On special request of @twinblueflamee, here comes the Prithviraj Pratap x Indu’s younger sister oneshot (littlu self-promotion but if you want Prithvi’s bot on C.ai—you can use mine 😜😉).
Enjoy your reading!
Lovers? Even Worse
Prithviraj Pratap x Indu’s Younger Sister!Reader
Were they friends? No. Were they lovers? Even worse…
They said opposites attract, and yet, Prithvi Pratap had no interest in opposites. Rather his gaze sought the figure of the younger daughter of Rajkumar Seksaria.
Warnings: He fell first and harder. Enemies to lovers. Prithvi is a stubborn and hotheaded man. Age gap. Arranged marriage. Banter. Blackmailing (not the reader).
Tag List: @twinblueflamee, @sonasarchive, @goodnightkatherine, @poetry-beauty-love-writez, @myvarya, @budugu
Connections in the realm of politics were the currency that could buy power. The kind that came with the backing of the voters. The kind that came when the men meant to enforce the laws written years ago implemented the rules you made. And the kind that came with the chair of the Chief Minister of the state.
And Prithviraj Pratap had grown up watching his family consolidate connections in the highest ranks of Madhya Pradesh. He had watched a government forming due to his family’s party, and he had witnessed it fall when they withdrew it.
Everything had been going according to the plan—until the dirty claws of politics sank into the belly and tore it to pieces.
One second, he was the heir apparent to the Rashtrawadi Party, and in another? He was forming one of his own, but there stood problems waiting for him—like sharp thorns in his path.
Jana Shakti could only win if it had enough funding to campaign for the fast-approaching elections, but how could he—a young, temperamental leader with a childhood of wealth and abundance, spoilt, some would say—arrange for such numbers in such a short time?
His answer had come soon enough at the hands of his younger brother Samar.
An arranged marriage with the daughter of the local industrialist Rajkumar Seksaria—a man who had been a close acquaintance of his family. A man who had two young daughters, one blooming like a sunflower on a sunny day while the other was the calm of monsoon.
Prithvi knew Samar had meant Indu when he had proposed the plan, and he knew why she was the more…appropriate choice.
Bright like the sun in the heat of May, with a smile that lightened up her entire face. Completely opposite of the sharp-eyed man with anger like a bubbling volcano. The safer choice that would balance him out in the optics.
But his mind was already set on another.
The younger sister was nothing like Indu—not bright and cheerful. But calm, like the moon in a dark night. Steady but not loud. Someone who would use her mind before she uses the sharp blade of her words, with a smile that could kill enough men and even more boys.
Someone who had never been afraid of speaking her mind—and that was enough to have caught his eyes.
He had known her his whole life, given that she was her elder sister’s shadow, following her with quiet steps and observing eyes. The silence to her sister’s chaotic storms; the mind of cognition while her sister was the impulsive heart.
And Prithvi had always preferred mind to heart.
They never really got along, always bickering and arguing over the prevalent issues of the political world—and even when they were not discussing politics? They were bickering about something else.
Always together, always conversing, but never agreeing.
And somewhere along the line, he had started observing things he shouldn’t have. Like how she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was uninterested in a conversation, or how her gaze would always clock all the exits and guards in a room. She preferred wearing lighter colours instead of the eye-catching dark ones, plain solid kurtas over the flowy, flower prints Indu wore. Her hair was always pulled away from her face, in a loose braid with a few strands escaping, or in a bun held together by a pen.
“Aap jaise log hi humare system ke liye sabse bada khatra hai,” (people like you are the most dangerous for our system) she had hissed during a heated debate between them, something about corrupt civil servants and even more corrupt politicians.
“Hum jaise matlab?” (What do you mean by people like us?)
Prithvi had only recently entered the horizons of the game the men of his family had been playing for ages. A youth leader with a powerful name and an entire party’s support. Known already for his charismatic words, just as the whispers of his temper were heard behind hands.
He could still vividly recall the fire of defiance in her brown eyes, burning like the sun itself, and yet controlled like a bonfire under a starry night. Almost as if the Agni Dev himself danced in those orbs.
“Matlab joh apne jhoothe waadon se logo ko phassa kar votes lete hai, aur phir gayab ho jaate hai.” (I mean those who charm the people into giving votes with fake promises, and then disappear.)
Had it been someone else, his fist would have already kissed the jaw in a rough knockout. But the then-youth leader had only found himself smirking, stepping closer until he could study each of her long eyelashes under the April sun.
“So you think I am charming?”
“In your dreams, Pratap.”
When they had been younger, the thought of her not calling him ‘bhaiya’ angered him deeply, for he felt—back then—that she was refusing to respect him. But the realisation of how big a blessing in disguise it was came years later, way after she had walked out of their bickering with flushed cheeks and hands trembling in anger.
His father had thrown a grand party on the eve of his birthday, introducing him to men he had seen walking in and out of the doors of their bungalow, but never spoke to until that day. They shook his hand, complimented his looks, praised how he carried himself like a ‘true politician’, whatever that meant. He had seen the glances between the conversation—of skeptical, of insecurity, of the quiet ‘will he be the next head of the party’.
In all honesty? He basked under the spotlight.
Until she had walked in with a saree draped around herself like a weapon of mass destruction, her eyes sharpened by the kohl and her lips painted a sinful crimson that had made his breath stutter for a moment before his composure slid back into place.
He had avoided her like a plague that night, for his heart threatened to give up at the mere sight of her, and he wasn’t keen on finding out what shall transpire when he saw her up close. At least, not that night.
But he had understood one thing.
He has to have her.
And he had tried everything in his power to make that happen. From trying to charm her into giving him a chance to woo her—which ended up with them bickering over his ‘outrageous audacity’—to trying to persuade his father Chandra Pratap and uncle Bhanu Pratap into asking her hand in marriage, which again backfired, for both of them had ambitions far beyond the boundaries of Madhya Pradesh. He had spoken of her in riddles to his mother, calling her ‘the moon hiding behind the mist of winter’ one night, and ‘the bells of a temple echoing through the hilly valleys of the Himalayas in the morning’ the other.
Still, as days turned to weeks and weeks into months, and years had passed since his unsuccessful attempts at having her, his hopes had plummeted—a desire burning still inside his chest, but the practicality had softened the glow.
But now he sat in front of Rajkumar Seksaria, with Samar and Brij Gopal flanking him, Prithvi realises with an invisible startle that this was his only chance. That one moment he had been waiting for since she had dared to show up to his birthday in the softest of pink, as if she was one of the very roses that had decorated those walls that night.
“Toh meri beti se shaadi ke badle tum chahte ho ki main tumhari party fund karu?” (So in exchange of a marriage to my daughter, you want me to fund your party?)
That was precisely what Prithvi wanted. But they were talking of the wrong daughter still. The elder sister instead of the mastermind that the younger one was. But soon, he will erase that confusion from their minds, once and for all.
“Ji.” (Yes.)
“Aur main aisa kyu karunga?” (And why would I do that?)
The man leaned back against the couch, sparing not even a single glance in the direction of the two men sitting beside him. Instead, his gaze moves past the industrialist—stopping squarely at the object of all his desires. The very bane of his existence; the fire that draws him closer to his end.
“Kyuki apka damad CM hoga.” (Because your son-in-law would be CM.)
Greed, Prithvi had learned early, could sway the morals of the most honourable man, and businessmen and politicians had questionable morals to begin with. And what can an industrialist want more than a close relative of his in power? Especially when he has enough crimes to hide.
“Hume yeh rishta manzoor hai, aaj se Indu—” (I accept this relationship, today onwards Indu—)
A huff of amusement escapes the man clad in a plain white kurta, a maroon scarf curling neatly around his neck, his polished footwear shone under the lights as he stood up, rounding the table and bending down a little. The next words were a whisper into the businessman’s ear—off record as many things in Rajkumar’s life has been:
“Suna hai Malanpur wali factory ki zameen kabhi sarkar ki hua karti thi, jispe apne apni industry bana daali—aur nakli kagaz bhi banva liye…” (I have heard that Malanpur factory’s land used to be government’s, on which you opened your industry—and forged fake documents…)
His lips twitched, desperate for a smirk, but his face remains passive while his hands grip his soon-to-be father-in-law’s shoulders, prompting him to stand up. How could he possibly sit when his son-in-law was standing? That would be a blatant mistake, won’t it?
“Kya chahiye tumhe?” (What do you want?)
The desperation in the whispered words amused Prithvi to an extent beyond his comprehension. He realises in that moment why men fought for power, committed sins and acts horrifying enough that they were buried before they could see the light of a day. The intoxicating effect of seeing a powerful man bend his knee and serve his whims.
“Apki choti beti.” (Your younger daughter.)
The next few moments passed like a whirlwind—with a startled Rajkumar Seksaria rambling about ‘she is too young to be a politician’s wife’ and her eyes narrowing while he could see the gears of her mind working. He wondered what she was thinking; whether it was trying to find a motive behind his words, or whether it was trying to deduce what her life would be.
But it was the words that left her lips that made everyone raise their eyebrows and share glances, all while she remained impassive—the very moment Prithvi decides that her father knew nothing about her, for she would be perfect as the wife of the most important man in the state.
“Hume Prithvi se akele mein kuch baat karni hai.” (I want to speak to Prithvi in private.)
With a reluctant nod from the elders, she guides him through the maze of corridors of the mansion to the sprawling gardens—neat flowerbed, carefully cut trees, a stone way leading to a sitting area in between the space. Six chairs were centred around a white table, fancy without being loud. And yet, the arranged beauty of the greenery around them was nothing in compared to the woman in front of him.
The pink kurta she wore hugged her in all the right places, and the man following her like a guard dog had to tear his gaze away from her just to stop the river of thoughts he would not dare admit in the light. Thoughts that urged him to press against the nearest tree and kiss her—show her how much she had tortured him all these years.
But he stops a few steps away when she turned around, leaning her hips against the table while her arms crossed in front of her, drawing his gaze to the curve of her bosom, but his attention hastily diverts itself to the huge tree that provided shade to the arrangement of the table and the chairs.
“Hum kyu? Didi kyu nahi?” (Why me? Why not didi?)
He had expected that question, but he hadn’t been prepared enough to answer it immediately. Instead, he takes a step closer, and another until only a few inches separated them, shared breath warming each other’s face.
“Kyuki aap samajhdar hai.” (Because you are sensible.)
The kind that would stand by his side and not behind him. The kind that would not sit like a trophy by his side but participate actively in the matters of state politics—and one day, if the fate had willed so, even in national politics. The kind that would give better solutions to problems than the old men whose primary purpose was to fill their pockets.
“Kyuki aap kabhi mujhse dari nahi.” (Because you were never scared of me.)
Not when they were bickering and his voice had risen with rage flickering behind his eyes, for who would dare defy the opinions of the future Chief Minister? Except for, as it stood, his wife-to-be. Not even when he had lost his calm and nearly beaten a journalist asking evasive questions about something he doesn’t even remember now. She was never afraid—always putting forth opinions that rivalled his, without any fear.
It had annoyed Prithvi once, but things that annoy one can be things to be admired, and she was the only woman he cherished—even if it had been from a distance.
But not anymore.
“Kyuki aap mere dimag se jaati nahi hai. Subah, shaam—har waqt sirf apke baare mein sochta hu and it’s annoying, Ms. Seksaria. Kyuki aapse zyada respect na maine kisi ki kari hai, aur shayad kabhi kar bhi nahi paunga. Kyuki…pyaar toh hum bohot karte hai aapse…bass batana nahi aaya.” (Because you don’t leave my mind. Morning, evening—all the time, I think about you and it’s annoying, Ms. Seksaria. Because I don’t respect anyone more than you, and probably won’t.)
Not even the birds dared to chirp in the silence that fell in the garden, a tension so thick that it could be cut by a knife.
His hand rises almost cautiously, brushing away a loose strand away from her face, tucking it away behind her ear before his finger begins tracing her helix—a feather-light touch that send shivers down her spine. His thumb brushes against her cheek, eyes lingering on every inch of her features, as if committing her to his memory.
“Do sharte hai humari.” (I have two conditions.)
Prithvi only nods, even though he knew he would agree to them, regardless of what they were. Anything for her.
“Humse kabhi jhooth bolne ki koshish mat kijiyega. Khoon bhi karke aaye hai, toh bhi sach,” (Never try to lie to me. Even if you have murdered someone, tell the truth) she whispered, lips parting in a quiet exhale while her gaze flicks down to his lips. And had he not been waiting for her second condition, he would have kissed her by now. After all, patience had never been his forte, unless she was included in the mix.
“Manzoor hai.” (I accept.)
A pause. An exhale of hers that he breaths in like it was the most sacred air in the world. A small moment, her ducking her head a little—shy for the first time for him to witness—and their skin brushes against one another. Her forehead barely grazing his chin. Something that looked rather normal to anyone, but it had their hearts racing in their chests.
Her hands rise then, fingers curling into the collar of his kurta while the familiar fire shine in her eyes again.
“Agar kisi aur ladki ke baare mein socha bhi, toh neend mein hi maar dalungi.” (If you even think of another woman, I will kill you in your sleep.)
A gentle, admiring caress of his thumb on her cheek while a smirk brushes his lips, amusement dancing in his eyes. There she was, he thought to himself before he leaned his head forward, forehead resting against hers.
“Apke hote hue kisi aur ki kya zarurat?” (What is the need of another if you are here?)
Disclaimer: This story is a work of art and fiction and doesn’t wish to hurt anyone’s emotions or beliefs. Characters shown are purely inspired from their portrayal in the movie ‘Dhurandhar’ by Aditya Dhar and don’t glorify their real-counterparts. The author also does not support terrorism and condemns all the acts of terror mentioned in the series. Any resemblance to a real person is purely coincidental. Hate speech will not be tolerated.
Author’s Note: The cameo began as a joke, as a ‘tumhare Abbu ki dulhan toh main hu na’, and somehow, along the way of developing this series, I did realise that Drisana needed a home away from home that knew the weight of pretending to be something you aren’t. Aarisha is to Drisana what @afortoru is to me—a guide, a friend is a (once) unknown place, and most importantly, an elder sister/maternal figure. This chapter is my tribute to you and your eternal love for Abbu @hamzaalimazari…
Love you lots and lots ♥️
Warnings: Emotional (not because of Iqbal). Mentions of Partition of India and Pakistan. Drunk Rehman. Jealous Iqbal. Innuendos (maybe? I don’t know).
Late-December 2008
Aarisha and Hamza’s Walima Hall
No expenses were spared by the undisputed king of Lyari in hosting the grand reception of the newest member of his gang—the man who won the brutal man’s trust with certain well-planned actions and honeyed words that proclaimed the older man the messiah of Baloch community.
