Major Iqbal x (mute)reader
𝓗𝓲𝓼 𝓢𝔀𝓪𝓷 ᥬᩤ
A 𝓛𝓓𝓡 inspired moodboard for their love:
"Cherry" – For the dark, dangerous edge of Iqbal’s life mixed with the sweetness of their domesticity.
"Young and Beautiful" – Capturing the yearning Iqbal feels when he gazes at her photocard in lonely hotel rooms.
"Bel Air" – The ethereal, "coquette" softness of their private moments in the bath and the vanity.
"Burning Desire" – For the raw, intense devotion Iqbal feels every time he holds her after a long mission.
Disclaimer- All characters, names, and settings belong to their original creators, including Aditya Dhar and the rights holders of Dhurandhar. I claim no ownership over them.
wc: 4k.
cc: of the story @goodnightkatherine🪽
ᥬᩤ
Friday, Islamabad...
The screeching tires of cars, the honks, the screaming of a distant shopkeeper for his products felt so far from peace, a soft knife like reminder that he's away from his home, from her embrace.
Iqbal pulled his leather wallet from the pocket of his tactical jacket, the material worn smooth by years of use. Ignoring the cash and the identification cards that marked him as a shadow of the state, he reached into the hidden inner fold.
With a reverence that felt almost like a prayer, he pulled out a small, laminated photocard of yn.... his light.
In the dim hazel light of the Islamabad hotel room, her frozen image was the only thing that looked real.
He traced the curve of her cheek with his thumb.
For the rest of the world, he was the 'Angel of Death'—the man whose name was whispered in the corridors of power to make enemies tremble. But here, in the quiet of the night, he was simply a man aching for a home that didn’t speak a word, yet understood everything.
"Bas kuch din aur, meri jaan," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. (Just a few more days, mylove.)
He sighed, leaning his head back against the headboard, the weight of the "Bade Sahaab’s" demands still heavy on his mind.
The politics of the capital were loud and filthy.
He hated leaving her.
To the world, she didn't exist; she was his ghost, his secret, the only piece of his soul that hadn't been stained by the blood on his hands.
His mind drifted back to that morning he left. He remembered the way she had stood by the window, her small hand resting on his chest as he strapped on his holster.
She hadn't made a sound—she never did—but her eyes, wide and luminous, had pleaded with him.
"Tumhari khamoshi meri sabse badi kamzori hai, yn." (Your silence is my greatest weakness, yn.)
He closed his eyes, recalling how she had tucked a small note into his palm before he walked out the door.
It had no words, just a hand-drawn sketch of a house and a heart.
She was his shield as much as he was hers.
He protected her from the bullets and the monsters of his profession, but she protected him from becoming a monster himself.
A sudden vibration from his burner phone snapped him back to reality. It was a message from his trusted man Sajid in Lyari: “Bhabhi safe hain. Ghar ke bahar pehra sakht hai.” (Sister-in-law is safe. The guard outside the house is strict.)
Iqbal let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since he crossed the Margalla Hills.
He looked back at the photo. In it, she was smiling—a private smile meant only for the man behind the lens.
"Log kehte hain main maut baant-ta hoon..." He murmured, a bitter, fond smile twitching at his lips.
"Magar unhein kya pata, meri zindagi ek aisi ladki ki mutthi mein band hai jo bol bhi nahi sakti." (People say I deal in death... but what do they know, my life is held in the fist of a girl who cannot even speak.)
He pressed the photocard to his lips, the cool surface a poor substitute for her skin. The issues with the high command could wait until dawn.
For now, in the silence of this sterile hotel room, he allowed himself to be human.
He tucked the photo back into his wallet, placing it right against his chest in his shirt pocket before lying down.
He didn't need the city’s lights or the prestige of his rank.
He just needed the silence of their space, where his heart was kept in a glass box, guarded by a woman who spoke to his soul without ever needing a tongue.
In Lyari...
