folded green cotton salwar, her fingers tightening against the fabric before she placed it neatly into the trunk.
"Sehmat, yeh... yeh kya kar rahi ho tum?" he asked, stepping into the room, his large frame suddenly feeling clumsy and intrusive in the quiet space.
"Main Abba ke ghar jaa rahi hoon," she replied. Her voice wasn't angry. It was flat, entirely empty of the warmth and melody he had grown so accustomed to. She didn't look at him, keeping her eyes fixed on the suitcase. "Maine tay kar liya hai. Woh subah ki sabse pehli train se mujhe Kaza chali jaungi."
The mention of her hometown, so far away from him, felt like a physical blow to Iqbal's chest. Panic surged through him, stripping away his military posture. He took three long strides, closing the distance between them, and gently reached out to touch her shoulder. "Sehmat, meri baat suno. Ruk jao, please…"
"Kyun rukoon, Iqbal?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly before she forced it back into a cold, steady calm. "Aapne sach hi toh kaha. Main ek bacha hoon. Mujhse ek ghar nahi sambhalta. Main saara din is ghar mein baith kar sirf aapka waqt barbaad karti hoon, aapko bezaar karti hoon. Jab meri wajah se aapki zindagi mein itni pareshaani hain, toh mera yahan rehna theek nahi hai."
"Nahi, Sehmat, khuda ke liye aisa mat kaho," Iqbal pleaded, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, trembling. The sight of her packing her things away was pulling the ground out from under his feet. "Mera woh matlab nahi tha. Main bohot zyada pareshan tha, mujhe samajh nahi aaya main kya bol raha hoon."
"Nahi, Iqbal, aapne bilkul thik se bola," Sehmat said, a bitter, tragic smile touching her lips for a fleeting second before vanishing. She picked up a stack of her dupattas from the bed. "Aapko mujhse chid hoti hai na? Aapne khud kaha ke aap baahar itni badi jung lad rahe hain aur ghar aate hain toh aapko mujh jaisi ladki milti hai jise tameez nahi hai. Main ab aapko aur chid nahi dilana chahti. Main Abba ke paas jaa rahi hoon. Wahan main jaise bhi rahoon, kisi ko pareshani nahi hogi."
"Aur waise bhi aap thak gaye hain mujhse. Aapko lagta hai ke aap ek bache ko sambhal rahe hain. Main yahan aapki zindagi mushkil karne nahi aayi thi. Main toh bas... main toh bas aapka ghar basane aayi thi."
"Tum mera ghar ho, Sehmat!" Iqbal took a desperate step closer, his hands coming up in a pleading gesture. "Khuda ke liye aisa mat kaho. Jo kuch maine foyer mein kaha, woh sab jhoot tha. Ek bilkul ghatiya, bura jhoot. Mera dimaag thikane par nahi tha. Main badtameez hoon, main pagal ho gaya tha. Par khuda ke liye mujhe chodh kar mat jao. Main mar jaunga tumhare bagair"
Sehmat stopped, a stack of clothes held tightly against her chest like a shield. She looked up at his towering frame, seeing the genuine anguish etched into the sharp lines of his face, the redness in his eyes that wasn't from anger anymore, but from deep, agonizing remorse. Yet, the wounds he had inflicted downstairs were too fresh, too deep to be healed by a few frantic words.
"Aapko pata hai, Iqbal..." she whispered, a fresh, heavy tear finally breaking free and rolling down her pale cheek. "Main galti se woh file dining table par bhool gayi thi kyunki... kyunki Bashir bhai ne bataya ke aapka sar dard se phat raha hai. Main jaldi mein kitchen mein aapke liye kaadha banane chali gayi thi taaki jab aap aayein toh aapko aaram mile. Maine jaanbujhkar nahi kiya."
Iqbal felt a heavy lump form in his throat, making it nearly impossible to breathe. The very file he had humiliated her over had been forgotten because she was thinking of him, caring for him.
"Aur aaj..." Sehmat’s lower lip trembled violently, her voice breaking completely. "Aaj maine living room ka woh purana radio thik kiya tha. Mujhe dhoondne mein teen ghante lage ke uski taar kahan se kharab thi. Main bohot khush thi ke ab aap sukoon se baahar ki khabrein sun sakenge, aapko baar-baar static se pareshani nahi hogi. Main toh bas aapko batane ke liye bhaagti hui aayi thi..."
She dropped the clothes back onto the bed, sitting down heavily at the edge of the bed, covering her face with her hands as a jagged, painful sob escaped her lips. "Par aapne... aapne mujhe dushmano ki tarah dhakel diya. Mujhe laga ke main is ghar ki aurat hoon, aapki begum hoon. Par aapne mujhe ehsaas dilaya ke main sirf ek bojh hoon."
Seeing her break down, Iqbal couldn't restrain himself any longer.
He sank to his knees right there on the bedroom floor, wrapping his broad arms around her waist, burying his face against her stomach.
"Mujhe maaf kar do, Sehmat... Khuda ke liye mujhe maaf kar do," Iqbal wept openly, his large shoulders shaking violently against her. The proud, stoic Major was completely gone, replaced by a man broken by his own actions."Agar tum hi chali jaogi, toh main andhere mein mar jaoonga."
Sehmat froze, her hands slowing lowering from her face. She looked down at her husband—this powerful, feared army officer, who usually stood so tall and unyielding, now kneeling at her feet, his tears soaking into the fabric of her kurti.
"Iqbal..." she whispered, her heart aching at the sight of his complete breakdown. Her anger, though justified, was rapidly melting under the sheer warmth of his vulnerability.
Iqbal looked up, his dark eyes entirely bloodshot, filled with a raw, unfiltered desperation. He reached up, his large, calloused hands now incredibly gentle, almost reverent, as he cupped her tear-stained cheeks.
"Mera dimaag kharab ho gaya tha, meri jaan," he said, his voice cracking with emotion. "Tum bojh nahi ho. Tum is ghar ki, meri zindagi ki sabse badi barkat ho. Agar tum is ghar mein fuzool gaane na gao, toh is ghar mein sirf maut jaisi khamoshi reh jayegi. Mujhe tumhare is bachpana se chid nahi hai, Sehmat... mujhe tumhare is masoomiyat se mohabbat hai. Yahi masoomiyat mujhe zinda rakhti hai is adhere mein."