Hamza Ali Mazari stood with broad shoulders and a chest puffed out underneath the heavy work of his sherwani as he stood beside the love of his life—his only solace in the chaos of Lyari. The only one who truly knew the weight he carried. His hands were folded in front of him, formal, almost as if even here, he was trying to immerse himself into the background and observe instead of participating.
Iqbal stood beside him, lips pulled in the same smile that revealed the hint of his golden tooth, a hand holding on to a lit cigar while the other hand remained by his side—close enough, just in case an unexpected attack happened and he was in need of the gun hiding underneath the blue of his sherwani.
His observing gaze moved to his side, to glance at his wife and the lady who was introduced to him as the Major’s wife—much to his surprise.
“Arrey janab, idhar dekhiye!”
The cameraman’s loud direction made his head snap back to the front, while earning a boasting laugh from the man beside him who patted his shoulder with his empty hand before letting it rest there.
“Begum ko nahi dekhega toh kise dekhega?” The major jested, earning him polite laughs from the ladies while Hamza only offered him a tug of his lips in a smile.
The camera captured the scene—polite laughter mixing with the calm smile and a proud laugh of a man who considered himself invincible, all dressed in the best of clothings while the ladies were adorned like a lover’s kiss. But only one didn’t feel as suffocated as the other.
Aarisha turned to Drisana after the flash had disappeared, her hand gently coming to rest upon the back of her folded ones as she leaned in to whisper, “aap humare saath chalengi kya? Thodi si madad chahiye.”
“Kaisi madad?”
The question was almost hesitant, suspicious even underneath the confusion—not that she was to be blamed. How could she trust a woman she had only just met and follow her to a private space? Especially on a land that wasn’t her own, with no familiar faces or names that she could call in the face of emergency.
Except for Iqbal.
The man she refused to look at.
“Hume makeup karna nahi aata, aur inn kapdo mein toh thand ke mausam mein bhi garmi lag rahi hai,” Aarisha complained quietly, making the former pilot let out a little snort—because even she could feel beads of sweat clinging to the back of her neck, hidden underneath the dark cascade of her hair.
“Thik hai.”
The words weren’t as decisive as she wanted them to be, but the quiet tremble in them didn’t stop the bride from looping her hand with hers, throwing a brief excuse to the men before she dragged Drisana down the stage and behind her. The crowd parted in politeness, with a few nods of greeting offered to the ladies—but they don’t stop until Aarisha had stepped out of the hall and made her way to one of the rooms booked alongside the hall.
The door opened with a quiet creek, and the ladies entered the room that had the bride’s belongings—everything she needed to get ready for the Walima. Dim lights illuminated the modest room, every inch of it clean and organised despite the number of jewellery boxes stacked on the edge of the bed and a folded plastic cover that possibly sheltered the heavy lehenga the bride wore.
The lady in the teal stands awkwardly near the closed door, watching with the slightest hint of amusement as Aarisha wiped away her sweat with a wet wipe before throwing it in the dustbin, moving to the vanity to take out a powder concealer.
“Idhar aaogi, please?” She asked softly, making Drisana nod, taking graceful steps in her direction only for her body to freeze at the next words that escape the bride—unexpected and surprisingly like an elderly sister even though the former Squadron Leader was sure that the woman standing in front of her was significantly younger.
“Ghar ki yaad nahi aati?”
“Kya kehna chahti hai aap?” The words leave her lips immediately, trying desperately to hide her baffled expression underneath the guise of confusion. Don’t forget the consequences of what would happen if your truth comes out, she reminded herself as a feigned frown tugs on her face, making the younger woman sigh before she cautiously stepped forward—the concealer still in her hand.
“Apko darne ki zarurat nahi hai,” Aarish pacified, before her hand rose to touch the side of her nose.
“Yaha pe ladkiya naak nahi chidvati.”
Surprise melts into a quiet dread as dark eyes narrowed in realisation, along with a sliver of confusion. How come did this lady know about the rituals that were followed across the border? How come had she not told anyone else if she had already known about the truth? Why was she offering her shelter against her own country?
“Kon hai aap?”
The younger woman doesn’t flinch at the harsh question, approaching her calmly before opening the palette and applying a little over the tiny space where her piercing sat unused. She had removed the nose ring earlier when the old man sitting in a wheelchair had pointed it out—but it had never came to her mind to conceal it.
Thick silence surrounded the two ladies as one helped the other conceal her truth more accurately, even though it did not make any sense to older woman who suppressed the urge of interrogating the lady in front of her, albeit with great difficulty.
Few moments stretched like eons before the concealer did its job to hide the imprint of the small, barely noticeable piercing. Satisfied with her work, Aarisha stepped away from the personal space of the woman who didn’t attempt at hiding the whirlwind of conflicting emotions on her face.
“Partition ke waqt humare Dadaji aur unka parivaar yahi phas kar rah gaya. Trains mein joh maar-kaat chal rahi thi, usse dekhte hue unhone socha ki shayad risk lena sahi nahi hoga. Pandit the woh, par yaha Hindu logo ke saath joh ho raha tha, woh dekh kar unhone decide kiya ki duniya ke liye musalmaan ban jana hi behtar hai.”
Aarisha gestured to Drisana to follow her as she rounded the room, walking to the side of the room where a trunk sat, hidden from eyes under the bed.
“Papa bade hue, unhe meri maa se pyaar hua, aur ki bhagwaan ki daya se, woh bhi ek Pakistani Hindu hai.”
The bride bent down in the heavy lehenga, making the latter’s eyes widen in surprise before she quickly knelt beside her too—more out of politeness than from curiosity to know why they sat on the floor, especially when dressed in such expensive clothes. How would they even explain the weird creases on their skirts, around the knees?
“Phir main hui,” she continued, the brief sentence punctuated by a snort that made the lady in teal raise an eyebrow.
Drisana watched as hands with darkened henna stains pulled the trunk out, almost sacredly as her hands slowly unlatched the top, settling on it almost meaningfully as her voice became a quiet whisper—a secret that the world could not know, and yet, shared with an unknown like an offering of trust.
Perhaps, a beginning of an unexpected friendship.
“Hum bhale hi logo ke liye Pakistani ho, par dil se abhi bhi Indians hi hai—aur rahenge bhi.”
Hands gently remove the lid, revealing the carefully folded clothes that confused the former Squadron Leader, until Aarisha gently moved them to the side.
And for a moment, Drisana forgets how to breathe.
A small, clay idol sat surrounded protectively by the cotton of the plain kurtas and trousers. Long tapering fingers delicately held a flute to the calm, tilted face, eyes closed in peace while long hair held a single peacock feather. Legs crossed naturally while the lithe body curled in a gentle manner, almost as if swaying to the soothing melody of his own flute. A long garland and a dhoti with every minute detail very carefully drawn—as if it was not clay, but the human form of the divine himself.
She could almost imagine the colours on the dried clay. Yellow fabric of the dhoti and the vivid green of the peacock feather, dark hair against dark skin and the white and pink of the flowers of the garland. The brown of the flute and orange of the dupatta that curled around his elbows.
The melodious sound of her mother singing a bhajan while praying in the morning echoed in her ears—the last time she saw her before leaving to board the flight alongside her comrades to UAE for Exercise Desert Eagle, the bilateral exercise that changed her entire life.
“Achyutam Keshavam Krishna Damodaram
Ram Naraynam Janaki Vallabham…”
Her hand moved subconsciously, fingers grazing the bare skin of her right wrist underneath the softly clanking bangles, almost hoping to find the sacred thread her mother had tied that day while murmuring the gayatri mantra under her breath. Just like she always had—not just for her, for her father and brother too.
And how tragically ironic it was that Mrs. Rajput never knew that she would be doing that ritual for the last time with her husband, as well as with her daughter.
“Kitne mahine ho gaye?” Aarisha asked gently, her hand rising slowly to cup the side of Drisana’s face, henna darkened fingertip wiping away a stray tear before it could disrupt the makeup enough for someone outside the room to notice.
“31 August…”
The day when she had unknowingly woke up in her bed for the last time, brushing her teeth and washing her hair before drying them with her decade old dryer that was more moody than the then-pilot herself. She had flipped through her wardrobe for the last time before settling on the camouflage jacket that belonged to her father—unaware that she would wear it for the last time. She had stood beside her brother, nodding her head to the rhythm of her mother’s voice as she worshipped Lord Krishna, letting her tie the red thread with a light grumble of protest, pressing a kiss to her mother’s forehead for the last time before she had rushed to get into the awaiting taxi.
If only she had known beforehand that it was her last time seeing them, perhaps, she would have stayed back a little—let her mother fuss about her job, let her brother remind her to use protection with whoever she decided to take to bed, and let her gaze take in the sight of her father’s photo a little longer.
Drisana felt arms wrap around her, a face settling on her shoulder comfortingly before the reassuring words came: “abb yaha bhi ek insaan hai, jiske saath apko kuch pretend karne ki zarurat nahi.”
And somehow, that felt like the biggest blessing Shri Krishna had granted her, and her lips quirk in a little smile.
Perhaps, her mother had been right all along.
Krishna does come to those who call him desperately. He does send help to those who need it. That he might come late, might test the will of a person a little longer—but he will come. In the most unexpected form, at the time where all hopes are lost, he would bless with just enough to get one through the storm of their life.
“Apke pass phone hai?” Drisana asked quietly, glancing at Aarisha who raised an eyebrow before nodding, standing up slowly—with her lehenga actively protesting against the movement—and approaching a potli bag that sat on the vanity. She opened it, humming under her breath a song the older woman was familiar with as she took out her phone.
The former pilot placed the folded clothes back on the idol, hiding it efficiently after taking a last glance at it with a glimmer of hope in her heart. Perhaps, one day, she would truly get out of this foreign land and find peace.
The lid was closed and latched securely before she pushed the trunk back under the bed—just as it had been, before she rises, hands brushing off dust from her skirt as she took a moment longer to compose herself—to make sure that she could step out of the room and pretend to be Myreen without breaking down into tears, to pack her precious memories into a similar trunk in her mind and revisit them in privacy.
“Apke lehenge mein pocket hai?” The bride squealed with wide, fascinated eyes as Drisana took out her phone, which had somehow become a bitter reminder of the quiet intimacy that she had experienced with the major that must be deep into his glass outside—boasting and proud, while she crumbled inside.
“Haan…I value utility over fashion.”
A wink punctuated the reply, and for a moment, she was back in the Udhampur Air Base, bickering and jesting with her comrades, flirting with a handsome man and then rating him with Foxy, stealing the expensive coffee beans of their commanding officer and making a joke of a coffee with it and sitting around a bonfire in snow at pitch black night—narrating stories of ghosts and then drawing their handguns at the smallest of sound.
She approached with the phone in her hand, now proficient in using it even though she was yet to make a call to someone. Her shoulder graze Aarisha’s as they exchanged numbers before the devices return to their respective hiding places, and at last, the young bride turns to the former pilot—her softer hands holding the mending-callousness.
“Main prathna karungi ki ek din apko apna ghar aur shanti mil jaye,” she promised, squeezing her hands in hers as she gazed up at the taller woman.
“Aur main dua karungi ki tum ek din India zaroor ja pao—har uss insaan aur cheez ke saath, joh tumhare dil ke kareeb hai.”
The two ladies hug, almost like long-lost sisters finding themselves in the middle of a troublesome battle that has been ongoing since they both came into this world. The battle that every person lives through and calls it life. The battle whose conclusion is already written in the dark ink of destiny—common for all living and breathing beings; death.
They parted, moving to the door to step out with their farce masks of someone else nearly falling back, only for Drisana to stop Aarisha with a hand on her elbow, concerned eyes watching her carefully as she voiced a question that had been nagging her since the narration of the tale of a family forced to stay on the wrong side of the border.
“Hamza se shaadi…kya woh bhi…?”
The bride offered her a smile—almost knowing at its edge, her eyes almost like stars under the dim lights, gleaning on a secret knowledge that only she possessed. A forbidden truth forgotten by the pages of the world, or perhaps, something nuclear.
Her hands settled on the former Squadron Leader’s shoulders, almost like Iqra’s had an hour ago, squeezing before they leave, returning back to the bride’s side. Fingers curl around the doorknob, ready to twist it open, whispering words that sound like riddle before the door opened, and the two ladies hiding their true identities step out with their masks on and a hope that their life too shall have a happy ending.
“Woh pani ki tarah hai—har rang mein dhal jaate hai.”
And while the two ladies were becoming unexpected acquaintances in a room removed from the cruel reality of their lives, the men drowned in their cups—drink after drink—slurring words, ensuring that the mind grew hazy enough to reveal truths usually hidden underneath the complicated web of well-placed words. Crystal decanters emptied like it wasn’t amber liquid but merely water. Smoke curled from cigarettes before they were butted against half-finished plates of appetisers while a sole cigar remained lit, held in between long fingers wearing heavy rings.
“—maze karo,” the cunning Khanani smiled, leaning forward as the groom graced the table with his presence after attending to some of the other guests.
“Bache paida kar bhai, bache paida kar.”
The group emerged into laughter while Iqbal patted Hamza’s elbow, but the groom’s green eyes had moved to find the figure of his newlywed wife, gaze softening instantly as he took in the grin on her face and the soft flush on her cheeks—beautiful inside and out. A soft blush rises on his own cheeks, mirroring hers but for an entirely different reason while the men around him continue to tease him.
The king of Lyari followed the gaze of his close associate, but it wasn’t the petite figure of the bride that caught his attention—rather the taller figure standing beside her in teal lehenga, smiling gently at the antics of someone Rehman didn’t bother registering. He shifted, hand on Khanani’s shoulder moving away as he sat upright, holding out his glass in a toast to the man who had saved his son with a smirk dangling on his lips.
“Lagta hai teri biwi ka pura khandaan hi khubsurat hai,” he teased, earning another round of laughs from the men that grow interested in finding out what lead to such a bold conclusion by the Sher-e-Baloch.
A lazy smirk sat proudly on the major’s face as he took a puff of his cigar before glancing over his shoulder—intrigued to find who had the devoted husband making such comment, only for the smirk to fall. For it wasn’t a relative of the bride but Drisana standing beside Aarisha, amused by whatever Jamali was telling the girls.
Iqbal straightened up, a hand reaching out to sit upon the dark sherwani of the king as the next words come out as both a growl of a lion claiming possession of his territory and a drunken man making a mocking threat—a quiet reminder that the rumbling syllables might be an introduction for now, but the threat underneath them was as real as the weight of the hidden guns under their clothes.
“Rehman bhai, woh meri biwi hai.”
And at the right time—or perhaps, it was the worst of timing, Drisana made her way to the table, her dark gaze moving to the figure at the head of the table, a barely audible scoff escaping her at the obvious drunken pride that made the fearsome less Angel of Death and more like his own father—all big words and claims that sounded more like wistful thinking than reality.