Outside's world....the high concrete walls topped with jagged glass and the heavy iron gate suggested a man of power lived within—a man who dealt in the currency of fear. But inside, the air smelled of the soft vanilla candles Iqbal brought her from his travels and the faint, lingering musk of his cologne that still clung to the pillows.
yn moved through the kitchen. The floorboards were cool beneath her bare feet.
She reached for a kettle, her movements fluid and practiced. She didn't need sound to navigate her world; she had the rhythm of the shadows and the vibration of the city hum outside her walls.
She paused, resting her hand on the cold marble of the counter.
It had been three days.
In the silence, her thoughts were loud. She looked toward the heavy door of his study, usually locked, but always smelling of him. She missed the weight of his gaze—the way Iqbal, the man who supposedly carried death in his pocket, would soften the moment he stepped over the threshold.
She walked to the window, pulling the heavy velvet curtain back just an inch. Outside, in the dim streetlights of Lyari, she saw the silhouette of a man leaning against a jeep. One of Iqbal’s men.
They were always there, silent guardians of the Major’s "heart."
"Aap kab aayenge?" she thought, her throat tightening. (When will you come back?)
She couldn't speak the words, but they echoed in the cavern of her chest.
She hated the distance.
When he was home, he was her moon, wrapping his large, scarred hands around her smaller ones as if he could hide her from the very universe.
He treated her like a centered sun, the way he also caresses her face saying, "Tum meri zindagi ki roshni ho.. meri yn" (you're the light of my life.... my yn)
She walked into their bedroom, the large space feeling cavernous without his presence. On the bedside table sat a small, white notebook and a fountain pen.
It was her voice.
She sat on the edge of the bed and opened it to a fresh page. Her handwriting was cursive, a sharp contrast to the brutal world Iqbal inhabited.
“Iqbal, aaj baarish hone wali hai. Lyari ki hawa mein voh mitti ki mehak hai, magar aapki mehak nahi.” (Iqbal, it’s going to rain today. The air in Lyari smells of earth, but it doesn’t smell of you.)
She traced the letters, imagining him reading them.
He always did.
Every time he returned from a mission, he would sit in the armchair, pull her onto his lap, and read every word she had written while he was gone.
He would kiss her fingertips, the ones that held the pen, and whisper that her ink was more powerful than his bullets.
She stood up and went to his wardrobe, pulling out one of his discarded linen shirts. She pressed it to her face, inhaling deeply.
It was faint, but he was there—gunpowder, expensive tobacco, and that underlying warmth that was just him.
A sudden thunderclap shook the windowpane. She didn't flinch; she was used to the violence of nature, just as she was used to the violence of her husband’s life.
She walked back to the bed and tucked herself under the heavy duvet, clutching his shirt to her chest. She sometimes wonders.. why? Why he still look at her like she's a sun?.. she's mute girl, yet he looks at her like she's a beautiful french opera or muse or a soft swan...
She closed her eyes, visualizing him in that far-off hotel in Islamabad.
She knew he would be looking at her picture. She could almost feel the phantom touch of his thumb against her cheek through the lamination of the photocard he carried.
"Main yahan mehfooz hoon, Iqbal. Magar adhoori hoon." (I am safe here, Iqbal. But I am incomplete.)
The house was quiet, but her heart was a riot of yearning.
She fell asleep to the sound of the rain lashing against the glass, dreaming of the moment the heavy iron gates would groan open, signaling that her husband had come home to rest in the only arms that weren't afraid of him.
The day of his return, Lyari...
The iron gates groaned open finally. Then came the sound—the low, rhythmic growl of a heavy engine vibrating through the floorboards.
yn was already on her feet, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She didn't rush to the window this time; she stood in the center of the living room, her fingers twisting the hem of her soft pink frock, her eyes fixed on the heavy oak door.
The lock clicked. It was a sharp, final sound.
Iqbal stepped inside, bringing the scent of the outside world with him—dust, rain, and the cold, metallic edge of the capital. He looked exhausted.
His tactical jacket was unzipped, his hair disheveled, and the dark circles under his eyes spoke of the sleepless nights spent dealing with the Bade Sahaab.
But the moment his eyes landed on her, the "That men" vanished. The hardness in his jaw dissolved, and his shoulders, usually held with military rigidity, finally dropped.