"Aap itne gusse mein kyun aate hain, Iqbal?" she asked softly, her own tears falling freely now, but the sharpness in her voice had melted into a gentle reproach. "Aapko kya lagta hai, main kuch samajhti nahi? Mujhe pata hai aapka kaam kitna mushkil hai. Mujhe pata hai aap har waqt maut ke beech rehte hain. Main toh bas… main toh bas chahti thi ke jab aap is ghar ke andar qadam rakhein, toh aap baahar ki saari gandagi aur dushmanon ko baahar hi chhor dein. Main aapko th thoda sa sukoon dena chahti thi."
Iqbal closed his eyes as a long, shuddering breath escaped him."Mujhe pata hai, meri jaan. Mujhe pata hai. Main andha ho gaya tha. Mujhe maaf kar do.
Main bas apna gussa nikaalne ka bahaana dhoond raha tha. Main bohot bura shohar hoon."
"Haan, bohot bure hain aap," Sehmat whispered, a tiny, watery laugh breaking through her sobs as she leaned her forehead against his. "Bohot gusse wale hain. Aur bohot zor se chillate hain. Meri toh jaan hi nikal gayi thi."
"Ab kabhi nahi chillaunga," Iqbal swore fervently, his hands moving up to clasp her wrists, pulling her hands from her lap to press desperate, lingering kisses onto her palms. "Tumhe jo kehna hai kaho, jitna gaana gaana hai gao, mujhe har waqt tang karo, par Khuda ke liye mujhe chhor kar mat jao. Main tumhare pair padta hoon, Sehmat, yeh suitcase band kar do."
He gently wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs, his touch as light as a feather. "Main zindagi bhar tumhare aage haath jod kar maafi mangne ko tayyar hoon, par mujhe is tarah saza mat do. Tumhare bina is mulk ki hifazat karne ka koi matlab nahi reh jayega mere liye. Tum hi mera mulk ho, tum hi mera ghar ho."
Sehmat looked deep into his eyes, searching for any trace of the harsh, dismissive man from the foyer. She found none. There was only Iqbal, her Iqbal, who looked at her as if she were his entire world, shattered by the thought of losing her.
The heavy weight in her chest began to lift, replaced by a familiar, tender warmth. She let out a long, shaky breath, her small hands coming up to rest over his large wrists.
"Aap... aap sach keh rahe hain?" she asked, her voice still holding a small, fragile trace of vulnerability. "Aapko sach mein nahi lagta ke main ek paanch saal ki bachi hoon?"
Iqbal let out a wet, breathless laugh, shaking his head quickly as he pressed his forehead gently against her hand. "Bilkul nahi. Tum meri sabse samajhdar, sabse pyari begum ho. Mujhe maaf kar do ke maine tumhari qadar nahi ki. Main waada karta hoon, aaj ke baad kabhi bhi main baahar ka gussa tum par nahi nikaalunga. Tumhare paas aane se pehle main apni har pareshani darwaze ke baahar chodh kar aaunga."
Sehmat felt the last remaining shards of her heartbreak dissolve. She couldn't bear to see him on his knees any longer. Gently tugging at his shoulders, she guided him to sit at the edge of the bed beside her. As soon as he sat down, Iqbal pulled her into his arms, enveloping her in a fierce, protective embrace that completely erased the cold distance he had created earlier.
This time, he didn't push her away. He held her tight against his chest, burying his face in her untamed, espresso-colored hair, inhaling the sweet, comforting scent of jasmine and the faint aroma of the cardamom from the kitchen. Sehmat wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, hiding her face in the crook of his shoulder, letting the rhythmic beat of his heart soothe the final remnants of her tears.
"Abba ke ghar nahi jaogi na?" Iqbal murmured into her hair, his arms tightening slightly as if to anchor her to the spot.
"Nahi jaungi," Sehmat whispered back, a soft, genuine smile finally returning to her face, illuminating the dim bedroom. "Par aapko woh halwa poora khatam karna padega jo maine aapke liye banaya hai."
Iqbal pulled back slightly, looking down at her with a gaze full of profound relief and adoration. He leaned down, pressing a long, tender kiss against her forehead.
"Main tumhara sab kuch kha lunga-.....mera matlab tumhare haath ka banaya hua sab kuch khaonga," he promised softly, his eyes shining with a warmth that completely banished the storm outside. "Tum chal kar mujhe kitchen mein halwa khilao, aur mujhe woh radio bhi dikhao jo tumne thik kiya hai. Mujhe apni begum ke hunar par bohot naaz hai."
Sehmat’s radiant, wide smile finally returned in all its glory. She reached over to the suitcase and decisively slammed the leather trunk shut, clicking the latches back into place with a definitive snap. She then took his large, warm hand in hers, her fingers intertwining perfectly with his.
"Aur poori zindagi tumhare fuzool gaane aur baatein sununga. Bas tum mere paas raho"Iqbal whispered into her hair, his lips pressing another soft, reverent kiss against her temple.
"Main kahin nahi jaa rahi," she murmured against his skin, her heart finally beating in a steady, happy rhythm.
Outside, the heavy, relentless sheet of grey rain continued to beat against the cantonment, turning the military roads into slick mirrors and drowning the world in darkness. But inside the bedroom, enveloped in the warm, golden light of the lamp and the sweet, lingering aroma of cardamom, the storm had finally passed, leaving behind a profound, quiet peace that no war could ever touch.
a/n- based on this request, hope you all would like it, interact cutus flop mat hone dena yawr </3
Trigger Warning- 18+,dom!Iqbal sub!reader ,rough sex, age gap, consensual bdsm, spanking ,body insecurity, some fluff, breeding kink? NOT PROOF READ!
Note- I of course dont support terrorism in any form this is only and only for the character potrayed by Arjun Rampal
Word count - 4.25k
Marriage with Iqbal was not a usual one but the same as one would envision for a life with someone of his rank- Major Iqbal, he would disappear for days,weeks and months at some point, occupied with a mission that was too classified for you to know, he did not find it fit it to mix you with his professional life, the maven of his army or dirty deeds rarely touching the footsteps of your marital home other than the occasional visits from Rehman and other gang members.