Rehman stands at the sight of the approaching figure, making the others move to follow suit—albeit with great difficulty for Uzair, who needed an extra hand from Hamza, much to the amusement of others.
“Khush amdeed, humare iss chote se Lyari mein,” the lion began, nodding his head in a salaam as the woman’s steps come to a halt, a raised eyebrow and a polite smile that becomes sharper—perhaps at the obvious pride that the man oozed, or at the intrigue in his dark eyes, as if she wasn’t merely a woman but a mystical object that had captured his attention.
“Shukriya…”
“Rehman Baloch.”
An extended hand remained firm in the space between them, unflinching and without a trace of tremble despite the alcohol in his veins.
“Myreen.”
She knew she shouldn’t, and yet, her hand rose to meet his in a polite handshake, her eyes watching in amusement at the sliver of surprise that bled into his expression before it is replaced by the smirk—the calloused skin of her hand only fuelling his intrigue.
The contact was brief, long enough to be considered appropriate in public, for two people that were married to other people—at least that is what everyone was told about Drisana—but not enough for Rehman to try and deduce what might have caused the once-soft skin to turn harsh, but enough for the woman to feel the many scars marring his hand; an evidence that suggested a life spent on streets, handling guns and knifes.
Far more calloused than Iqbal’s hands.
“Major sahab ne kabhi zikr nahi kiya ki aisa chand chupa rakha hai ghar pe.”
The said major bristled, offering the laughing men a half-hearted smile while he wanted to do was strangle the life out of the smug man, or perhaps, drag the former pilot away from the vulture that gleamed at the sight of his Drisana.
But alas! He could do nothing but endure.
“Aise khubsurat biwi ho toh baar-baar walid bane ka dil kare,” Khanani snorted, only to shut up at the single glance she gave him—a raised eyebrow, a sharp-edged threat under honeyed eyes, and a twitch of her lip that treaded the careful line between dismay and anger. And even though she was clad in traditional clothes, with her hair loose and her face glowing under the light, no one on that table considered her harmless.
For a woman that intrigues Rehman Dakait is never harmless, but a wolf disguised as sheep—and the Sher-e-Baloch has learnt to identify those in his years of surviving in the underworld.
Iqbal’s hands clench into fists by his side, almost ready to grab the money launderer by his collar and smash his head into the table, landing blows until he was reduced to nothing but blood and brain matter of a lifeless corpse. But just as Rehman was important for his work, Khanani was too, and replacing him would take time and effort that Iqbal would rather preserve.
The king of Lyari rolled his eyes at the words that came from the man behind him, his attention focused on the composed woman in front of him. He leaned in, eyes sparkling with mischief as a harmless hand lands on the small of her back, whispering loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Gustakhi maaf kariyega par humare dil mein bohot tajassus hai janane ki—kitne baccho ki ammi hai aap?”
If for once, the world worked in the way Iqbal wanted it to—with no questions asked—Rehman Dakait would have found himself six feet deep in the soil, waiting for the judgment day while regretting touching his wife. But the world was anything but ideal, and Rehman was another important piece in his work, even if the man was getting on his nerves from the very second he laid eyes on his wife.
On the other hand, Drisana was ecstatic. Not only because she felt like her past self—flirting with whoever she wanted, showing just enough interest to keep a man engaged but not enough to give a wrong impression—but because her captor was trying hard to hold his fury.
And tormenting him felt like having the taste of the elixir of life.
Her gaze doesn’t waver from the man beside her, shoulders slightly angling in a particular manner that politely shoved his hand away from her back without making it a scene—and much to her surprise, the man takes the hint, his hands returning to fold behind his back.
“Apko kisne kaha mere bacche hai?” She challenged the lion with a tilt of her head and a dangerous smirk, taunting him
The statement caught everyone off-guard except the major that was trying to keep his calm and the woman enjoying the rare moment of control after a long time. Rehman raised an eyebrow, dark eyes glancing between the pair while the gears of his brain churn hard to process the new information that he had received.
“Khuda qasam, yeh toh bohot bura hua,” the man purred, the smirk on his face hinting at the intention behind the words.
He wanted to see the fearsome major of ISI lose control, and much to his eternal satisfaction, the younger woman with her dark curls and her honeyed eyes and the vixen-like cleverness hiding underneath the pretence of politeness seemed to be helping him achieve his task.
The Sher-e-Baloch placed a hand on the major’s shoulder—almost like the latter had done while informing the former about the identity of the woman—leaning in closer to whisper conspicuously:
“Begum pe zyada dhyan dijiye, warna kahi kaam ki wajah se itni haseen begum ruth na jaye.”
Iqbal’s lips part with a cunning reply on the tip of his tongue, but the words never see the light of the chandelier above as the chime of anklets make everyone glance at the approaching figure of Aarisha—her eyes gleaming with mischief, as if she had heard every word of the rather interesting conversation, and a smile revealing the dimple on the left side of her face.
“Rehman bhai, sabke saath ek photo le le?”
The addressed gangster nodded with a pleased smile, gesturing to the former pilot with an exaggerated wave of his hand.
“Pehle aap.”
“Shukriya janab.”
Drisana moved with the grace a panther, because in that moment, she had an inexplicable power—control over her surroundings and life, just like the past.
Longest ever fic I have written, I suppose, and the raunchiest smut 😈 fyi, requests open
Ruins of Rage
Shauryaman Gaur x Reader
Love conquers all while hate destroys all—but desire born out of a bone-deep animosity? It consumes all…
Marriage means little when there lives no care in the bond—but is the cardinal sin of lust enough to fill the silence of an extravagant mansion that sheltered two souls far too similar to like one another?
Warnings: Explicit Content. MNDI. Rough sex. Mentions of Cheating. Enemies-with-benefits? Age gap. Established relationship. Power Imbalance. Dom!Shauryaman. Sub!Reader. Reader is less inexperienced than Shauryaman. Hate sex. Jealous sex. Marking kink. Dirty talk. Oral sex (m!receiving). Fingering (f!receiving). Breast and nipple play. Degradation kink. Nicknames. Manhandling. Multiple positions. Clothed sex. Unprotected sex. PiV Intercourse. Slapping kink. Eye contact kink. Hair pulling. Size kink. Choking kink. Edging. Creampie. Overstimulation kink. Shauryaman is a nasty man.
“Have you no shame? No sense of dignity—if not yours, then mine? No foresight for your actions? No care for anyone’s reputations—yours, mine or our families? Or do you simply not care about anything other than yourself?”
There was only silence that followed the poisonous words, the ragged breaths of the woman scorned echoing in the living room of the mansion that the two had to share—appearances, after all, mattered the most in marriages such as theirs. Born not out of love—if they could even feel such an emotion without certain destruction—but mutual benefit of their selfish fathers and shared hatred that often treaded into the territory of unadulterated desire.
The click of her high heels was a symphony, acting like a backdrop for her angry words—lectures about reputations and his lack of self-control, as if she was above the clutches of lust—and restless pacing that only amused the sitting figure of her husband even more.
Amber danced in the crystal glass around which long fingers were wrapped, deep eyes watching the slow unravelling of an otherwise composed figure with an inexplicable darkness—a cold amusement dancing with a fierce fire of an insatiable appetite that plagued him.
“Meri itni chinta?” He tutted, raising an eyebrow as he took a deliberately long sip of the whiskey he had poured himself as a supporting pillar because the avalanche of words seemed inevitable when he came home smelling of alcohol and cheap floral perfume of a woman not his wife. Even more when the prototype of a to-be published newspaper sat on the low table, bearing a quiet accusation in its own.
Three words. A short, seemingly innocent question. Just enough to get a reaction from the composed woman who smiled politely at cameras and gave perfect answers in impromptu interviews.
A loud groan came like a crack in her facade, every mask she had ever worn—the dutiful daughter of a greedy industrialist, the sister who clapped with a broken smile as her brother was credited for everything she did, the perfect wife who kissed his cheek and laughed like she was the happiest in the shackles of their marriage that limited their freedom—came undone as her pacing came to an abrupt halt.
She whipped around on her heels, eyes wide and alive with anger—and humiliation, though Shauryaman would never name such a strong emotion—glaring daggers at him while her slender hands sat on the curve of her waist, right above the waistband of a pristine pencil skirt.
“Why the fuck are you so careless?”
A pause, not too long, but enough to make the man believe that she was done there. His lips parted, another taunt ready at the tip of his tongue, but the words were interrupted before they could see the light of the chandeliers hanging overhead.
“Ek journalist, Shauryaman. You fucking slept with a journalist who then wrote an entire exposé about your cheating, crappy ass!” She yelled, no longer caring about the servants that went on with their work around the walls that caged two tormented souls. So what if they heard her outburst? They already knew that the perfect couple in front of the camera was anything but that in real life.
Perhaps, everyone knew, and nobody questioned their acting simply because they didn’t care—just like their fathers didn’t care about the feelings of their children.
“Toh? It’s not like tumhe pata nahi main har raat kaha hota hu,” he hissed back, lips pursing in a cruel smirk as he watched every wall of her fortress fall, every layer peeling away to leave behind a quivering woman nearly a decade younger than him, if not more. Deprived of affection and love and everything human, just as he was—reduced to a perfect puppet while he became a rebellion in flesh.
“Why are you like this?”
“Why the fuck do you care?”
Taunts and teases had all but evaporated from his body as he stood up from the couch he was reclining upon, the glass of whiskey still half-full abandoned beside the newspaper with a glaring heading: ‘Shauryaman Gaur: The Perfect Actor’.
As much entertaining as it had been to argue with her, to watch her lose her calm and unsheathe her venomous words, to unleash herself for once without a collar around her neck that held her back—it was equally hard to watch her with cheeks reddened from fury and something too emotional for him to bear, wide eyes lined with tears of frustration, and just perhaps, humiliation.
“Because I am your wife! Because everything you do, I have to face the consequences,” she answered, voice dropping into a whisper as she peered up at him through tears-beaded lashes.
Her words undone him in a way it shouldn’t have, especially not when he pretended that her words weren’t knives nestled in his heart, gnawing at the soul he pretended didn’t exist in his body. Especially when he felt nothing for her except the animosity that occasionally bled into a raw desire that never reached its destination—and how would it when she hated him enough to remain miles apart, except when cameras hounded them like rabid dogs.
Three long strides it took him to erase the distance between them, hands snarling out like vicious snakes, fingers cradling the backs of both of her elbows and tugging her closer until inches separated their heaving chests.
“Then act like one,” he hissed.
“Oh?” She laughed on his face, uncaring for how disheveled she looked despite the fineries she was dressed in—the white pencil skirt that hugged her hips and cascaded down in a tailored fall down to her knees and the dark halter neck with a cut that hinted at her generous cleavage and bared her shoulders and arms. Clad in such silks and tailored silhouettes, still, she felt bare underneath his heavy gaze, pretending at braveness when she felt little of it.
“And how does one act like that, Shauryaman?”
A growl is the only answer she receives before his lips found hers in hunger that had been left unchecked for far too long. A thirst for her that couldn’t be quenched by the feeling of another passing one night stand whose name he couldn’t care to remember, only her.
His restless hands moved from her elbows, one shifting north to wrap fingers around the nape of her neck, keeping her glued him while the other mapped her curves greedily—pressing hard enough to elicit breathy sighs that he swallowed like a predator ravenous to devour her to the best of his abilities, committing every rise and dip of her body to his sinful memory.
Her own fingers were traitorous to her thoughts, exploring his lean front despite the initial protest that rushed through her body before ebbing away, leaving behind a void where desire multiplied like a parasitic bacteria that chewed away at her logic. His hair was surprisingly soft under her skin, messed from the hands of a stranger woman he had made out with in his car before her call had ruined his mood, demanding him to come home at once, but the young woman wasn’t quite in her senses to question that—or the perfume that tickled her overwhelmed senses in the worst way possible.
Shauryaman inched away from her, panting for breath but still incapable of letting her go as his lips pressed open-mouthed kisses on her flushed skin, beginning at the edge of her swollen lips before tracing down the path behind her ear, nipping at the sensitive area to make her sing for him. And indeed, a breathy gasp escaped her parted lips while her hands wrapped around his neck, holding on to him for dear life as if he was the only anchor that could save her.
The tip of his nose nudged against her racing pulse while his lips found themselves busy, sucking at the length of her neck to leave behind a mark that would remain in the morning—a loud reminder of what the pleasure he would bring her—before his tongue lapped at the skin, tasting the salt of the sweat that she had broken at the thought of the facade of their perfect marriage coming undone in front of the world.
Soft linen scratched at his chin as his lips ran out of bared skin, meeting the ribbon that tied her top around her neck—sophisticated as she always was, except in the moment with her composure unwrapped to reveal a starved young woman unbecoming under his hands and lips.
Obsidian eyes narrowed as he took into account her clothes—crisp before his hand had creased them and yet, far too elegant when the clock ticked closer to midnight. An ugly fire of possessiveness raged through his body in realisation as his fingers—the ones that held the back of her neck—wrapped around her jaw, tilting her head up as he straightened to his full height, wandering hand halting at her hips.
“Why all these sophisticated clothes, meri jaan? Kisi ka intezaar tha?” He queried, voice low and dark, rumbling with a dangerous edge that made her quiver as she shook her head.
It was evident to him—her desperate attempts at trying to find pieces of her composure in her trembling being to sew back into the mask of confidence that she wore so frequently that it deceived most into believing that side of her. But Shauryaman knew better than to trust facades, and he knew even better to read the truth of people.
“I had a meeting with an investor over dinner,” she replied through trembling lips, hands slipping away from his neck to rest against his heaving chest as she watched with confusion as his jaw tightened and darkness swallows the little brown of his eyes—leaving behind a stormy, restless sea of shadows.
“Dinner with investor? Ya apne ashiq se milne ja rahi thi?”
He relished at the sight of her surprise, dipped carefully into confusion at his words before he moved with a newfound vigour as his cruel mind supplied him an image of his wife bent over for another man—a thought that filled his veins with pure fire while ugly jealousy twisted violently in his chest.
He doesn’t allow her to answer his accusation, calloused hands already settling on her bare shoulders before he shoved her down—uncaring of the little whine from her as her knees scrapped against the carpet, burning from his sheer roughness. One of his hands shifted over to lace into her loose locks while the other unbuckled his belt, shoving down his trousers and underwear just enough to free his hardened length.
“Shaurya—”
“Mujhe tumhare protests ki koi zarurat nahi abhi,” he warned, fisting his cock and pumping it before he slapped her cheek with his reddened tip, a drop of pre-cum smearing against her skin like a stain against a clean canvas—just the beginning in the making of his masterpiece.