"yn" he breathed.
He didn't move toward her immediately; he stayed by the door, shedding his holster and placing his weapon on the side table as if purging himself of the violence before touching her.
She couldn't contain herself any longer.
She crossed the room in a blur of silk and lace, crashing into his chest. Iqbal’s arms wrapped around her instantly, hauling her upward until her toes barely touched the floor.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of vanilla and home so deeply it sounded like a sob.
"Shukr hai... Khuda ka shukr hai," he muttered into her skin. (Thank God... thank God.)
He pulled back just enough to frame her face with his large hands.
His thumbs, the same ones that knew exactly how to pull a trigger without hesitation, now moved with agonizing tenderness over her features, checking for any sign of distress he might have missed from a distance.
"Tum theek ho? Kisi ne pareshan toh nahi kiya?" (Are you okay? Did anyone trouble you?)
yn shook her head vigorously, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
She reached up, taking his hand and placing it over her heart so he could feel the frantic rhythm—a message that said I am alive because you are home.
Iqbal let out a long, shaky breath, leaning his forehead against hers.
"Islamabad mein har lamha aisa lag raha tha jaise dum ghut raha ho. Wahan bahot shor hai, yn. Sirf tumhari khamoshi mein sukoon milta hai mujhe." (Every moment in Islamabad felt like I was suffocating. There is too much noise there, yn. I only find peace in your silence.)
He led her to the sofa, refusing to let go of her hand for even a second. He sat down and pulled her into his lap, cocooning her in his arms as if the world outside was still trying to find her.
He reached for the small notebook on the coffee table, the one she had filled while he was gone.
He flipped through the pages, his eyes softening as he read her silent thoughts. When he reached the page about the rain and the scent of the earth, he stopped.
He looked at her, his gaze intense and raw.
"Meri jaan, main tumhare bina adhoora hoon. Log mujhe maut ka farishta kehte hain, magar meri saansein tumhare hath mein hain." (My life, I am incomplete without you. People call me the angel of death, but my breath is in your hands.)
yn leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, then his eyelids, and finally the bridge of his nose.
She used her fingers to sign a simple, private gesture they had shared for years—a hand over the eyes, then moved to the heart. I see only you; I feel only you.
Iqbal closed his eyes, holding her closer.
The power struggles of Islamabad, the threats of the underworld, and the weight of his rank were miles away.
"Ab koi kahin nahi ja raha," he whispered, kissing her palm.
"Ab sirf main hoon, aur meri sukoon duniya." (Now, no one is going anywhere. Now it’s just me, and my silent world.)
She held her small notepad against his chest, the pen scratching softly against the paper. She finished and tilted it up for him to see.
“Maine aapke liye aapki pasand ki biryani banayi hai, aur zarda bhi. Aur garam pani taiyaar hai... aap thak gaye honge, pehle naha lijiye?” (I’ve made your favorite biryani and some zarda too. And the warm water is ready... you must be tired, shall you bathe first?)
Iqbal’s gaze softened as he read the words, his heart tightening at the domesticity of it all.
He didn't answer with words.
Instead, he tucked the diary onto the side table, slid one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees, and stood up in one fluid motion.
yn gasped silently, her hands instinctively clutching his shoulders, her face burying into the crook of his neck.
He carried her through the darkened hallway into their master suite.
The bathroom was already of steam, the scent of rose candles she had lit earlier swirling in the moist air. The large porcelain tub was filled to the brim, the water perfectly still and inviting.
He set her down gently on the cool marble floor.
The silence between them was thick, charged with the kind of intimacy that only years of shared secrets could build.
yn reached out, her small, delicate fingers trembling slightly as she touched the silver cufflinks on his wrists.
She popped them free, setting them aside, before moving to the top button of his shirt.
Iqbal stood perfectly still, his breath hitching. To his mens, he was a statue of granite, but under her touch, he was clay. She worked her way down, her knuckles grazing the hard planes of his chest.
As the shirt fell away, revealing the jagged, silver scars that mapped his violent life, yn didn't flinch.