From the first night of the marriage he had made it clear that his woman,his wife was going to be his devotion and it showed in the way he peeled the clothes off of your body on that night, kissing every inch exposed under the dim mellow light reflecting pale yellow on your skin, in derision to his worship was the clear entitlement and control that you belonged to him in the way he held you still when he first entered you keeping you from squirming, consoling you in cooes that you are fine when you were clearly not, the rough yet homely- well mannered everywhere except from the bedroom - persona continued for a short amount of before you knew you were pregnant at 6 months, in a span of 4 years you had given birth to his two beautiful daughters.
His ways had softened inordinately, treating you like a delicate doll and maybe you would have appreciated it if he was this way from the start but not after he had broken you in,when he had shaped that the concept of being claimed into your mind and heart and then leave you a loving but lukewarm intimacy. He kept your pleasure as priority even now and it was good, but with the way your body had changed the dulled down fire from him made you feel less secure at times and wonder at if the behaviour shift wasn’t from care but the lack of attraction.
You laid pliant, hips uplifted by the plush cushion moaning softly into his ear while his beard scratched at your skin moving his hips in slow deliberate movements, each push hitting that sweet spot that had your hands fisting at the bedsheets, his name leaving your lips in desperate plea to speed up, you never said it out loud but you wished he would understand- he shoved in impossibly deep slapping his palm tight around your half open mouth. His finger curled and gripped around your jaw and you were shocked for a second, hazy eyes shooting up to meet his face ,the sudden sharpness of his movement had caught you off guard but your wetness had started a whole new story together, cunt tightening noticeably hard at his length clamping tight enough that his eyebrows furrowed, forcing his jaw shut close to hold in a moan.
“Ammi apne bola toh aap ludo khelogi aaj” The knocks were muted, the kids chubby hnd pressing flat at the wooden wall that kept them away from their dearest mother, Sana’s voice was clear but Rasha was whining along with her older sister . “ Sana aapki ammi aaj bahut thak gayi hai, araam kar rahi hai abhi, hum aapke saath khelenge aap bas abhi ke liye Rasha ko apne saath leke bedroom mei wait karo, theek hai beta?” He replied back, fighting hard to eat away any hoarseness that remained. “ Pakka baba” “ Haan meri gudiyan pakka” “ Pakka promise?” she asked sweetly, he bit his lips, it was incredibly hard to keep himself from moving and over that to hold an innocent conversation with his daughter in this situation. “ Pakka promise beta” he forced out normally, before burying his face into your neck to muffle the loud hungry sigh.
“ Abbu please chalo na” the voice was there again soft and naive almost teary that his father wasn't running to shower her with affection in moments like he usually did - one trait both the daughter and mother shared when it came to him , “ Koi baat nahi, aap chale jaiye bacche jidd kar rahe hain” you whispered politely, dislodging him slowly from your insides that clamped down upon him.
“ Meri jaan” He whispered kissing your forehead patiently, his whole body unwilling to leave but he knew what having precious two toddler daughters meant and how loud their tantrums could get, and you were still -he assumed -exhausted from childbirth because he did not give you a long enough break with the children with Rasha being born one and a half year after Sana.
You naturally expected him to come back and give you that impending release you have been craving for ever since your postpartum depression wore off with Rasha, because that man genuinely looked like at the brink of breaking tonight or so you thought, because your dear shauhar was snoring with two chubby kids on his chest. Maybe he is just turning old, hair and beard taking this beautiful salt and pepper. Maybe men his age are more tired, not as active in bed. You patted your cheeks twice ‘ Stupid’ nobody changed that much in just 4 years and he was just
not that attracted anymore.
The guilt was bitter to blame your body after it had given you something so priceless but resentment was a funny thing and more Iqbal grew distant you cursed the shape you had taken, the next morning had disappeared in his usual fashion without a word just a small note at the bedside that was meant to be an explanation
“ Kaam jaroori than jaana pad gaya, call nahi utha paunga jab mai call karunga tab utha lena, Sana aur Rasha ka kyaal rakhna koi bhi taqleef hoo toh Sajid ko call kardena”
he won't be able to pick up the call but you are supposed to pick up the second he does, frustrating it frustrating to live this way and the way he had left you on the edge last night, this note only meant he wouldn't be back by the evening or late night because if it was that , he would have sufficed with a simple
“ Kaam jaroori tha, time se khaana ke lena”
“ Kaam jaroori tha, waqt se so jaana”
This ‘ long' note only meant one thing he was going to gone for long , one week had passed the insecurities brewing more with time and you had been too upset with everything cutting his calls without a second thought, till you were too tired to be peeved by him, missing him fondly enough that you had resorted to walking around his office, running your hand through the solid furnished wood, sitting yourself down in the leather sturdy chair where he would sit smoking his cigars, this room was off limit to you and the kids for several reason most being guns that he kept around and again he did not want you mixing with his violent life.
Your cell phone buzzed in your hand with a whir that echoed through the empty room, None other than your shauhar of course had messaged, short clipped to the point.
“ Ghar pahunch gaya saath mei kuch mehmaan hai, tum kaha ho?”
“ Aapse matlab? Bahaar hoon mai aap mehmaano ke saath hi rahiyega”
You hit send,oh shoot you did not meant to send it, meanwhile the house of men laughing could be heard from outside indicating he really was home.
“ Aap log baithaye, mai apni begum se milke aaya thodi naraaz hai shayaad” his deep voice was followed by the chuckle of the men around him, did he really need to tell everyone that?
“It can take time you might as well go through the files”
His office would be the last place you could, you needed time to stop the flush creeping onto your face and act angry, because you were angry just a little flustered but not any less vexed - and the first room he checked was the office.
You hurried back into the corner turning your face away from him completely and he had the audacity to laugh. Before you could take another breath he was there wrapping his arm around your waist, resting his head on the line of your shoulder. His rough beard scraped against your skin as he nuzzled
“ Itne se shareer mei itna saara gussa?”
You didn't reply, just cleared your throat, clearly trying to express your displease but he only took it as a cute attempt
“ Tumhe lagta hai sirf tumhe meri yaad aayi? Mhm meri jaan se ek hafta alag rahna mere liye asaan thodi tha, khaas kar jab tumne failsa kar liya tha mera phone nahi uthaane ka”
His voice was darker now, hands feeling rougher over the thin fabric of your nightgown “ Kyu nahi uthaya phone?” he scolded nipping at your earlobe.