“Muh kholo.”
It wasn’t a request but a command, delivered with an authority that she never knew he possessed until she knelt in front of him, taken aback by this side of him while slick collected into her panties, thighs locking together underneath her skirt while her lips part around his tip—tongue licking hesitantly at the slit on the top before she slowly began to take more of his length into her mouth.
Inch by inch until the tip collided into the back of her throat, making her gag out loud—the sound echoing in the living room along with the wet noises of him feeding her his cock and his loud groans and filthy words.
“Fuck, baby, aren’t you good at this.”
The fingers wrapped in her hair tugged hard enough for pain to shoot through her body—somehow causing even more arousal to drip down until her panties were all but ruined—making sure that the wide eyes lined with tears remained firm upon his, mascara along with the sharp wing of eyeliners smudging against her pretty skin as he thrusted into her mouth roughly, enjoying the sight of her struggling to take him completely.
His length twitched in her mouth, balls tightening while his mind began to fog with the pleasure that coursed through him like hot flames licking at his very soul—telltale signs of a sweet release that he usually made him chase even harder. But the moment was anything but usual, and Shauryaman didn’t wish to come just yet, especially not in her mouth.
Pulling her away from his pulsing cock by her hair, he leaned down, fingers wrapping around her arm with a vice grip as he pulled her to her feet, the heels clacking in protest against the carpeted floor as his lips meet her again like lightening—tongue slipping into hers to taste the salty essence of his pre-cum lingering on her tongue along with the red wine she must have sipped upon while waiting for him to return after her call.
Dominant steps pushed her back until the back of her thighs collided against the armrest of the couch he had once occupied. His hands find her waist, fingers gripping the skin still covered by the elegant fall of her clothes in a predatory grip that had her whimpering into his mouth—a tiny sound that he devoured.
A sound that unknowingly unleashed a beast.
He turned her around, a palm splayed across the middle of her spine while the other undid the knot of the ribbon holding her top together, bending her over the arm of the couch as the halter neck slipped away to gather loosely around the peak of her bust.
Blazing breath caressed her shoulder blades as he leaned over her, hips bucking into the supple curve of her ass with a satisfied groan while his tongue traced the line of her spine from the nape of her neck until it disappeared underneath the back of her top—shoving aside the loose strands that troubled him. Restless hands move relentlessly, one securing around her waist to keep her underneath him while the other pulled at the hem of her skirt, tucking it until the fabric settled around her hips.
The sight of the flimsy lace panties wet from her arousal was maddening as it was satisfying, making his hardened length tighten in anticipation—nearly to the point of pain that drove him towards insanity, if the condition could ever be so pleasing to look at.
A loud slap echoed in the room along with the obscene sound that left the parted lips of the bent over figure—something between a pained whine that bled into a pleasured moan—as her shaking limbs tried to keep herself upright for his taking.
“My baby likes this, doesn’t she?”
Long fingers squeezed the reddened skin of her ass where his hand had left another mark of his possession before releasing his hold, watching with brief amusement as the flesh jiggled a little before landing another sharp spank—this time on the untouched cheek—before his hand lowers, menacingly slow, stretching out the moment for his own cruel pleasure.
“All this from sucking me off like a whore?” He tutted, shaking his head as his fingers pushed the wet lace of her panties to a side, tracing the dripping slit before his middle finger began to probe against her entrance. His teeth descend into her earlobe as a singular thick digit slipped into her tight core, all while he continued to sing into her ears, “all that lectures about morales and here you are, dripping down your thighs while your little pussy begs to be filled.”
“Shaurya,” she moaned, hips wiggling as her warm walls stretch to expand his thrusting finger, her fingers fisting the cushion abandoned on the couch as she tried to relax against the intrusion—not unwelcome, but uncomfortable still.
“So tiny you are, baby. Agar tumhe acche se nahi janta toh shayad samajh leta ki tumhe kisi ne kabhi chua nahi—but I know you, don’t I?”
Another finger slipped into her heat, making her gasp in surprise as her eyes shut in close, teeth sinking into the plump skin of her swollen lips to keep from crying out as his fingers pick up speed, scissoring to stretch her entrance for his impatiently waiting cock.
With a final thrust, his fingers pull back, leaving her entrance open and clinching around empty air as he smirked down at her. Stroking his length with the dripping nectar that cling to his fingers, he tapped the tip of his cock against her pulsing clit, biting back a ravenous groan as he watched her body twitch and legs spread wider without his orders—good, little girl—before he positioned himself outside her cunt.
“Beg for it, meri jaan,” he whispered into the skin of her shoulder, nuzzling into the side of her neck to inhale her scent.
There was a sadistic pleasure in witnessing his composed wife with smart words having no sharp remarks to make, only a mess of parted lips and breathless gasps while her sweet nectar smeared the flesh of her inner thighs—a beautiful, breathing statue. A goddess of words left speechless, and he hadn’t even sheathed himself inside her yet.
“Beg for my cock.”
“Sh-Shauryaman p-p-please… I need you insi—”
Her words were interrupted by a choked scream as he pushed his raging length into her welcoming heat with a forceful thrust, the tip grazing against the opening of her cervix as his balls kissed her small bud of nerves for a brief yet startling moment.
A groan is teared out from the depths of him as he stills for a moment, letting her moist warmth envelop his aching cock, stretching against his width to accommodate him properly while he panted, bent over her and holding her close by her waist. His limp hand locked into her hair again, fingers gripping the strands as he began to move—an experimental thrust, and then another.
Not long after, he was drilling into her, rough bucks of hips shoving his length down her cunt while she cried out from the unusual mixture of pain mingling alongside blinding pleasure. His fingers leave bruises in the shape of his hand on her waist—unseen underneath the top—while the arm of the couch dug into her hips, gifting her a tiny purplish spot here and there while the furniture moved with the force of his thrusts.
“Such a good girl—”
A sharp tug on her hair as he twisted a few strands around his long fingers, eliciting a sharp whimper from her that melted into a desperate moan.
“—taking your husband so good—like you were meant to take me.”
The walls of her pussy pulsed against the veins that pressed against the skin of his cock, soft and welcoming—heavenly as they sucked him into her and clung to him, weeping in dismay when he pulled back until only his tip remained in her before plunging back into her with a brutal thrust that made her cunt weep some more, albeit rejoicing his return.
Her moans echoed through the living room along with the words he uttered and the obscene sound of skin slapping against bare skin followed closely by the shrillness of her wet entrance engulfing him. The scent of sex and sweat bathed over the cheap perfume he had smelt of, as well as the vibrant woody scent basking in pink pepper and saffron—Purple Oud by Dior, her favoured perfume.
“Shaurya—oh, I am close,” she moaned, one of her hands uncurling from the cushion to find purchase on the one wrapped around her waist, back arching into his as her hips move in tandem to meet his thrusts—limbs desperate for the overwhelming pleasure to wash over her as her vision blurs from the intensity of the knot beginning to slowly unravel in her stomach.
Her words—if only she had known before—made him stop, a devilish smile pulling at his lips as he sat motionless inside her, making her whine out loud while her nails dug into the back of his palm, leaving behind half-moons.
A confused “what?” escaped her lips as she tilted her head, trying to meet his gaze with her blurred eyes.
His hand snaked around her front, fingers wrapping around her neck as he pulled her back, dipping his head down until his lips brushed against the apple of her cheek in a mocking act of affection before he turned her around to face him.
Dark eyes study her features with blatant desire—the heavy fall of her long lashes trying to hide the tearful doe-eyes that peered up at him with an attempt at glare, the blush colouring the canvas of her skin along with the dark smudges of her mascara and liner and the plump curve of her swollen lips that part in quiet protest.
For a brief moment, something tender steered awake in his chest—something he had long buried deep underneath years of detached intimacy. A wandering thought that made him consider kissing the blooming marks on her skin and soothe them with a press of his tongue while his arms gathered her against his chest.
A sweet thought, but Shauryaman slams it shut before his limbs dare lift to follow through.
Instead, he leaned down, nipping at her earlobe before he gestured in the direction of the master bedroom—the one supposed to be shared by them, but was claimed solely by her—before his command arrived in a lowered octave, rumbling through his chest:
“Bedroom mein jao aur sab kuch utaar dena.”
His nose brushed against her cheek once, a small act of kindness, as his gaze traced the movement of her throat swallowing an invisible lump before she nodded almost weakly before moving to follow his orders on weak legs.
The click of her heels disappeared soon enough in the labyrinth of long corridors and quiet, lifeless rooms—leaving him behind with his loud thoughts and an unsheathed cock, not that he minded such nudity, especially not in the privacy of his own mansion.
With a low hum and a subtle stretch of his neck, he reached for his abandoned glass of whiskey, taking a long sip to quench the burn of his throat with an aged liquor that burned harder while his eyes find the source of the night—the very reason why his wife had called him when she would much rather not see his face unless absolutely necessary and asked him to come home immediately.
Home, as if the towering walls that cage him could ever be called that.
The photograph underneath the bold letters of the headline was one that took him an extra moment to recognise before the memory flooded back to him. It was from one of their early appearances as a couple after the wedding neither of them wanted happened with them pretending to be so in love, a charity gala she had organised because ‘it was good for reputations’ and their fathers were hungry for publicity, the good kind.
She had worn a white Pashmina saree with a modest blouse that had made him roll his eyes at the feigned purity, with little jewellery adorning her—only heavy jhumkas to compliment her outfit and the dainty mangalsutra he had never truly paid attention to—with no makeup except for kohl lining her eyes and a blush pink lipstick. A stark contrast to the dark ensemble he had adorned instead of wearing the bandhgala his father had expected him to wear—a rebellion that had looked rather beautiful to witness when the two stood together, pretending like their lives depended on it.
A gentle smile adorned her lips in the captured moment, her eyes soft and crinkled at the end with joy that seemed to real to be an act, peering at something off-camera while he looked at her, with his hand resting around the bared skin of her waist almost naturally
Shauryaman had never known he looked at her in public like that, with a small smile that seemed to threaten its way across his face and something usually concealed thawed behind his emotionless eyes—a look that made a frown tug on his eyebrows before he shook his head in denial, burying his intrusive thoughts under the burning alcohol before he placed the now-empty glass over the newspaper.
With a shake of his head and a deep breath, he began to tread the short but unfamiliar path to the bedroom, stuffing back every thought that felt like ice over his raging desire into the deepest corners of his mind—to be unpacked exactly never—while he peeled off the leather jacket that clung to his shoulders, throwing it into a random direction carelessly.
The door was left ajar, warm lights peeking out through the gap of handful inches—an invitation, but not a loud and excited kind that he was used to, not eager like the ladies who threw themselves at his feet but something subtler, restrain practiced despite the fire that licked at toes and the ache gnawing at the insides of stomach for release.
Wordlessly, he strode into the dimly lit room with his chin tipped in air and eyes sparsely taking in the belongings—not his own—before his attention snapped to the figure sitting on the bed—legs curled close with hands perched upon knees, straight back and squared shoulders pushing her enticing mounds higher into the air while her eyes darted around nervously in a manner that he had never witnessed before.
The sight of her neatly folded clothes placed on a chair near the balcony door amused him dearly before his fingers begin to fiddle with the hem of his tee, eyes firm upon her with the intention to make her squirm as he began to undress himself slowly—putting on a show for her wide eyes.
“Kya batau, aise baithe hue kitni haseen lag rahi ho tum, meri jaan,” he teased, gaze drifting down to the heaving mounds with pebbled nipples—pleading him to play with them. His tongue darted out to lap over his lower lip as his mind clouded with elaborative things that he could do to them, the many ways that she would wake with his reminder all over her, not merely just her plump breasts but every curve of her body.
Long shadows caressed the lean ridges of his bare chest, mingling with the hair that curled over his muscles before thinning into a trail that led to his hardened cock. His biceps flex without intention as he shoved his already undid trousers down his waist, getting rid of his underwear in the same motion before his clothes were a mere heap of useless fabrics on the floor and he was kneeling on the edge of the mattress with a beastly smirk—the kind that promised a long night.
His approach was slow, like a predator stretching the hunt for his entertainment, until his shadow devoured her smaller figure completely while his fingers snaked around her neck, squeezing just enough for breathing to become laborious while his lips wrapped around a nipple—teeth grazing the sensitive skin teasingly before his tongue circled it, flicking the peak and nipping on it until she was a withering mess underneath him.
“Shaurya,” she moaned, fingers tangling into his hair as his attention turned to the unattended nipple, hand groping her breast before his thumb and index finger squeezed and twisted the sensitive bud until a whine escaped her parted lips.
A plead had formed on her tongue, barely a whisper as she tucked on his strands desperately: “p-please, Shaurya, I w-want to c-come.”
“So needy,” he growled back in response, sucking on the flesh of her breast until the skin began to bloom with a purple tint—satisfaction rushing through his blood like an intoxicating drug before his eyes rise to meet her hooded ones with a dark pull of his lips that promised obscenity she had never imagined before.
An arm snaked around her, pulling her flush against himself while his other hand guided her until her thighs bracketed his hips—pulsing length bumping unceremoniously into her weeping entrance hard enough to send a shiver rushing down her spine.
“If you want to come, baby, you will have to work for it,” he announced with a grin while his hand left the supple flesh of her thigh to pump his cock ready to take her, raising an eyebrow at her confused expression as he waited—albeit impatiently—for her to realise the meaning of his words.
It was no longer a mystery to him that her experiences in the realm of flesh and pleasure were brief and sparse, especially compared to his. And while her raw emotions and pretty noises amused him much, his patience ran out faster than her mind’s quiet musings could figure out the meaning of his words—hands gripping her waist in an iron cage as he lifted her onto his length, pulling her down in a smooth pull until he was home again.
A shrill squeal tore through the careful composure of his wife as a tear rolled down her cheek, the new angle providing for him to fill her to the brim until everything felt overwhelming—the stretch of her walls around his pulsing cock, the curved tip brushing insistently against a hidden spot that made stars appear at her periphery, her clit grazing his hipbone as she began to lift her body and fuck herself, his hand’s continued abuse of her breasts and nipples.
There was an inexplicable thrill—the kind that arrived after jumping from the edge of the cliff for the simple sake of adventure—in watching her face fall into the throes of pleasure, eyes shutting close and lips fall apart to let out breathy moans and loud whimpers while her instincts take over her limbs, rocking herself upon his length with all the little strength she was left with.
Manicured nails dug into his shoulders as he slowly began to rise his hips to meet her shallow thrusts, letting out an approving growl as a choked moan cracked through her chest when his mushroom tip brushed against the small bundle of nerves hidden in her welcoming cunt.
“That’s the spot, isn’t it?”