She leaned forward, pressing her lips to a particularly deep mark near his collarbone—a silent blessing for the life he had managed to keep.
"Tumhare siwa koi nahi jaanta ke is pairahan ke peeche kya hai," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. (No one but you knows what lies beneath this uniform.) He held her face and leans to kiss the top of her head.
Once the water claimed him, yn knelt at the edge of the tub.
She poured a rich, men's shampoo into her palms and began to work it into his dark, thick hair.
Her fingers moved with a rhythmic grace, kneading the tension out of his scalp, pressing into the pressure points at the base of his skull.
She moved to his shoulders, her thumbs digging into the heavy knots of muscle that carried the weight of the ISI's secrets.
Iqbal let out a long, shuddering groan of relief, his head lolling back against the rim. He reached up, catching her hand and bringing it to his face.
He looked at her, his dark eyes raw with a sudden, overwhelming need for her proximity.
"Paas aao... mere saath," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. (Join me.)
yn didn't hesitate.
She shed her damp frock, her movements like a silent dance in the steam, and stepped into the water.
Iqbal immediately pulled her back against him, so she sat between his legs, her back pressed against his broad, warm chest.
The water rose, cascading over the edges of the tub, as they became a single entity in the warmth.
He took the loofah (FAAH), soaking it and letting the water trickle down her soft shoulders.
Then, taking the bottle of rose-scented wash she favored, he began to lather her long hair.
His large hands, usually meant for holding iron and lead, were agonizingly gentle. He massaged the suds through her tresses, his touch a silent vow of protection.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him, his chin resting on her wet shoulder as he inhaled the scent of rose and damp skin.
"Log kehte hain ke farishton ki koi zaban nahi hoti," he whispered into her ear.
"Shayad isiliye Khuda ne tumhe meri zindagi mein bheja... meri khamosh dua ban kar." (They say angels have no tongue. Perhaps that is why God sent you into my life... to be my silent prayer.) They leaned in each other's embrace. The moment is still, as if it itself is in awe of their soft love.
As Iqbal stepped out of the water first. Droplets cascaded down the hard, scarred muscle of his back, catching the flicker of the candlelight.
He reached for a heavy charcoal towel, snapping it open and wrapping it securely around his waist.
Without a moment’s pause, his attention returned entirely to the woman still in the water.
He didn't reach for his clothes. Instead, he reached for a second towel—this one softer, thicker, and pristine white.
yn sat in the tub, her wet hair clinging to her back like silk. Iqbal leaned over, his large hands reaching into the water to lift her out with the same ease one might lift a child.
He immediately enveloped her in the white towel He held her against his chest for a moment, feeling the steady thrum of her heart against his own.
"Thand lag rahi hai?" he murmured, his voice echoing slightly against the tiles.(Are you feeling cold?)
She shook her head, leaning her forehead against his damp shoulder.
He carried her out of the humid bathroom and into the cool, air-conditioned expanse of their bedroom.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamps, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls.
He sat her down on the velvet-cushioned vanity stool.
In the mirror, their reflection looked like a painting of contrasts: the rugged, dark-eyed Major with shoulders like a mountain, and the delicate, ethereal woman who held his heart in her silent hands.
Iqbal picked up a third, smaller towel. Standing behind her, he draped it over the long, dark silk of her hair.
He began to dry it, not with the hurried movements of a man in a rush, but with slow, rhythmic presses.
He gathered the weight of her hair in his hands, squeezing the moisture out gently, his fingers occasionally grazing the nape of her neck.
"Itne lambe baal hain tumhare... sambhalti kaise ho inhe mere bager?" he murmured with a sly smile, his voice dropping into that deep, private register meant only for her.(Your hair is so long... how do you manage it without me?)
He watched her in the mirror. yn reached up, touching his hand where it rested on her shoulder, her eyes reflecting the soft glow of the room.
She leaned her head back against his stomach, closing her eyes as he continued his task.
Iqbal took a wide-toothed comb from the vanity, starting from the very tips of her hair and working his way up with painstaking patience.
He hated the idea of a single knot causing her even a second of discomfort.