“ Mann nahi tha”
“ Mann nahi tha?”
He repeated back pinching the soft your waist
“ Yeh joh phone hai na tumhare abbu ne nahi dilaaya hai tumhe, maine dilaaya hai mujhse baat karne ke liye aur agar nahi karni toh utha ke phek do isse”
he pried open your hand to get a hold of the cell phone, threatening to smash it against the floor.
Tears streamed down your face, you had been missing him for so long and the first thing he does after meeting you is taunt you, scare you about some stupid calls you did not pick up because you were upset,queasy, insecure. Iqbal went stiff the second he heard your sniffle
“ Sorry.. Aisa nahi bolna chaiye tha mujhe meri pyaari ko”
He didn't let you squirm away kissing every where till the pit in your stomach was replaced with the giddy feeling of being held by him, a man so much older than you yet so comforting. “ Bacche kaha hai?” “ Ammi ke paas” He hummed happily greedily kissing both your plump cheeks from behind, the beard still tickling at your skin, “ Accha kiya, uss din humaari baat adhuri rah gayi thi” he recalled cupping your jaw to make you look his way and you did, melting into whatever he was willing to give and for now it was a kiss he wholeheartedly needed after a one week apart from all of this softness.
He did not need to tell you twice to open your mouth just once sweep of his tongue against the seam of your lips told you enough, mouth parting for the man who owned you since the day you signed the nikaahnama since the day he laid those eyes on you. “ Iqbal” You murmured faintly into his mouth when his tongue grazed at your sensitive palate, exploring your mouth with an intensity you hadn't felt in months from him so much you had to find some anchor, hands going to tangle into the hair that fell below the nape of his neck, tangling in it gently.
He left your lip in a torturous parture, pushing you further into the wall till your very face and heavy bosom was pressed against the cold concrete. You were trapped and it felt intoxicating, the sound of him breathing right behind you so rousing that it went straight to your cunt. It was a joke right he wouldn't do it now, he had guests in the house- he dived into your neck sucking deep marks, you giggled trying to defuse the situation “ Iqbal ji bas bhi kijiye maan liya aap bahut pyaar karte hai humse” “Ji jaana voh toh bilkul karte hai” you heard the smirk smile in his voice.
He pressed you in further, reducing the room to a few inches and just breathing bodies “ Is kamre mei kyu aayi tum? Jis kaam ke liye mai mana karta hoon vahi kaam karne ka bahut shauk hai tumhe? Kitni dafa samajhaya hai yaha nahi aane ke liye, mera call uthaane ke liye”
Jeez what's with his mood swings
“ Yaad aa rahi thi aapki.. Isliye aagyi”
“ Yaad aa rahi thi toh bedroom mei chali jaati, yaad aa rahi hoti toh mera phone utha leti, bas badtameezi karne ke nayi aadat sikh rahi hoo tum”
that's more like it, you thought that's more like the man you married, hands snaking you squeeze your chest through the fabric in way he had not since three years, you moaned instantly tiny droplets of milk leaking at the fabric
“ Iqbal kapda kharaab ho jayega” You came up with the most pathetic excuse that he didn't even bothered replying just continued the movement, capturing and twisting your peaks in between his fingers. You licked your lips in anticipation the dark spot forming on your chest wasn't a problem for not over the seeping wetness in between your legs showing through the fabric in an obvious wet patch and the way your hips moved back instinctively to meet his.
“Do bachon ke baad tum jism se aur bhi zyada kashish aur haseen ho gayi ho... tumhein dekh kar sabr nahi hota”
“Ab kaha…ab itni acchi nahi lagti”
you smiled bitterly, he scoffed out loud hands slipping to lift up the thin cotton nightgown over your hips, breath going heavier after the fact that you weren't wearing an underwear,
“ Acchi nahi lagti? Itni tawajuhh se tumhe khuda ne banaya hai, lahore se aadhe raastien se hi mai ghar aa gaya tumhe mehsoos karne ke liye ab mana mat karna meri meri chaand” he ran his hand over the cellulite that sat on the back your thighs, over to the stretch mark that sprawled across the now loose skin of your stomach going over the parts you hated the most with more patience and reverence claiming them slow with his touch, you shuddered wiggling your hips so the fabric would fall back in place before this got any for and before he saw something he would find ugly.
He pressed another soft kiss to the nape of your neck, making your small resistance stop in place helping him by holding up the cotton nightie up by yourself, “ Seekh rahi hoo” He cooed in appreciation, cupping your throbbing wetness with one hand and you were already on your toes grinding slow on his hand a moment he allowed and praised with a caress to the back of your hand. You reached back to hold onto his wrist to keep his hand captured in between your thighs rocking your hips more desperately this time feeling the rough bristles that sat at the top of your palm from lifting heavy weight brushing against your swollen pearl deliciously each time.
“ Accha lag raha hai?” You nodded moaning his name sweetly, so sweetly he couldn't control himself and slam in two fingers inside your aching cunt. You gasped jolting back into his body for support, “ Meri jaan, upar karo isse aur” You complied in your hazy state lifting up your gown more than it let go of your ample chest, the cold air grazing the sensitive skin. With one hand moving inside you, curling his finger slow in the spot you liked and the other joining to torture you further by squeezing the full breasts. “ Agli baar se is kadar apne shauhar ko pareshan nahi karongi na meri jaan?” he flicked your clit with his thumb you could only mewl in response, bobbing your head in a whiny yes riding his hand like a good little wife when all you could see was the wall in front of you.
From outside you could hear the damp voices off his guests, the footsteps coming to a stop at the room beside his study and immediately tried to bite your lips and scoot away from his fingers, he quickened the pace leaving your breathless , “Isthir raho” he thrusted in particularly deep, deep enough you forgot about the men in the room just alongside this one mouth falling open to moan his name, he swept in holding your jaw till your face met his swallowing each sound that tried to escape. “ Iqbal koi sun lega” You whimpered pulling back to catch your breath, “ Shh chup raho”
You world paused when you felt it, he had unbuttoned his pants enough to free his length when you were withering with pleasure. His cock erect and poking at the line of your ass, he quickly withdrew his fingers wiping them down your back “Iqbal koi sun lega” you repeated, voice quivering with excitement, the temptation of feeling his hardness down your slick cunt, slapping the swollen clit on the head. You wanted nothing more than to be filled and the dread of some one might hearing it was just as dirty and exciting, he offered you his hand to nibble on, to keep quiet but you still kept being vocal waiting for the second he would seize all control and shut you up like he did that night.