She only moaned, head tipping back and baring the length of her neck as her hips bucked faster, chasing her long awaited release that brewed in her stomach faster than before—the knot growing tighter and tighter as her chest heaved from pants that echoed in the room along with the indecent sounds of intercourse.
It was only a harsh spank on her ass that pulled her out of her trance, a cry interrupted her rhythm as her body came to a standstill.
The hand that now rested low on her back moved, caging her jaw as he pulled her face down until their breaths mingled together in a dance of intimacy and the embers glowing in his eyes were apparent, even to a blind.
“Words, whore,” he growled, his fingers releasing her only to slap her across her face, cheek burning no longer from mere flush but with a handprint now faintly glowing as his hand assumed his earlier position of cupping her jaw—a cold question making her gulp: “Kya maine rukne ke liye kaha?”
“N-nahi…”
An eyebrow lifted as a rumbling hum emitted from his lips, deep eyes glancing down at her tight cunt splitting open around his heavy cock before he looked up at her.
“Toh ruki kyu?”
Shauryaman knew he was being mean, but then again, he was mean. She knew that just as well as he did, so why should he not enjoy the vision of his wife gulping on thin air or looking around while her lips parted with an answer she didn’t have.
It was adorable, and so tempting without trying to be—not that he would ever vocalise the truth.
She doesn’t reply, for she has no answer. Instead, her hips begin to work again, thighs burning with exhaustion as her body lifted itself only to descend back onto his length—nothing coherent on her mind apart from seducing thought of the sweet release that seemed just out of her finger’s grasp, within sight but not in reach.
He knew that, could sense the frustration as her eyebrows pulled into a frown that made him smirk before he tugged her face closer yet again by his grip around her jaw. His teeth sink into her lower lip—right where he had earlier, breaking skin yet again to taste the coppery tang of her blood before leaning back.
“Ankhein sirf mujhpar, meri jaan.”
A selfish man he was, but there was nothing more delicious than a pussy convulsing around him—overstimulated and stretched out for him to rut into.
Pleasure-hazy eyes lined with thick lashes find the deep storm clouds in his with a tiny sound that was somewhere in between a squeaky whine and a low moan, earning her a slow swipe of his thumb across her cheek before he leaned up to glide his tongue across the bite mark that bloomed red on her lip.
With a final flick of her nipple, his hand moved down until long fingers splayed across her stomach for a brief moment. But that wasn’t his destination, far from it, and with a lazy ease of an apex predator, his journey continued until his thumb found the small bundle of pleasure above her entrance, trapping it in between his fingers before he began to rub slow circles around her clit.
Not on it, but around.
Pleasing but not enough to push her over the edge.
“You want to come, don’t you?” He huffed against her lips, a breath of amusement while his hand drifted down from her jaw to curl like a shackle around her neck.
She nodded before remembering through her wild haze his commanding words, stuttering out a pitiful “yes” that had him cooing to her—mockery of affection, or perhaps, not a complete tease as his eyes trace the path of tears running down her cheeks.
A singular brush of his calloused fingertips against her clit had her jolting in his lap, muscles of her thighs shaking violently in a telltale of exhaustion that had Shauryaman huffing in annoyance before he shoved her down onto her back—cock still heavy and waiting for its own chase of orgasm.
Rough hands parted her thighs to accommodate himself as his fingers drummed against her flesh, a wordless command to wrap her legs around his waist as he began to pull out from her heat almost completely before pushing back.
He was no longer a mere human, but a beast taken flesh as he rutted into her, relishing in the way her nails left behind angry scratches on his bare back while his name was a prayer on her lips, chanted in pornographic moans and screams that echoed in the void in their marriage, filling the quiet walls with something other than sharp words and even sharper hate.
The mushroom tip of his length brushed against her spot again and again while his thumb had abandoned modesty and found her pulsing clit to torture under firm circles that grew persistent with her increasing noises.
Her warm walls threatened to collapse, pulsing against his bulging veins in a moist heat as the threads of the knot in her stomach began to unravel.
“Oh—Sh-Shauryaman—”
“Come for me, meri jaan. Milk my cock like a perfect fucking slut.”
The edge of the cliff was jagged and beneath it was the ocean of pleasure—white and restless and waiting with open arms to engulf her writhing body in an intense embrace that would make stars appear on the edge of her consciousness. All she needed was a push, a driving force that would tip the scales in the favour of a blinding euphoria that rendered the limbs heavy.
And the push came in the form of Shauryaman’s knuckles capturing her heated bud while he continued to explore her depths and rearrange her guts with grunts and growls that spurred her on, a singular tug of his fingers and her back was arching off the bed, sore nipples pressing into his bare chest while her fingers find purchase on his back.
“Shaurya—ahhhh.”
Her walls clamped down on his length, making a guttural sound escape his lips as he continued to fuck her through the highs of her release, dragging the waves of pleasure until dark spots began forming in her vision, body convulsing in his arms.
He waited for the searing pleasure to fade away into a heavy exhaustion before his hand collided with her ass, humming at her broken whine while her trembling fingers attempted at pushing him away by shoulder—an adorable attempt, but one he was in no mood of tolerating now.
“On your fours, whore,” he hissed through his teeth while long fingers wrapped around his cock, stroking himself while he watched her blink in confusion. He nearly imagine the protests that were to come—the kind that belonged on the tongues of spoiled brats obsessed with themselves, and no matter how much sweet she seemed, Shauryaman knew that they shared the same narcissistic core deep inside.
“No,” she protested weakly, a stifled cry behind bitten lips as she tried to crawl away from him on limp limps.
His head tilted to the side, dark eyes narrowed at the defiance before he reached out with sheer force, fingers curling into her hips before dragging her closer, turning her around until she was exactly the way he wanted—on her hands and knees with back arched and hair gripped in his fingers.
“Maine tumse puch nahi raha tha, jaan,” he roared, lining himself against her entrance while pulling at her hair hard enough for her neck crane back and a cry to slip past her lips. With a firm and finally stroke, he bottomed into her yet again with an animalistic sound, letting out a contented hum as her overstimulated pussy fluttered around him, continuing as he pulled back, “main tumhe bata raha tha.”
A harsh snap of his hips, a guttural cry from her lips—the cycle continued until he was a rabid beast breeding his bitch in heat.
Enough to knock her off balance until her arms gave up, face crashing into the mattress roughly as he continued—uncaring as she thrashed underneath him, chanting his name as if he was god himself. And in the moment? With his balls tightening and vision blurring with intense pleasure, he felt no less than that.
“Agar mujhe pehle pata hota,” he huffed between heavy pants, leaning over her as his hips moved with determined vigour to chase his orgasm. Her fluttering walls tightening around his length was all that he needed to know, bringing a smirk to his lips as his fingers let go of her hair to move down and circle her front, playing with her bouncing nipples while he growled into her shoulders: “toh suhaagraat wale din shayad aa hi jata tumhare pass.”
A scream of his name punctuated his words, spurring him on as he tugged at her nipples before twisting them until her tears rolled down her cheeks.
“You love to pretend that you are above this all, but look at you—” her walls gushed around him while her lips parted in a choked scream, fingers curling into the silk sheets as her head shook both from the waves of crushing pleasure as well as in denial, because Shauryaman Gaur wasn’t stopping still, “—fucking coming around me after protesting like a good wife.”
His orgasm came abruptly—like low tides suddenly turning into tsunami that crashed into him, ripping through his limbs until he was collapsing onto her like a heaving mess while his cock twitched inside her, filling her cunt up with his seed—all to the brim until their mixed cum dripped down the back of her thighs and staining his front.
And still, his length still remained a hard mass of raw lust as he pulled out of her, watching her quivering body through hooded eyes before his fingers rise to trace her arm—a touch featherlight and yet, lingering enough to make her whine and try to move away from him.
Also, posting this on the eve of Ikka because I can
Ruins of Rage
Shauryaman Gaur x Reader
If he was the fire, she was no less than gasoline—and together? They were exquisite ruins of a unique rage…
They were mirrors to one another: an uncomfortable reminder of the dark shades that coloured their terrible worlds, forced to pretend for the sake of others while their own personal hell burned hotter than the restless summer of India.
Warnings: Arranged marriage. Forced proximity. Sexual tension. Banter and sarcasm. Age gap. Dub-con (you will know what I mean soon). Sexual content (groping and hair pulling and spanking). Enemies (for now). Shauryaman Gaur (as per the trailer and teaser, he deserves to have a warning of his own). Shauryaman is a little perverted? (A little?) Misogyny. He is into substance abuse. That should do…for now?
The world had evolved—from walking distances to creating wheels and innovations taking flight, from living in caves to building houses of mud until towering apartments filled out the horizon of metropolitan cities, from a society that frowned upon women to their fight for voting rights giving rise to feminism, from the conceptualisation of marriages to the creation of social norms around it until the youth decided to break them down to love freely.
The world had changed plenty—but not the whole one, even though most wore the facade of modernism over a heart still favouring the old practices that once defined the civilisation that resided on the land near the banks of Indus.
An elegant chandelier of glass hung from a frame of gold, illuminating the spacious sitting room Shauryaman had been shown to by the middle-aged housekeeper who smiled too widely and spoke too politely, making the man wonder whether she knew as well the bitter pill of truth he was forced to swallow.
It hadn’t been the first time his father had made a decision for him—the man was practically obsessed with controlling the life of the heir of the vast family empire, always bringing forth ideas that would disrupt his life. But unfortunately for his father, he underestimated the cunning of his son.
But there were no artful tricks that could rid him of Harshvardhan Gaur’s latest demands.
None except obedience and a quiet hope that his intended—carefully chosen by his father, a daughter to an industrialist acquaintance—despised this idea of union as much as he did. Because perhaps then, he might figure out a way to avoid disruptions in his already satisfactory life.
A deal would work favourably, one where his soon-to-be wife agrees to let him live his life the way he wants to while she breathes however she want—no interference in each other’s business.
A perfectly happy marriage.
His anticipation was rising as the time ticked by, the careful and revealing searches in the browser of his mobile felt heavy on his chest as well as in his pocket—ones he had made in the chauffeured car on his way to the mansion that was registered in the name of his to-be father-in-law.
The research revealed not much about her, nothing entertaining as he had hoped. Only pictures taken during launch parties and charity galas, along with the formal information about her expensive education and her role in her father’s empire: the head of the Public Relations team, a fancy title for a job that seemed nearly useless in the eyes of Shauryaman.
But who was he to comment?
Well, technically?
Her fiancee.
The rapid train of his thoughts derailed the moment dark mahogany double doors opened with a quiet creak that echoed in the otherwise silent room, his dark eyes—deceivingly resembling the innocent ones of a newborn deer—lifting to find the figure of his betrothed closing the door she had entered through.
Elegance was the only word that came to his mind as he watched her approach the sofa he sat upon, her heels clicking like the devil’s warning against the marble floor.
A smirk tugged on his lips as his eyes dragged over her—assessing from her head to toe, until he was pleased enough to rise to hid feet. At least, his father had found him a pretty face, easy on sore eyes—one that would look breathtaking on his arm and in the family photographs for Harshvardhan Gaur’s election campaigns.
“So you are the chosen one?” He wondered out loud, his boots heavy against the floor as he chewed away the distance separating them, halting only when she stood at an arms length from him.
His mocking words earn him an arched eyebrow, her head tilted to a side while she folded her arms in front of him. Her eyes—large like his own, honeyed poison in appearance—venture out on an expedition of their own, studying the sharp lines of his tailored suit and the laid back crew neck underneath the jacket.
“Chosen one?” She repeated, her voice a soft cadence that disguised her own arrogance, not like his—loud and obnoxious and evident from a mile—but quieter, more dangerous.
“Or the bali ka bakra?”
Shauryaman’s smirk widened, eyes darkening with interest as he let out a rumbling hum, bending down until his fingers trace the rim of the untouched glass of water—an action dripping of arrogance and something far more sinister—before the long digits wrapped around it like a striking snake.
A predator intimidating another, or perhaps, trying to deduce whether he was faced with a true predator or a sheep in the lion’s skin.
“Bali ki bakri hui tum toh,” he teased, taking an agonising long sip of the water while his obsidian eyes remain locked onto hers above the rim—a silent challenge simmering in the air, daring her to rise to his bait.
And oh! Does he wish to see her come alive with rage—witness the fire, if she has any.
She rolled her eyes, a nearly quiet huff of annoyance eliciting an amused laughter as he waited patiently for her reply, because he could see the gears in her mind working, her lips parting in a telltale sign of a reply incoming.
“How are you so sure ki sacrificial lamb main hu aur tum nahi?” She taunted, a smirk mirroring his dancing on her attractive features as she shifted—slow steps graceful like a panther’s, moving through the length of the room as if it was a forest, and her the queen of the land, which, in its own uniquely manner, was true.
That caught him off guard, because wasn’t it always the women that got the shorter stick in such lifelong arrangements while the men enjoyed their privileged lives? And yet, the confidence oozing from this woman a decade younger than him had even the arrogant heir reconsidering every word he had been told about the deal, and everything his father had left unsaid.
And from the amused glint in her eyes and the smirk widening the slightest inch? She knew that he was doubting everything, exactly what she wanted.
With a deep breath, one meant to fill the cracks in his composure and buy him enough time to find a satisfying reply to her words, he placed the glass back on the table before he stood up to his full height—not the tallest by any standards, and yet, his impactful aura did most of the intimidation when required.
“Mushkil hota hoga na,” he began with a mocking smile, lazy steps circling her once before he stopped in front of her, heavy gaze tracing her delicate features with eyes that gleamed at the knowledge of having a worthy opponent in the shape of his intended wife.
At least, the marriage won’t be boring.
Unless he can tame her, which would be fun, but only for a brief time.
“Aise pretend karna ki tumhe koi faraq nahi padhta ki tumhari freedom tumse cheen li ja rahi hai, all because your father thinks this marriage is of more value than you? As if tumhe bura nahi laga ki tumhare baap ne tumhari jagah tumhare bhai ko waris bana diya, even though you clearly were the better option? ”
He tsked, cruel as his fingers brush against the bare skin of her wrist—slow like a predator enjoying the thought of teasing and tormenting his prey before delivering the killing blow. His very soul relished at the sight of her muscles tensing, shoulders squared almost painfully while her jaw tightened in restraint, patience and composure hanging from a fine thread while his words and actions all but push her towards the cliff’s edge—waiting for her to lose her grip and show him the fire that blazed behind the cold facade of neutrality in her eyes.
With a deliberate shift, his hand wrapped around her wrist, catching her completely off-guard as he tucked her closer. His empty arm wrapped around the curve of her waist, keeping her pressed to his front as his dark eyes trace the newfound expression on her face—committing it to his memory, for the uncertainty of witnessing the sight again was not lost on him.