"Islamabad ki baaton ne dimaag thaka diya tha," he said softly, watching her through the mirror.
"Magar tumhare baalon ki ye mehak... ye sab bhula deti hai." (The talk in Islamabad had tired my mind. But the scent of your hair... it makes me forget everything.)
yn watched him in the reflection. She reached up, placing her hand over his on the towel, signaling him to stop for a second.
She turned slightly on the stool, looking up at him with eyes full of an unspoken question.
He understood.
He knelt on one knee before her, bringing them eye-to-level.
"Sab theek hai, meri jaan," he assured her, his thumb stroking her damp cheek.
"Bade Sahaab ke masle sulaj jayenga. Jab tak main yahan hoon, koi bhi deewar hamare darmiyan nahi aa sakti. Tum meri amanat ho." (Everything is fine, my life. The issues with the Big one's will be resolved. As long as I am here, no wall can come between us. You are my trust/possession.)
He put the comb down and ran his fingers through her now-detangled hair, spreading it over her shoulders like a dark veil.
He burying his face in the damp warmth of her neck, his arms wrapping around her from behind, pulling her small frame against his solid chest.
"Meri khamosh shehzadi," he whispered against her skin.
"Tumhe duniya se chhupa kar rakhne ka dil chahta hai. Kaash ye waqt yahin ruk jaye." (My silent princess. I feel like hiding you away from the entire world. I wish time would just stop right here.)
He again picked the towel and continued to dry her hair more so she wouldn't catch cold, still being on his knees for her until it was a soft, damp cloud around her shoulders, the scent of rose and jasmine filling the space between them.
Then he cupped her face, his large thumbs tracing the delicate line of her jaw. yn looked up at him, her eyes searching his, finding the man beneath the Major, the soul beneath everything.
Slowly, as if asking for permission he already possessed, he leaned in.
When their lips met, it wasn’t the cold precision of his world; it was a desperate, hungry reclamation.
It was a kiss that tasted of long nights in Islamabad, of whispered prayers, and of the fierce relief of homecoming.
He kissed her with the intensity of a man who lived every day on the edge of a blade, finding his only sure footing in her.
"Tum meri saans ho, yn... Meri yn," he murmured against her lips, his voice a broken thread of silver. (You are my breath, yn.)
He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against hers, both of them breathing the same air.
Then, with a fluid strength that made her feel weightless, he hooked his arms beneath her and lifted her from the stool. He carried her the short distance to the large, mahogany bed, the sheets already turned down and inviting.
He laid her down with such gentleness it was as if he feared she might shatter.
As he climbed in beside her, the mattress dipped under his weight. He didn't leave even an inch of space between them.
He pulled her toward him, and yn instinctively slid her head into the familiar hollow of his shoulder, her ear pressing directly over his heart.
Iqbal wrapped his massive arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his side, while his other hand tangled in the silk of her drying hair.
He pulled the heavy duvet over them, sealing them into a world where only they existed.
The room was silent, save for the rhythmic thudding of his heart.
To anyone else, it was just a pulse, the steady engine of a lethal man.
But to yn, as she closed her eyes and listened, the heartbeat had a cadence. Thump-thump. Y-N. Thump-thump. Y-N. Every beat was a silent recitation of her name, a constant confirmation that he lived only for her. (ts is cringe but cute welppp)
He felt her relax against him, her breathing slowing into the shallow rhythm of sleep.
He kissed the top of her head, his eyes staring into the darkness of the room, vigilant even in rest.
She shifted closer, her small hand splayed over his ribs, anchoring him. In that bedroom, protected by high walls and loyal shadows, the Major finally closed his eyes.
"So jao, meri jaan. Jab tum jaagogi, main yahin hounga." (Sleep, my life. When you wake, I will be right here.)
In the haze of the steam, dim lit lamps and the safety of their hidden home, the 'Major Iqbal from ISI' was nowhere to be found.
There was only Iqbal, finally at peace, anchored by the woman who loved him in the most beautiful silence he had ever known.
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ilove ts love '𝓛𝓸𝓿𝓮'
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