Your heard the rustle of the fabric and wondered if he was taking off his shirt as well for better skin to skin but before you could blink he had turned you to face him, you smiled timidly watching the desire on his face shifting your hips slightly till he aligned with your entrance.
He had been nice about it for three years now even though you missed the roughness from when you first met him, it was expected he would go in slow- he dived right it in burying himself to the hilt, your lips fell agape but he stole your voice in a second, stuffing an rumaal into your mouth, till it touched the back of your throat. The sudden stretch was burning, your eyes rolling back from the dual sensation of being impaled on his 8 inch cock and the control he was taking over you.
(rumaal - handkerhchief)
Your walls accepted the intrusion despite the violent-ness of it, and you smiled in bliss around the makeshift gag, struggling to meet his hungry eyes. He wiped that smile away quickly with a heavy thrust
“ Zyada force lag raha hai?”
he asked, making sure you heard the sarcasm dripping from his voice, he pulled back a little before stabbing back in this time hitting your cervix, your eyes welled up from the pleasure pain.
“ Zyada dard ho raha hai?” he mocked, sweetening his voice to an unbelievable extent while ramming into you, holding you stable by one thigh draped over his arm, you shook your hard , mumbling, crying over the gag “ Aur zor se” he chuckled roughly, watching your puffed up cheeks looking adorable and asking him to go harder with this innocent face.
He melted into your demand working faster, mouth going to latch onto your nipples, happily slurping at the milk that leaked out into his mouth, you gagged around the fabric, the cloth dampening in your mouth muffling out everything that came out from your mouth. The Unquenched desire and impatience of 3 years finally being fulfilled had you clamping down on him like you had never before pushed up to meet his thrusts. “ Iqbal I need to come” your voice was half broken around the cloth but he could make out what you were saying. “ Abhi nahi meri jaan”
He grunted loudly in your ears, you were trembling, shaking to hold it in, his voice his scent so musky so masculine it was getting hard for you to obey, restlessly shifting in his big arms, face scrunched up in euphoria, when your hand slapped against the shelves, his trophy falling down with a loud thud, it took him a fraction to punish the mistake, yanking your head back hard wrapping his palm around your long undone hair.
“ Lagta hai Major sahab hi biwi jyada gussa mei hai” The men laughed, assuming you threw the trophy at him
You couldn't anymore, releasing all over his cock the wetness catching at his shirt , for the movement he couldn't keep in himself at the tightness clenching and pulsing around him and came inside you raw panting heavily against your clammy skin, licking the sweat that trickled down the line of your back. You coughed out the gag from your mouth, smiling nervously at him, snuggling your face into his broad chest.
“Mere ijajat ke bina kiya agay kaam mujhe bilkul bardasht nahi” he huffed out, pushing you away in a way you did not felt belittled but elated to see what he would do next, picking up the drenched handkerchief back up hands working on his cell phone. “ Sajid in sabko bolo hall mei mera intezaar karo, mujhe apni begum se kuch zarrori baat karni hai” you did not dare to fix your clothes and upset him further just watched him with those big curious eyes, tracing the sharp line of clenched jaw, the crease forming in between his eyebrows he looked even more tasteful and dangerous. He abruptly held you by your wrist dragging you along with him, settling into his leather chain manspreading, his bulge still hard and visible when he hauled you stomach down onto his thighs.
“ Beshram, badtameez, Dheet”
the insult rolled off his tongue and you only felt more aroused and inclined to rub against his rigid thigh. “Meri koi baat tumhare kaan tak nahi pahunchti, shayad maine hi tumhein sar par charha rakha hai” your breathed shakily over his skin ,watching him calculate and feel the rise and fall of your cheek“ Iqbal-” "Shayad main hi tumhare sath kuch zyada hi narm ho gaya hoon." He whispered darkly, slapping his hand hard against your rear. He wasn't holding back his force striking you hard enough to rattle your bones, each hit unrestrained blooming new red over your exposed bottom,
“ Aur yeh rumaal kis se puch ke nikaala hai tumne?” you sniffled looking over your shoulder to look at him, he pressed his fingers into your jaw till you opened your mouth. “ Ab kya jarrurat ab toh sab chale gaye-” He shoved it back in watching you cough before adjusting to the obstruction in your mouth. The taste salty against your tongue once again, he started back again, spanking the already swelling skin hard enough for you to start flailing and screaming around the fabric to escape the rough blows of his hands, the loud sound of the slaps echoing off in the room.
He only stopped when you started sobbing, snot running down your nose ,soothing the bruised skin,calmly running his hand up and down the arch. “ Shh shh” he watched your hole still greedily clench and unclench around nothing, the mixtures of your release spurting out and down your thighs in a lewd white concoction. The sight infuriated him further, he gathered the discharge on his thick digits and forced it back into your cunt. You moaned fervently,clutching at his pants "Chalo ab bas karo, apne aansu saaf karo” you nodded, sensing his cock poke at your stomach. He kept fucking you gently rubbing at your clit as a silent apology and reminder that he still loved you
"Ab toh meri baat suno gi na, meri jaan?" you nodded vigorously, blabbering nonsense into the cloth still shoved up your mouth hips twitching at the fact that he was scissoring his finger in your already over sensitive insides He finally allowed you to let go of it, taking the fabric out of your mouth “ Ab bolo, baat suno gi na? Ab tum ek acchi biwi ki tarah meri baat sunogi, haina?" “ Ji Iqbal” you trembled finally able to relax your jaw, he disciplined pinching the engorged flesh “ Major” he urged you patiently
“ Ji Major sahab” You whined, “ Table par chado, aur lait jao” he said suddenly leaving you empty again .