Her wrist is freed soon after, allowing her to press both of her hands to his chest in an attempt to push him away—applying as much force as she could muster. But his arm was an iron shackle, and rather than being discouraged, her defiance only fuelled the darkness swirling in his eyes—entertained he was at her attempts, unfazed still because she held little strength over him.
His fingers caress her clothed shoulder, a lingering touch—though featherlight, at best—that had her growing more restless against the suffocating warmth of him, before they shift north.
The bared skin of her neck was warm to his touch, inching closer to her face and savouring every hitch of her breath with a mocking smirk while his fingers reach their destination, splaying across the line of her jaw and tilting her face up—just to peer down into the eyes that have intrigued him in a matter of few minutes. His thumb traced the curve of her lower lip, messing with the defining lip liner and matte lipstick she wore like an armour, creating a sinful chaos on a sharp visage.
“Itna gussa,” he started, voice dropping down an octave or two as his face inched closer to hers until their breaths mingled as one, grazing each other’s cheeks and warming skin against her will—tobacco from his cigarette tangled in the mint from the chewing gum she had spat out before walking through the doors that enclosed them now.
The thumb halted its ministrations at the pause of his words, rising to press insistently on the plump skin until her lips part, offering him delightful vulnerability that contrasted against the wide eyes of his soon-to-be wife that seemed feral with rage—a sight he smirked down at.
“Sirf barbaadi lata hai, meri jaan.”
He felt her recoil at the term of endearment before he saw it, her body filled with renewed energy to get out of his hold that had began to only ebb a little, and it only brought a laughter out of him—full and cruel with his eyes gleaming under the chandelier lights.
And still, his arm around her waist unbothered, fingers tracing little mocking circles only to enrage her more.
“Let me go!” She protested, glaring up at him, but it was hard to appear in control of the situation when she was all but caged against the man she already hated—the very one that she has to marry because of their father’s whims. Rather, she looked adorable to him, like an angry spoiled brat told she could not have everything she wants.
Instead of replying verbally to her, Shauryaman only leans down until their lips were mere millimetres away, nearly brushing with every deep breath she took—unsteady from the anger that rushes through her veins—but still not touching as the heir of Harshvardhan Gaur would want—though he would have what we wants, one way or the other.
He always does, with hook or with crook.
There was a unique satisfaction in having her against him, defenceless and breathing heavily with a flush she couldn’t control colouring her cheeks pink and her lips parted under his thumb without any words to utter because even the smallest of syllable meant a contact of intimacy she clearly doesn’t want—a perverse pleasure that persuaded his blood to rush southward and pupils to dilate as he watched the rise and fall of her breasts, hidden from his sight by the silk shirt she wore, before his eyes lifted to meet hers again.
Anger. Disgust. Indifference—that is what he had hoped to feel for his fiancee before she had walked in, and yet, standing in the middle of the room with a woman glaring up at him despite having the shorter stick? He could only feel a raw desire to devour her completely. A lust deeper than anything he had ever felt for any woman before—and to think that he had been with quite beautiful ones, models and actresses and aspiring stars that dwindle before making it to the sky.
Before he could think more, or before she could find in her the strength to push him away for good, his lips slanted away on hers—not a gentle press of kindness or hesitation between virginity lovers or strangers trying to familiarise themselves to the map of their would-be.
But rough—teeth and tongue and lips clashing in a war for dominance that he was determined on winning at any cost.
A gasp is all he lets her react with before his teeth sink into her lower lip, biting hard enough to leave behind the faint imprint of himself on her skin and taste the slightest tang of her blood before he lets her lower lip escape only for his tongue to slip in, muffling her cry and probing and poking her insides until her tongue was dancing alongside his—not in harmony but engaged in a battle.
The hand cupping her jaw slipped away into her open hair, tangling into her strands and tugging at the roots—hard enough for the sting to tread closer to the line that separated pain from hard-earned pleasure—but his hand was as restless as the man, shifting south until his fingers traced the curve of her spine. All while the hand around her waist moved to play at the curve of her ass, groping and feeling the supple flesh before delivering a singular spank that elicited a yelp from her.
Shauryaman had expected rebellion—screeches and protests and pushing him away with all her strength and accusations about him being a perverted monster. But instead, his rough actions are greeted with equal vigour that surprised him just as it excited him.
Her lips moved against his with frightening intensity—fuelled by anger and a desire she would never vocalise, especially not when it originated for her to-be husband. Tongue tasting tobacco with a quiet sound of protest against the harsh and bitter flavour—a stark contrast to the refreshing minty chewing gum—and still, her pride relented from letting him win the battle, leaving them a tangled mess of saliva and raging storm that left behind ruins at its wake. One of the slender hands moved away from his chest, fingers tangling into the lapel of his suit while her body tried to arch away from his heat—failing miserably and instead, pressing into the lean ridges of his front.
It is only when air became necessary did they pull away from one another, a string of shared drool connecting their parted lips while his grip upon her loosens just a little, fingers moving until his hands settled upon her wide hips—holding rather than restraining, because all his limbs could focus upon was the lingering sensation of her; senses already overwhelmed by her scent—vanilla and orange and something warm—but he would rather take a knife to his heart before he admits to being unravelled by her.
Silence crowded the room, broken only by the broken breaths of two individuals that clearly hated—and desired—each other. Two bodies clinging to one another, suspended for a brief moment before the reality kicked in.
At last, she succeeds in pushing him away, back of the hand wiping away the traces of wetness that glossed over her lips while her eyes glared daggers at him—trying to act composed, and still, he could see the slight tremble in her fingers, the tension lining her shoulders and the flush on her cheeks that had little to do with her rage now and more to do with her kiss-swollen lips and disheveled appearance.
It amused him immensely, her feeble attempt at appearing distant as she had been when she had entered the room—unfazed even, while the sight of her spoke a different truth—bringing forth a deep laugh as his fingers ran through his hair before wiping away the lingering remnants of her from his lips.
Pride is what rushed through him, and a need to have her whole—an evidence of which pressed against the seams of his trousers stubbornly, asking for attention and sweet release.
“Agar aisi hi baat hai, Shauryaman Gaur,” she hissed, tears lining her wide eyes—out of frustration, rather than anything more vulnerable—fingers curled into fists by her side. The urge to run her fingers through her hair to bring back a semblance of confidence was immense, but she didn’t trust her own limbs to comply without giving away her vulnerability—far more than she was willing to give him.
“Then I will ruin you.”
A bold proclamation, one that didn’t terrify him. Instead, it made his trousers grow tighter, a thrill of dark amusement rushed to his mind like a line of properly crushed powder that sent him to the top of the world—not a loser son to an ambitious father, but the king of the world.
And apparently, he didn’t need the substance anymore, just his defiant betrothed with her intoxicating attitude and sarcastic remarks.
hi girlie 💕🌹 I absolutely love love loveee your works so so much 🥰🫶🏻💗 I have a request, can you please write something on Sushant Bansal, the deputy director of IB from Dhurandhar? I found him really hot but there are no fics on him, something really cute like the reader and him are newly married, it's an arranged marriage and he isn't able to give her much time owing to his work even on their honeymoon, so she gets a bit upset thinking that maybe he doesn't likes her and married her just for the sake of it, but he does something very thoughtful, sweet and romantic for her and they share their first kiss? 💖
thank you and i love everything that you write 🫶🏻
Sushant Bansal is honestly so hot 😭 also sorry for being nearly two months late? I have been busy with studies yk. Really sorry 😭
Peonies & Confession
Sushant Bansal x Wife!Reader
Sometimes, all it needs is a lot little courage and efforts…
Sushant Bansal, the Deputy Director of Intelligence Bureau, was perfect for his position. Disciplined. Intellectual. Observing. And just a little too busy for his new wife.
Warnings: Reader is a little insecure and upset. Sushant is clueless. Ajay Sanyal being a saviour. Light angst? Sushant is whipped but he has no idea on what to do.
Being the Deputy Director of IB was being omnipresent. Every single news—known to the world and covered before it could see the light of the day—versed as if it was his name. Every single person known—personality and their deepest, darkest secrets, for who knows when might one need leverage over them?
And Sushant Bansal was good at his work.
Not merely good. He was perfect.
A shadow to Ajay Sanyal; a hunter of informations and a strategist at heart.
But every man had an aspect he lacked at.
And the invincible Deputy Director? He was nearly failing when it came to appeasing his newlywed wife—someone he had met only twice before their wedding. Exchanged a few words, even though he had already read a file on her. Shared a single ‘date’ their families had imposed upon them, even though the majority of it was spent in awkward silences and aimless conversations.
She had tried to fill in the silences, speaking about her college days, a trip to Himachal with her friends that went horribly wrong because they miscalculated the number of clothes they were required to pack, a dog she had in teenage. Everything she could think of, while he had only listened.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested. Far from it.
She was one of the few genuine people he had met in his life—hiding no ulterior motives but real curiosity, trying to make efforts to turn something fabricated into something real.
But Sushant was the most clueless at this.
He had never had a serious girlfriend in his lifetime; the only romance he has done was probably with his work—the most efforts, maximum time spent. But a woman? He had fooled around a little, a little here and a little there, but nothing serious. Not when he was already too pre-occupied with his work.
That was until his parents started nagging him about marriage. Something about ‘umar nikalti ja rahi hai shaadi ki, zindagi bhar kuwara rehna hai?’ (Age of marriage is slipping away, you want to stay unmarried for life?), and initially, he had made sure to reject every girl his parents showed them.
Some for their lack of proper education. Some because they had some shady backgrounds. Some because they were being forced into the marriage—much like himself, but he would not destroy a life that was pushed into this unwillingly. But his parents had caught onto his plan, and after a huge fight that nearly resembled the breakout of World War III, Sushant was shown her.
Shy and slightly clumsy unlike his graceful precision of a predator, with a smile that brightened up her entire face. Polite but animated words weaving stories of a normalcy that he had nearly forgotten after his work. A lilting laugh that felt like music to his ears. Flushed cheeks that looked like fresh apples from Kashmir, present through the entire walk around the modest garden of her family.
He had wanted to say no—just to save her from a disappointing life. And yet, the smile on his parents’ faces made him agree.
“I will not be a normal husband,” he had whispered to her after the varmala, still giving her a chance to step out of this marriage, even though the scandal it would create wasn’t lost on his head. But he could handle that, make it go away with a few firm words and some strings pulled.
But she didn’t even offer him a twitch of her eye in response, and for a moment, he thought she didn’t hear his words—until they were left alone for a few rare moments on the stage.
Her voice was steady, her smile soft, making his traitorous heart skip a beat it shouldn’t. This was wrong, he thought to himself, but his heart argued back, reminding him that she was his wife now. That he had every right to feel the way he did. That even Ajay Sanyal has a happy family, and so should Bansal.
“Humare papa army mein the, hume aadat hai.” (my father was in army, I am habitual to it.)
The honeymoon had been unamusing, not because she was distant or too invested in the lush meadows of Chopta to pay him any attention.
But because he was constantly on his phone, whispering commands and murmuring information that meant nothing to her but everything to Ajay Sanyal. Too busy to look at her twice or whisper a compliment. And as much as he felt guilty for neglecting her, he argued with himself that he had no choice. Surely, he could not leave his duties behind.
And even though his boss had subtly tried to remind him over the call, he had ignored the words and went on to talk about ‘what is important’.
“Honeymoon pe patni ko bhi time dena hota hai, Bansal.” (You have to give time to your wife on honeymoon, Bansal.)
“Haan sir, iske baad—” (yes sir, after this—)
The after? Well, it didn’t come.
And like a typical woman in Indian society. His wife took the blame on herself, and he felt the shift in the air. She no longer tried to make conversations with him over dinner, just sitting in front of him, quietly nibbling on her food. She no longer spoke of her day, or of anything at all, except for the polite ‘how was your day’. The sindoor that once trailed long in her the parting of her hair gradually shrunk, and by the end? It was merely half-an-inch mark, easily hidden under the darkness of her tresses.
He noticed it all, but he could not quite understand how to fix a crumbling marriage.
He was used to dealing with hostile terrorists, educate the future spies for RA&W, find buried information. But bearing the quiet wraith of an upset wife? That was where Sushant Bansal was completely out of his depth.
Ajay had noticed his right-hand man drifting away in his thoughts when there was no work at hands. And while it amused the Director in the beginning, the mirth soon faded away into concern when he realised that Sushant’s new wife had stopped calling during the lunch to ask that one question all the wives do:
“Khana khaya?” (Had lunch?)
And as a married man himself, Sanyal knew it meant trouble in paradise. A paradise that hadn’t existed in the first place, only a brick or two of foundation—and already, it seemed to be trembling under the weight of the busy schedule of the Deputy Director.
“Bansal?” Ajay hummed, his wise eyes behind his glasses watching the man closely, trying to deduce anything useful—but his subordinate was a man with a cold mask.
“Yes sir?” The said man looked up from the file he was reading, closing it wordlessly when he saw a particular glint in the eyes of his senior. The kind he couldn’t quite explain in words, but one that felt awfully similar to a predator smelling blood.
“Ghar pe sab thik?” (Everything alright at home?)
To anyone, it was a normal question, asked frequently enough to become a formality. But family was rarely discussed in the premises of their workplace, and ever more rarer when it was done behind the walls of the Director’s office. Both the men knew it, but both were adamant to not lose their composure…yet.
“Yes sir, sab badiya.” (Yes sir, everything’s good.)
“Kabhi aao ghar—patni ji ko leke.” (Come home someday—along with your wife.)
The simple request caught Sushant off guard, for he wasn’t even sure whether his wife would be interested in visiting the house of his senior. She would not say no, he knew that—and it made everything even worse, for he wished not to force something onto her, but her quiet agreements to everything made his head spin.
Did she want it? Or was she simply being polite?
“Main puch kar bata dunga,” (I will inform after asking her) he replied nonchalantly, all while he hoped that his senior dropped the unwanted conversation—not because he wished not to talk about his wife, but because he was afraid of revealing the distance that had grown within them in only a matter of few weeks.
Ajay hummed, his lips pulled in a knowing smile as he nodded his head in understanding—not of what was said, but what was said through his deputy’s silence. The quiet distance between them. The awkward haze of a newlyweds trying to appear perfect while clearly, they were unable to express themselves.
Leaning back in his chair, his fingers drummed against the table, eyes lingering in a distance before they return to Sushant.
“Aaj jaldi ghar chale jao.” (Go home early today.)
The man responsible for training the young agents of RA&W could only blink in confusion, protest on lips which were cut short by a single dismissive way of Ajay’s hand. But he remained sitting, still a little taken aback by the sudden encouragement to leave office early—something that had never happened before.