Your feet touched at your ears, thighs sore from holding them open and back like this with your own hands, watching his thick cock disappear into your slick cunt with each thrust, your entrance distending around him ruining you every man ever. Your breast jiggled painfully with each thrust, that he would lean into occasionally capture the dark brown nipples into his mouth still leaking milk from breastfeeding, mating press is a cruel position is all you knew right now, offering yourself to your husband like this was not only overly humiliating but dangerously arousing as well because you were shamelessly gripping him in.
You couldn't tell what was louder the sound of your hips meeting or the moans you he had finally given you the permission to let out, your walls crumbling under the brutalities he was performing on you.
He was fucking you so passionately, the rhythm of his hips bordering on madness for the fact at how pretty his wife was, grunting with each thrust boasting about how you were his good little wife and how tight you were till all the weary insecurity for your own body was swallowed by his need, rutting into you, before he came right into your womb, holding himself deep inside you. “ Ek aur waaris dogi tum mujhe”
The wind kissed your skin soft, the white pristine dupatta dancing with the small waves, you sat peacefully in the garden nursing your new born, this time a little boy with eyes like Iqbal. He was busy with Sana all focused on waddling Rasha trying to walk before she would fall and start crying loud enough to wake up the whole neighbourhood. The baby gurgled, stretching its tiny palm, his innocent face scrunching before relaxing into a deep sleep, the furrow between his eyebrows matching his father’s as he worked to manage two crackhead of daughters.
Soon enough Rasha and Sana found something better to do than trying to climb up their father, occupied with moulding mud from the garden into balls, Iqbal just sighed deciding he will scold them later when he had the energy to watch his princess’s cry, he wrapped the dupatta back around you and his son possessively. Kneeling at the ground to kiss the still swollen stomach, worshipping you for giving him yet again another beautiful child.
“Meri sabsi keemti amanat tum ho”
a/n- I love Iqbal so much I swear to god that man and I think spanking kink is very canon for him lol , PLEASE DONT KILL ME agar taglist koi galti se tag hogaya ho toh itne notification mei mistake ho jaati kabhi kabhi :.)
PROMPT : Iqbal seeing reader in just his army coat igniting desire in him
MADE FOR @tere-naal-nachna... I am your secret santa
WARNINGS : SMUT (Minors do not interact)
The gates of the Directorate-General for Inter-Services Intelligence did not open quickly, even for a man of Iqbal’s rank. Every clearance check was a calculated delay, a reminder that within these walls, individual lives were secondary to the state. By the time the heavy iron ironwork finally swung shut behind his sedan, the dashboard digital clock read 23:45.
Two hours and forty-five minutes late.
Iqbal gripped the steering wheel, the leather cold against his palms. His knuckles were white. The meeting had not been an ordinary briefing; it was an operational autopsy of a failed intelligence node along the western border. For five hours, he had sat in a windowless room under the glare of fluorescent bulbs, defending his analysts, dissecting satellite imagery, and enduring the quiet, icy wrath of the Director-General. His uniform felt like a cage—the starch in his camouflage shirt stiff with sweat, his boots heavy.
But as the city of Islamabad blurred past his windows—the purple jacaranda trees lit by the orange hum of streetlights—the tension of the boardroom shifted into a different, more domestic dread.
He knew exactly what was waiting for him at the house. Or rather, who.
“Discipline is not a part-time occupation, Y/N,” his own voice echoed back to him from three months ago. He remembered the exact tone he had used—the clipped, authoritative cadence he usually reserved for junior officers who failed to maintain their logs. It had been a Saturday. She had forgotten to set the timer on the heavy iron skillet, and breakfast had been delayed by fifteen minutes, throwing off his meticulously scheduled day of errands and maintenance. He had sat at the dining table, arms crossed, delivering a quiet, devastating lecture on the cascading effects of poor time management. He hadn't spoken to her for three days afterward, letting the silence enforce the lesson.
Now, the irony tasted like ash. He had broken the cardinal rule he so rigidly imposed on his household: he had failed to secure his perimeter. He had promised her this night—a rare truce in a life dictated by secure red phones and midnight callouts.
He turned the car into the driveway of their Cantonment bungalow. The house was dark save for a single light burning in the upper bedroom window. It looked less like a welcome and more like a guard tower.
He killed the engine. The silence of the night rushed in to fill the void. Iqbal closed his eyes for a three-second count, inhaling the cool night air, trying to shed the skin of the Major before he crossed the threshold. He adjusted his beret out of habit, took his briefcase, and stepped out into the dark.
---
The movie tickets sat on the small coffee table by the front door, their edges curling slightly in the humidity. They had been there since five o'clock.
You sat on the edge of the bed, the silk robe around your shoulders offering little comfort against the slow, creeping chill of the air conditioner. The clock on the wall—a heavy, brass marine chronometer that Iqbal insisted on keeping perfectly calibrated—clicked with an agonizing regularity.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
At seven, you had been dressed, your hair done, waiting by the window. At eight, the text message had arrived—a single, coded sentence from his secure line: Delayed. Do not wait. No explanation. No apology. The standard operating procedure of a man married to the state.
An ordinary anger would have resulted in slammed doors or a cold plate left on the counter. But as the hours stretched toward ten, your mind drifted back to that Tuesday morning in November. You had been exhausted from a week of hosting his colleagues' wives, and your eyes had slipped closed for just ten minutes more than allowed. The result had been a masterclass in military condescension. He hadn't shouted; Iqbal never shouted. He had simply dissected your routine with the precision of a surgeon, explaining how a fifteen-minute delay in the morning disrupted the efficiency of the entire day's objectives.
“If we lose control of the small increments,” he had said, his eyes fixed on his watch, “we cede control of the entire campaign.”
You looked down at your hands. The anger had burned itself out, leaving behind something far more calculated, cool, and sharp. If he wanted a campaign, you would give him one. If he believed so thoroughly in the sanctity of discipline and the consequences of its breach, he would have to face the court-martial he deserved.
You stood up, your resolution hardening. You didn't want a shouting match when he returned; you wanted a surrender.
You walked past your own wardrobe and opened his.
The scent hit you immediately—a mixture of sandalwood, expensive cologne, dry-cleaning fluid, and the faint, metallic tang of gun oil. It was a fiercely masculine space, every uniform hung precisely two inches apart, trousers creased so sharply they could cut paper. And there, hanging in the center of the seasonal rack, was the olive-green command coat.
It was a heavy, wool-blend field jacket, its shoulders adorned with the insignia of his rank. The fabric was weathered, showing slight fraying at the cuffs from his time in the northern valleys—missions he never spoke about, though the medals on his dress uniform told the story for him. This jacket was his second skin. It was the artifact of his identity, the symbol of the authority he used to govern both his men and his home.
You reached out and slid it off the heavy wooden hanger. The weight of it surprised you. It felt like holding a piece of armor.
You stripped off your robe. Beneath it, you wore nothing but a simple, silk slip—thin, dark, and utterly defenseless against the cold. Then, you lifted the heavy olive coat and slid your arms into the sleeves.
The interior lining was smooth but cool against your bare skin. The hem fell well past your knees, swallowing your frame, making you look small but dangerous. The sleeves hung over your knuckles, and the scent of him wrapped around you like a physical presence. You left the front completely unbuttoned, the heavy fabric parting to reveal the stark contrast between the rigid, rough wool of his world and the soft silk of yours.
You walked to the doorframe of the master bedroom, leaning one shoulder against the wood, and waited for the sound of his key in the lock.
---
The front door clicked open with a sound that felt loud enough to wake the neighborhood. Iqbal stepped into the foyer, his movements deliberate, trying to minimize the disturbance. The house was too quiet. The air felt heavy, charged with an unspoken tension that he usually encountered in hostile territory before an ambush.
He placed his briefcase on the table, his eyes immediately catching the two movie tickets. They looked like tiny indictments left out for a judge to see.
"Y/N?" he called out, his voice pitched low.
No answer.
He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his tunic, pulling the collar away from his throat as he ascended the stairs. Every step felt heavier than the last. He had rehearsed three different explanations during the drive—all of them factual, all of them classified, and none of them likely to matter. He was prepared for tears; he was prepared for a wall of silence. He was even prepared for her to be asleep, which would have been the most difficult outcome, prolonging the trial until morning.
He reached the landing and turned toward the bedroom. The door was open, a warm, golden light spilling out into the dark hallway from the bedside lamp.
He stepped into the frame and stopped dead in his tracks.
The apology he had spent thirty minutes constructing died instantly in his throat.
She was leaning against the far doorframe, her posture relaxed, almost indolent. But it wasn't her expression that froze the blood in his veins—it was what she was wearing.
His coat.
The olive-green wool, which had been through three field operations and two promotions, looked absurdly large on her small frame. The golden insignia on the shoulders caught the lamplight, gleaming dully. But because she hadn't fastened a single button, the heavy material draped open, revealing the dark silk underneath and the pale expanse of her skin.
The contrast was a physical shock to his system. The jacket was a symbol of absolute order, of the state, of his own rigid self-control. Seeing her wear it like a casual dressing gown, using its authority as a weapon against him, felt like a brilliant, tactical strike.
"You're late, Major," she said. Her voice wasn't raised. It was smooth, conversational, and completely devoid of the anger he had braced himself for.
Iqbal swallowed, his hand remaining frozen on the doorframe. For the first time in his career, he found himself without an operational plan.
You watched the color rise slightly in his neck—the only indication that the unflappable Major Iqbal had lost his footing. His gaze traveled from the lapels of the jacket, down the open front where the silk clung to your frame, to your bare feet against the hardwood floor, and then back up to your eyes.
The silence stretched, long and deliberate. You let him endure it, remembering the three days of silence he had given you over a few pieces of burnt toast and a late schedule.
"The briefing," he began, his voice gravelly, lacking its usual parade-ground command. "The DG called an emergency session. The communication lines in Sector Four went down at eighteen hundred."
"I’m sure they did," you said, taking a slow step forward. The heavy wool of the coat brushed against your calves, the movement causing the fabric to shift, drawing his eyes down again. "But as I recall, the chain of command in this house established that timelines are absolute. Wasn't that the phrasing you used? 'An excuse for a delay is simply a confession of poor planning.'"
Iqbal’s jaw tightened. He recognized his own words. Seeing them turned back on him while you stood there, draped in the very uniform that gave him the right to speak them, was an exquisite form of torture.
"Y/N," he said, taking a step into the room, his hands coming up in a rare gesture of appeal. "That was different."
"How?" You tilted your head, your hair falling over the green collar of the jacket. "Because your work matters more than our agreement? Because fifteen minutes of your time is worth a three-day lecture, but three hours of my time is worth a text message?"
You took another step, closing the distance between you until you could smell the dust and salt of the city on him, cutting through his cologne. You reached up, your fingers slow and deliberate as you took hold of his remaining collar buttons, unfastening them one by one. His chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths beneath your hands.
"You broke the perimeter, Iqbal," you whispered, using his first name instead of his rank, a deliberate move to strip away his professional armor. "And under your own rules, there are consequences for a lack of discipline."
Every instinct Iqbal possessed told him to reassert control. He was a commander; he was trained to dominate a room, to steer a conversation, to find the weakness in an opponent's position and exploit it. But as he looked down at her—at the way the heavy silver buttons of his coat pressed against the soft curve of her waist, at the quiet triumph in her eyes—he realized that any attempt to play the officer here would be an admission of complete defeat.
She had dismantled his entire defense with a single piece of clothing.
"What are the terms?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, completely surrendered to the rhythm she was setting.
"You don't get to ask for terms," she murmured, her hands moving from his collar to his shoulders, pushing the heavy uniform tunic off his arms. He let it drop to the floor without a thought—a three-star uniform left crumpled on the rug, an act that would have horrified him an hour ago. "You listen to the sentence."
She turned slightly, walking back toward the bed, the olive coat billowing out behind her like a cape, before she sat down on the edge of the mattress. She looked up at him through her lashes, the jacket slipping off one of her shoulders, exposing the smooth skin beneath the heavy epaulet.
"First," she said, holding up a single finger from beneath the oversized sleeve. "You will not mention the office, the headquarters, or the border for the next forty-eight hours."
"Agreed," Iqbal said, taking a step toward the bed, his boots feeling clumsy and loud in the quiet room.
"Second," she continued, her voice dropping lower, her gaze locking onto his. "The next time you feel the need to lecture me on time management, you will remember exactly how you look right now—completely at the mercy of someone who doesn't care about your schedule."