But now? His own senior ordered him to do it.
“Par sir—” (but sir—)
“Ghar pe samay dena bhi ek mard ka kartavya hai, Sushant. Tum jisse shaadi karke apne ghar laye ho—usse bhi tumhari utni hi zaroorat hai jitni iss office ko. Aaj jao.” (It is a man’s duty to give time at home, Sushant. The one you brought home after marrying—she needs you as much as this office. Go today.)
Suddenly, the weight of his wallet in the pocket of his trousers grew exponentially, but he dared not take it out yet. Not in front of someone.
Instead, he stands up and salute Ajay before he makes his way out of the office and into the familiar corridors of their headquarters—stopping by his office to collect his things before he approached the parking with one hand fishing out the car keys while the other held onto his briefcase, all while he thought of all ways to utilise the early leave.
How could he possibly make amends for neglecting her for so long? But even if she didn’t forgive him, he had to try.
His briefcase sits on the passenger seat, and at last, he reached into his pocket to pull out his wallet, carefully opening it to reveal a single passport size photo no one knew about other than himself.
It was a picture from their wedding.
A candid of her laughing—completely unaware that the camera had captured the soft curve of her smile and the gentle flush that peeked from the red of the dupatta covering her head. The corners of her eyes crinkled with joy while her cheeks revealed dimples that made his breath stutter and heart halt.
“Dobara soch lo beta, iske baad zindagi bhar jhelna padega,” (Think again, beta, after this you will have to handle him for life) an uncle of hers had joked when they were about to embark on the seventh and the last phera. Everyone had laughed at the joke, but he had quietly hoped that she would think again—and still find him worthy enough to take that last phera.
Whether she thought again or not, Sushant won’t know. But a look at her smiling face siting in his wallet like a sacred relic told him just enough.
He won’t let his marriage become a collateral for his job—and even if the efforts were to be proved futile, he will make them still. For the thought of not even try for the sake of her made him sick and disgusted by himself, for she deserved a man who could give her some time at the very least.
“Mujhe peonies bohot pasand hai,” (I love peonies very much) she had told him while rambling over their only date, an information that he had filed away in his mind for later use, and at last, the time to use it was here.
The door to their home opened with a soft click, and with quiet steps, the Deputy Director walked in, picking up on the fresh scent of spices wafting through the place and the soft melody in the voice of Talat Mahmood and Lata Mangeshkar—a song that he realised fits them perfectly.
Mera saath kahan tak dogi tum
Main des videsh ka banjara
Gently, Sushant placed the briefcase on the couch, even though he knew the side-eye she would offer it before making sure it returned to its place on his desk in the small home office he had. His other hand? Holding a bouquet of blushing peonies, ten to be exact—for the weeks that have passed since their wedding.
He called her name, soft and almost hesitant while his feet took him closer to the kitchen, the origin of the heavenly scent that greeted him.
“Aap?” (You?)
He was unsure whether it was the soft sigh of her word or the question that made his gaze soften, but his mask slips away instantly, and in its place, a soft smile decorated his lips—a proud tilt of chin as well. Even though he himself stood a little confused of the action.
Perhaps, it was merely a habit of his now.
“Shaadi ke baad main kaam mein itna busy tha ki apko samay hi nahi de paya,” (after the wedding, I was so busy in work that I couldn’t give you any time) he began, slowly extending the bouquet while his gaze flicks down, afraid to witness a reaction that might break his heart completely. But how could he even blame her if she wasn’t affected by his actions anymore? He had done it to himself.
And he would spend his whole life serving penance if that is what she wanted.
“Aaj socha ki aap kitne sapne leke aayi hongi iss ghar mein, aur main hu ki…apko samay hi nahi de paya,” (Today, I thought that you must have brought so many dreams with yourself in this house, and here I…couldn’t even give you time) the words spill out in an apology, even though the exact word wasn’t used.
He felt the weight of the bouquet slowly vanishing from his hand, letting it fall back to his side while he heard the quiet breaths of his wife—still unable to meet her eyes, hyper aware of the gentle chimes of her anklets as she moved with grace, placing the bouquet on the countertop before she returned to him.
O neel gagan ke deewane
Tu pyaar na mera pahchane
Cautiously, her hands rise to hover over his face, before they finally find the courage to cup his cheeks and tilt it up—encouraging her to meet her eyes that were slowly gathering moisture that made him panic.
But before he could ask any questions, she shushed him with a trembling smile, her thumb slowly moving across his cheekbone, tracing his features as if he would disappear the second her hands returned to her side. But the truth was that he didn’t wish for her to let go of his face, just as much as she did.
“Mujhe laga ki apne sirf ghar walo ki wajah se shaadi ki humse…” (I thought that you married me just because of your family…)
“Nahi. Aisa kabhi mat sochna,” (No. Never think that) he interjected slowly, his own hands—trembling for the first time in years—reach up to cup the back of her palms against his cheeks while he slowly shook his head. Despite the best of his efforts at keeping his composure, he could feel the sting of tears in his eyes and the warmth of an escaped one trailing down his cheek.
Her thumb moves again, softer this time, wiping away the evidence of his tear—almost as if it was a silent truce. This moment would forever be their secret.
“I didn’t marry you because I was forced to marry someone—but because you were so…perfect, that I couldn’t help but be selfish enough to tie you in a marriage with me, knowing I would not be able to be half the husband you deserve.”
She watched him like a moth watches the flame dance, before she breathes a surprised laughter, shaking her head softly while her gaze softened. Her dimples peeking from beneath the loose strands that framed her face—almost as if she was a painting made in Kishangarh. Beautiful with a lock of hair grazing her forehead.
“Aap mera pyaar nahi samajhte, Sushant.” (You don’t understand my love, Sushant.)
“Huh?”
“Mujhe farak nahi padhta ki mujhe woh mila joh deserving tha ya nahi,” (I don’t care whether I got what I deserved or not) she whispered, taking a step closer until her toes nudged against the leather of his formal shoes. Her scent—citrusy hiding behind a tinge of flora—sent him into a world he could not quite describe, except that all he could see was the smiling picture of hers from his wallet, and a fragile hope blooming in his heart.
Main tab tak saath chaloon tere
Jab tak na kahe tu main haara
“Main sirf itna janti hu ki jab tak aap khud mujhe jaane ke liye nahi kah dete, tab tak main kahi nahi jaungi.” (I only know that as long as you don’t ask me to leave, I will not go anywhere.)
It was both, a promise and a beginning of something beautiful. Something fragile and easily broken, but Sushant was a man of caution—has always been, and this was the most important mission of his life (along with Operation Dhurandhar, but she doesn’t know about that).
His hands move, releasing her hands to cup her face, slowly tilting her chin while he stepped forward—the space between them reduced to mere intimate inches. But he doesn’t move any further, instead, his voice forms words that both amuse her as well as melt her heart.
“May I?”
“Agar consent nahi hota, toh abhi tak belan mar chuki hoti.” (If I wasn’t consenting, I would have hit you with a rolling pin by now.)
A startled chuckle leaves his lips, his thumb tracing the arch of her cheek before he leaned in—slow and nearly cautious when his lips meet hers in a soft brush. He felt her hands slip away from his face, settling on his shirt, curling into the fabric while she titled her chin up.
The first of many’s in their relationship.
The beginning.
All while the song on the radio hit its final notes with a soft hum, a gentle blur in the background while they smiled into the kiss:
Rehman baloch x reader. The trope here goes: arrange marriage but make it romantic. This is actually a silly fluffy one.
So the reader who is a lover of romantic poems and books since her childhood is getting married to rehman (his character stays the same ferocious as he is) who is rather very straightforward and bad at expressing the usual banter of romance. Like bro cannot be romantic lol. So reader being a tease sends him a love letter accusing him of how mindless he is when it comes to being a romantic husband and a intrigued rehman sends her a letter back. So the story kind of unfolds through teasing and flirting but through love letters in their fiance period. (Uzair and hamza can pull his legs too) You can conclude the ending of the fic as per you want and what will look prettyyyy like them getting flustered on meeting irl or something like that.
You do either of the fics or both or none and i will still worship your writing skills because they are all so beautiful with the aesthetics and everything!! THANKYOU so much in advance if you choose to write any one 🫶🏼🫶🏼
Honestly? I LOVEDDDDD THIS ONEEEE. Mujhe bhi love letter chahiye (I think sabhi ladkiyo ko chahiye hota hai). Anyway, be ready for tooth-rooting fluff. Also, second update of the day 🤪
Suniye Future-Shohar Sahab
Rehman Dakait/Rehman Baloch x Reader
Sometimes, love isn’t gifts or touches but letters exchanged without ever seeing each other.
She was a girl who dreamt of romance and a knight in shining armour; he was a man who didn’t know anything about romance—straight like a sword. But letters? They reveal a side of him he never expected to know.
Warnings: NOTHING. Arranged Marriage. Fluff, fluff and only fluff. I tried translating the letters to my best level. I tried writing the Shayari as well (translation done by ChatGPT, toh usse kahna agar galat translation hai toh). Tooth-rotting fluff, kisi ko diabetes hua toh main zimmedar nahi. Bold + Italics are words belonging to the letters.
Word Count: 2.5k (honestly? It’s my favourite writing length, I think)
“Toh aap kah rahi hai ki unhone angoothe chod ke kuch aur nahi bhijvaya?” (So you are saying that he didn’t send anything else other than a ring?) The woman gasped out loud, staring at her best friend who sat down on the edge of her bed with a huff, her gaze drifting down to the ring that sat heavy on her finger—the weight a constant reminder of her decided fate.
It wasn’t that she was against this marriage—she didn’t have a choice to protest against it. But she had hoped for a husband that would at least match a third of her romantic soul, but apparently, her fiancée was a ‘No-Shit-Sherlock’ personality.
She had expected him to at least meet her on the day of their khitbah, and embarrassingly assumed her fiancée’s cousin to be the man her parents had decided to marry her to. But Uzair—as he had introduced himself as—had kindly informed her that her soon-to-be husband was preoccupied in something else, and that he was sorry for his absence.
Sorry, but no gifts to compensate for it.
Just the ring that was demanded by the society and a box of sweets that tasted ashen when her mood was instantly soured.
“Aap humare zakhmon par merhaam lagane aayi hai ya namak dalne?” (Are you here to tend to my wounds or to sprinkle salt on them?) She replied sharply, glancing at her best friend who was looking through her extensive book collection of romance novels and poetry. Her fingers caressed the spine like she always did absently before it stopped against one particular spine with a raised eyebrow.
It was ‘The Love Letter’ by Cathleen Schine.
“Iss book mein main character ko ek letter milta hai, haina?” (The main character gets a letter in this book, right?)
The question made the newly engaged woman look up, glancing at the name before she hummed, “Anonymous love letter,” she corrected, almost uninterested in how her best friend was practically not listening to her drowning in the misery of having a non-romantic spouse.
The slow grin on her friend’s face made her raise an eyebrow in suspicion.
“Kyu na tum bhi apne hone wale shohar ko letter likho? Anonymously nahi—apne naam ke saath.” (How about you write a letter to your soon-to-be husband? Not anonymously—with your name.)
The suggestion wasn’t bad, it was disastrous.
She didn’t know him at all. Had never seen his face except for in a few political pamphlets where he looked like…a constipated chicken. She knew that he was a blunt man who worked in all sorts of illegal activities. A man of immense power—the type that don’t do romances and love letters.
She rolled her eyes at the idea then, but it revolved around her head for far too long until she was actually sat on the floor, writing soft accusations in cursive while a thrill rushed down her spine. She had never written a letter to someone, much less a man that would be her husband one day—but she couldn’t stop anymore. Not when the ink had dried and the words sat on the paper heavy and reflective.
And then came the riskiest part.
A soft imprint of her lips left in the end. Not a red lipstick but a pink one that inclined towards brown. Not too vulgar, was it?
She had shoved it into a pristine envelope, forgoing writing a name or address, and she had handed it to one of the more discreet servants of the house. A clear instruction to deliver it into Rehman Dakait’s hand only before she had rushed back to her room and hid under her blanket, almost trying to forget what she had done.
The envelope reached Rehman next morning, pristine and without a name that only fuelled his curiosity. An edge of the envelope was torn open and the letter inside saw the sunlight.
He had expected a lot of things—a warning or a threat by his enemy, a potential ally or client reaching out, even the Balochistan United Front requesting his assistance in some way, shape or form. He hadn’t expected a love letter, not by a secret admirer but his own soon-to-be wife, even though her name wasn’t mentioned.
Waise toh hum apko jante bhi nahi, par itna zaroor samajh gaye hai ki apko romance ka koi idea nahi hai. Akhir jisko thoda bohot bhi idea hota, woh khud ke hi khitbah mein kyu na aata? Aur agar na bhi aata, toh at least, koi tohfa toh bhejta. (In reality I don’t know you, but I have understand that you have no idea about romance. After all someone who might have an idea about it, why would he have skipped coming to his own engagement? And still if he couldn’t come, then at least, he would have sent some gift.)
Lekin nahi. (But no.)
Hume mili toh sirf ek angoothi aur ek mithai ka dabba. Abb aap batao ki mithai se nikah padhe ya dabbe se? (I got only a ring and a box of sweets. Now tell me should I marry the sweets or the box?)
Dekhiye, hum sach kahenge. Humari iss rishte se kuch zyada umeed toh nahi hai. Par hum bore ho kar, apse tang aa kar yeh rishta chalana nahi chahte. Romantic soul hai humari aur apne toh pehli baar mein hi paani pher diya. Abb aap hi dhundhiye iss problem ka solution, warna sach kah rahe hai apko bhi pareshan kar denge hum. (See, I will admit the truth. I don’t have a lot of expectations from this marriage. But I don’t want to drag this marriage after being bored and annoyed by you. I have a romantic soul and you poured water over it at the very beginning. Now you find a solution to this problem, otherwise, I am telling you the truth, I will annoy you a lot.)
Apki hone wali humsafar… (your soon-to-be life partner…)
A raised eyebrow at the faint imprint of the lipstick, a quirked smile at the honest words but he could not quite admire it properly. Because it was in his hands one second, and gone in the next, followed by a series of ‘wow’ while Uzair skimmed over the words with a toothy grin that promised mischief and teasing.
“Hamza, dekh toh bhai ko kya mast love letter likha hai bhabhi ne.” (Hamza, see what a great love letter sister-in-pashas written for brother.)
The letter was handed, much to Rehman’s utter dismay. He glared at the two men with his hands perched over his hips before he diverted his attention to shorter of the two—who was still taller than the lion. He didn’t say anything, no orders whispered or a threat. Just extended his hand expectantly and the letter returned to him without a single trace of protest except the quiet huff of his younger cousin.