Iqbal reached the edge of the bed. He dropped to his knees before her, his height now level with her waist, bringing him eye-to-eye with the brass buttons of his own coat. The reversal was complete. The commander of men was on the floor, his pride discarded along with his tunic on the rug.
"And third?" he asked, his hands coming up to rest on her knees, feeling the warmth of her through the thin silk beneath the heavy wool.
"Third," you said, your hand reaching out to cup his jaw, your thumb tracing the hard line of his cheekbone where the tension was finally beginning to melt away. "You spend the rest of the night convincing me that you actually know how to prioritize."
Iqbal leaned into her touch, his eyes closing as the last remnants of the military day fell away, leaving only the quiet, heavy reality of the room and the woman who had broken his defenses without firing a single shot.
"The campaign is yours," he whispered against her palm. "I surrender." He smirked internally, knowing that after all the drama, she is gonna be the one on her knees, begging to get wrecked, to get fulfilled by his cock.
The sudden shift in momentum caught Iqbal entirely off guard. Before he could fully process the change in her posture, she guided him back onto the heavy leather couch. Settling onto his lap, her movements became slow and deliberate, a calculated assertion of control that left no room for his usual military discipline.
The heavy olive-green coat bunched up around them, its rough wool contrasting sharply against the smooth fabric of the sofa. Iqbal’s hands instinctively came up to rest on her waist, his fingers gripping the material of the jacket as he looked up at her, completely captivated by the quiet triumph in her eyes. The room seemed to shrink, the silence of the house replaced by the sound of their breathing as the last remaining distance between them disappeared.
"This is you punishment, take it.", she whispered in his ears. Seductively.
"I'm sorry for breaking your illusion babygirl, but trust me, you're never the dominating one." He smirked as he slammed her on the bed. The shift in domination was sudden. A minute ago, the same man who is currently holding the power was at her mercy.
The next moment, the coat was off her, revealing the soft, milky skin of hers. She closed her eyes, bucking her hips voluntarily against his, arching her back to feel his heat. She yearned for his thick cock, she needed him inside her, as she felt heat pooling in her cunt, her pussy weeping profusely.
But, alas, she felt his absence. She bolted her eyes open, only to find the empty room. She groaned as she got up from the bed, stumbling to find her robe while contemplating 1000 different ways to kill her husband. She stopped in front the walk-in closet, as she heard rattling.
She found her husband, putting his beloved coat in a hanger, while silently admiring it; probably getting flashbacks of his time in the deadly missions with less than 1% chance of survival.
As soon as he noticed her lingering presence, he turned instantly, covering the distance with three long strides, before throwing Y/N on his shoulders. "You have no idea about what you have ignited in me." He murmured against her ass.
In no time, she was again on the bed, face down, hands fisting the silk sheets, her robe discarded while Iqbal remained dressed, silently contrasting the dynamics of power.
His tongue traced a lazy line from her knee to the crease where her thigh met her hip. He lingered there, sucking a small mark into the skin, before moving to the other side. She could feel her wetness pooling, could feel the empty ache between her legs growing with every second he teased her.
"Please," She gasped.
He looked up at her, his chin resting on my thigh, his eyes dark obsidian with hunger. "Please what?"
"Please touch me."
"I am touching you." He smirked as he sensed the vulnerability.
"You know what I mean."
He smiled—that slow, wicked grin—and finally, finally, he lowered his head. His first touch was featherlight: just the barest brush of his lips against her clit. She gasped, hips jerking, and he chuckled softly, the vibration sending a jolt through my nerves.
"Easy," he repeated.
He parted her folds with his thumbs, exposing her clit to the cool air. She saw him study her, saw his eyes darken as he took in the glistening wetness, the way her entrance weeped with need.
Without any warning, he entered two thick digits in her, while his tongue licked her clit.
Y/N was a moaning mess. She moaned like a chained animal, begging for freedom, jerking as if a bird was trying to escape its golden cage.
As she chased the pleasure, when she was on the peak of ecstasy, he pulled out, she whined like a slut, pleading her master to fuck her, a lamb asking to be slaughtered.
He got on his legs, hand reaching the back of his suit, reaching for his revolver. "Today, my toy, my magical wand will do wonders to you."
He tore out of his clothes, his cock bulging out- long, thick and veined.
The metal was cold against her warm, demanding pussy. As the gun was pushed inch by inch, with a agonizing slowness, dealt with deliberateness and sharp precision. Her eyes rolled back in pleasure, as he thrusted the gun, hitting the g-spot just right.
"I-Iqbal, I'm clos---", she was cut off mid sentence by a stinging slap on her ass. "If you ever pull that move again, trying to dominate, wearing nothing but the precious coat I treasured for years, you won't come for a week straight."
Tears blurred her vision, as the pleasure died. Seeing her tears, Iqbal softened a bit.
" Do you wanna come ?"
"Yes daddy !"
"Then show me what you've got." He spoke with finality, as he dropped on the bed.
She got on him, straddling her hips against his and aligned her entrance with his cock. She began to ride him, breasts bouncing with each thrust, while his fingers toyed with her hardened nipples, leaving a pleasuring ache.
Iqbal came down first, hot pulse filling her completely, marking her from inside.
"Show me what else can that slutty mouth of yours do apart from speaking shit ?" He challenged.
Y/N's mouth moved towards his cock, savouring his juices, the salty tang pleasuring her tongue, saliva dripping down her chin. Iqbal slightly thrusted, testing her limits while making sure that it doesn't hurt her. His hands gripping her long, lustrous hair.
As the second wave of pleasure hit him, he yanked her head by her hair, slamming her plush against the bed, face down. "You have been a great whore, let me fulfill your wish now." Iqbal spoke with authority.
He spread her legs apart, wrecking her in half, her walls clamping against his cock, his thrusts were animalistic, fast and merciless.
Y/N was unravelling, being undone completely.
"Don't ever touch that coat again" Iqbal panted while still fucking the wit out of her.
She didn't regret getting her hands on his FAVOURITE MILITARY COAT tho. She wouldn't mind doing it again, if she was punished like this again.
---
@dhurandharsecretgiftexchange, thanks for the wonderful event!
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