Never in his dreams had he thought that he would write someone a letter, much less that being his fiancée, and yet, the morning a letter awaited for her on the top of her writing desk.
She hadn’t expected it, and she was a little taken aback when she found it.
How did he even got it there?
And still, her hands shook a little as she opened the parchment, carefully reading through the words written in a…hurried handwriting, a slow smile tugging on her lips while her cheeks were dusted with a little pink.
Humari hone-wali humsafar ko humara saalam, (greetings to my soon-to-be life partner)
Maaf kariyega humari iss gustakhi ko par apka khat padh kar uska jawab dena hume laazmi laga. Agar apko bura lage toh iss bewaqoof ko maaf kariyega. (Forgive me for my insolence but after reading your letter, it felt necessary to reply. If you don’t like it then forgive this idiot.)
Accha likhti hai aap, aur sach bhi. Apne sahi kaha ki hume yeh ishq ki zubaan nahi aati par yeh mat sochiyega ki hume kuch nahi aata. Shayari padhne ka shauq rakhte hai—Mir, Ghalib, Gulzar—lekin khud likhne mein maat kha jaate hai. (You write wonderfully, and truthfully. You said it right that I don’t understand the language of love but don’t think that I don’t know anything. I like reading Shayari—Mir, Ghalib, Gulzar—but I fail at writing one.)
Uzair bata raha tha ki bohot haseen hai aap. Maano jaise bahaar mein phool khile ho ya phir sard ki raat mein garm chai. Afsoos hai ki khitbah wale din aapse mil nahi paya. Sach kahu toh kaam ke saath-saath dar bhi tha jisne rok liya aane se. Aur shayad sahi bhi kiya…akhir, ussi din intiqal ho jata toh yeh khat kaise likhta? (Uzair was telling me that you are very beautiful. Like flowers blooming in spring or a hot tea in winter night. I regret not meeting you during the engagement. To be honest, fear stopped me just as much as work did. And maybe it was correct—after all, how would have I written this letter if I had died that day?)
Hum jaante hai ki yeh rishta shayad apki marzi ke bina ho raha ho, par hum ek dusre ko jaan toh sakte hai. Khat ke sahare hi sahi… (I know that this relationship has happened without your will, but we can get to know each other. Through letters…)
Apke jawab ka intezaar rahega. (Will wait for your reply.)
Apka Future-Shohar. (Your future-husband.)
The giggle that escaped her was dreamy, while her cheeks resembled an apple she so dearly hated. She hadn’t known that he would be such a capable man with words—most of the men were not. And yet, he had rendered her speechless and blushing like a schoolgirl who had greeted her crush in the corridor.
She folded the paper carefully, gaze flickering to the window while a smile tugged on her lips.
It was a stupid idea—someone as fearsome as Rehman Dakait entering the room of his fiancée to place a letter. But it was still a thought that made her grin and tuck the letter into the book that had given her best friend that idea.
The pattern began then.
She would write letters and have her trusted servant deliver them to him, or even slipping one or two into the hands of Uzair who would visit to discuss arrangements of the nikah and he would write a reply—the one she would find on her desk always.
They began short and introductory, but soon turned long and conversational in a way that reminded her of old-school stories of lovers speaking through letters. The lip imprints changed too—firmer, with the pink replaced for red. And the sweetest part was the mutual adoption of spraying the paper with their perfumes.
Hers smelled like peony and vanilla.
His smelled smoky with oud—a spicy undertone.
Aap bhi koshish kariye na kabhi kuch likhne ki… (You try writing something someday) she had written almost carelessly, with eyes heavy with sleep and words coming loose on paper—too vulnerable for the letters that were meant to be for the purpose of knowing each other better.
No letter came the next day, just a piece of parchment with ink spilled in shape of words and a single rose resting on it—thorns clipped away.
Unki zulfon ki siyahi mein shaam thahar si jaati hai (in the darkness of her hair, the evening itself seems to stop)
Unki Chand si rangat se roshni nikhar si jaati hai (from her moon-like complexion, light appears to be more radiant)
Aur unki ankhon ka woh gehra, haseen sa jaadu — (and the deep, beautiful enchantment of her eyes—)
Dil Ki har baat khud-ba-khud Adab sa bayaan ho jaati hai. (makes every feeling of the heart express itself with a quiet reverence.)
She had blushed for an entire week after reading it, while quietly, she had memorised every single word that he wrote—in the form of Shayari and letters. Perhaps, she thought of him more than she thought of the bridal lehenga that had been made as per her wishes. Remembered him more than she remembered her own name.
The letter that came a day before their nikah for a different kind of intimacy that had made her breath stutter to a stop. And it had come when she was awake, in the form of Uzair hanging on the windowsill, shocked that she was still awake.
“Aap jaag rahi hai?” (You are awake?)
“Khat dene aaye hai na?” (You are here to give the letter?) She extended his hand, offering the burly man a triumphant smile when the paper settled on her palm and he settled on the window. Not because he had any desire to be caught snooping in the room of his bhabhi, but because he had a vague gut feeling that she would want a letter to be delivered before the nikah.
He didn’t mention how she looked just like his cousin did when he received her letters—that would be treasonous. But maybe, he will tell her one day.
She opened the letter hastily, looking over the words of his last letter as her fiancée. Would there be letters after they marry? She would have to ask him the question one day, particularly because she liked the anticipation of those.
Humari hone-wali humsafar ko humara saalam, (greetings to my soon-to-be life partner)
Aaj kuch khaas batane ko toh nahi par yeh zaroor kahenge ki apko dikhne ke liye humari nigahein taras chuki hai. Neend ki jagah apke khwabon ne le li hai aur dhadkan ki jagah apke shabdon ne. (I don’t have anything special to tell tonight but I will certainly admit that my eyes yearn to see you. Your dreams have taken over my sleep and your words over my heartbeat.)
Kal intezaar rahega unka jinhone hume ishq ki zubaan sikha di. (I will wait for the one who taught me the language of love tomorrow.)
Apke Future-shohar. (Your Future-husband.)
She wanted to squeal—desperately. But the man watching her with an amused smirk reminded her to control. Just for a little while.
“Uzair miyan?”
“Ji, bhabhi?” (Yes, sister-in-law?)
He already knew what she would ask for, as was evident by the smirk she ignores, quickly reaching for a paper and uncapping the pen, writing down something—not a lot, but enough, before she folded the paper, handing it to the man who watched her with amusement.
“Yeh unhe de dijiyega aur kahiyega ki abhi na khole.” (Give this to him and tell him not to open it now.)
Uzair nodded, saluting her before he disappeared, diligently conveying the paper and the instructions to his cousin, whose sleep was already taken away by his heart that yearned to see her in front of him.
He wanted to see what had she written—thought of having a peek at it, but he waits and waits, until nothing separated the two from seeing each other—husband and wife for everyone to know.
The air between them was charged as they sat on adjacent chairs, a shared plate resting nearly untouched in front of them on the table while the guests were busy feasting—letting the couple have some privacy after the nikah.
“Aap waqai bohot haseen hai,” (you really are very beautiful) he breathed out, breathless as his gaze traced her features, noting the little smile that she tried to hide.
She turned to him with a raised eyebrow and a teasing glint in her kohl-lined eyes, “kyu? Apko kya laga tha apke bhai jhooth kah rahe hai?” (Why? Did you think that your brother was lying?)
A pause before they both laugh, flustered and newly married.
“Apke pass woh paper hai?” (Do you have that paper?)
Her voice was softer than before, losing its teasing edge and sounding almost like chashni (sugar syrup)—and he forgets to breathe for a moment before he nodded slowly, eyes taking her features in with a reverence he hadn’t thought he would feel towards a woman he had just seen for the first time.
Uzair’s descriptions of her did no justice to her beauty.
“Ji.” (Yes.)
She chuckled at the breathless admission, cheeks dusted pink as she glanced away from him. And he wanted to tell her to not be such a tease, to look at him and never look away after it.
“Abb padh lijiye.” (Now, read it.)
He nodded, looking around to make sure that none of the guests were observing the newly married couple while his hand slipped into the pocket of his elaborate sherwani, taking out the folded paper and slowly opening it with his heart in his mouth and his cheeks dusted a little pink too.
Suniye Shohar Sahab, (Listen Husband Sir)
Apki humsafar kahna chahti hai ki aap bohot handsome lag rahe ho. (Your life partener wants to say that you look very handsome.)
Disclaimer: This story is a work of art and fiction and doesn’t wish to hurt anyone’s emotions or beliefs. Characters shown are purely inspired from their portrayal in the movie ‘Dhurandhar’ by Aditya Dhar and don’t glorify their real-counterparts. The author also does not support terrorism and condemns all the acts of terror mentioned in the series. Any resemblance to a real person is purely coincidental. Hate speech will not be tolerated.
Warnings: 18+. MDNI. Explicit Sexual Content. Rough intercourse. Unprotected Sex. Thigh riding. Edging. Fingering (F!Receiving). Clothed sex (kind of?). Semi-public sex. Power Imbalance. Size kink. Spanking (if you squint). Breeding kink.
February 2009
South City Hospital, Karachi
Bright sunlight slipped past the drawn blinds over the window, signalling the end of the heavy storm that had disrupted Karachi. The rhythmic sound of synchronised breaths was the only reply to the comfortable silence that sat between the white walls of the VIP room. Dew gathered on the leaves of a single indoor plant reflecting the shine of the sun while the ceiling fan worked—unusually quiet, as if it too was afraid to disrupt the peace clinging to the two figures of the room.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
Drisana jumped awake from the sleep that had taken her after Iqbal had left her to go back to the mansion to bring back fresh pair of clothes for her and Laiba. Her hunched figure straightened on the stool she sat on, fingers curling protectively around the smaller hand of the girl that lay asleep. Blinking back the haze from her eyes, she found the figure of a nurse standing over herself with an apologetic smile and a piece of paper in her hand.
“Yes?” The former pilot prompted, her fingers slowly letting go of the little girl’s hand to rub the sleep away from her tired eyes.
“Yeh dawaiyon ki list hai jinki zarurat padegi, aap bahar wale chemist shop se le aaiye?” The nurse explained quietly, with a gentle smile that quietly screamed for an apology to disrupt her sleep while her hand extended the piece of paper to her. The pristine sheet was scribbled upon by a blue pen in a writing that the pilot could only proclaim an alien’s.
But all the woman clad in a kurta creased with sleep does is smile awkwardly while accepting the paper.
A gentle kiss pressed on the hairline of the sleeping child. A glance at her own appearance in the bathroom mirror. That is all she does before she stepped out of the room, her gaze flicking to the one guard slumped on the metal bench—passed out. The dark eyes roll while she quietly hoped that the major did not find the asleep figure in such a state, for he would not entertain the idea of a man who was supposed to keep vigil over his family sleeping like a baby—much less in a public space.
The city outside had already picked up pace, with sun shining overhead and the water filled roads slowly returning back to their normal selves. Cars honked each other with employees trying to make it to their work on time while a single school bus with children was stuck behind in the traffic, a little too late to arrive at time.
And the chemist shop the nurse had mentioned? Already busy with relatives of the patients admitted to the hospital as well as normal people asking for day-to-day painkillers and anti-allergic meds. And Drisana stood as a part of the small crowd, with her elbows out to fiend off any man from crashing into her and an unimpressed expression—completely unaware of the consequences of her absence for precisely ten minutes in the hospital.
Iqbal had walked into the hospital’s dull corridors with a leather duffel bag on his shoulder—full of fresh pair of clothes for both Drisana and Laiba—and Mir on his toes, holding a thermos filled with chai by Iqra for the lady who refused to return home without the little girl.
The major’s eyes find the sleeping guard first, curled on the metal bench outside his daughter’s room like a newborn. A disapproving scoff is all he rewards the grown man before he looked over his shoulder, gesturing to the soldier on the bench—a silent command to get rid of the useless man who sleeps on his duty.
Long fingers wrapped around the door handle, stepping in with a greeting on his lips, but no words come out when he realised that Drisana was not there.
Not dozing off on stool while her hand was curled on his daughter’s protectively and her forehead pressed to the back of their conjoined hands. Not on the couch where he had spend the entire night keeping a watch on the two most precious people in his life with a blanket half draped over his knees. Not even in the bathroom washing her face or trying to fix her appearance.
Nowhere in sight.
Just…gone.
Gone at the first chance of escape. Gone after he had placed his handgun and asked her to end him if it soothed her aching soul. Gone after he had embraced her and let her breakdown on his shoulder while he had chanted like a prayer that he shall fix everything. Gone the very second he let his guard down and allowed her to see a part of him he thought dead long ago.
Gone like she wasn’t even here—not sitting by his daughter’s side like a mother, trying to be strong despite tears stinging her eyes, fingers tightening around Laiba’s whenever the girl let out the slightest of a sound.
Fingers curl into fist as a myriad of emotions took over his body, eyes burning with raging fire behind the olive sunglasses that does nothing to his intense gaze. His body—tense under the tailored clothes—moved, the duffel bag abandoned on the floor by the door as he stepped out of the room, narrowed gaze finding the barely awake guard sitting on the bench while Mir stood over him.
“Meri biwi kaha hai?”
The soldier looked up at his senior with a startle, his wide eyes confused at the question while Mir bristled at the words, head tilted to the side before he, too, returned his attention to the sitting man that stood up slowly on trembling knees.
“Ja-ja-janab?”
Stuttering wasn’t appreciated by anyone in the army, most taking it as a sign of weakness. And in a moment as fragile and volatile as this, Major Iqbal was not tolerant anything.
The intimidating man moved faster than he ever has, fingers curling into the collars of the uniform of the guard as he dragged him up, face twisted in an ugly scowl as he glared down at the quivering man who babbled pleads that the major had no interest in hearing.
“Meri biwi kaha hai?” He repeated in a growl, low and rumbling and infinitely more dangerous. Not a man anymore but the Angel of Death himself, ready to spill blood if words did him no good.
The lowly soldier shook his head, lips quivering in fear as he pleaded guilty for sleeping whilst he was assigned to watch over the lady and the child, affirming that he saw no one step into the room or step out while looking up at the face of the death. His mind raced, trying to make peace with his terrible fate—that he shall die for something as human as sleep instead of dying for his country in battlefield.
The man of ISI sneered, dominant hand uncurling from the collar only to reach for the sharpened combat knife hiding in the folds of his kurta. The blade of which shone under the fluorescent lights overhead, the tip levied under the younger man’s eye threateningly. He cared little about propriety or public nature of the space around them, his mind set on trying to get hold of the bird that had escaped him even though he had all but surrendered his fate to her the night before.
“Iqbal?”
The stuttering, nearly breathless call of his name froze every limb he possessed, feral eyes peeling themselves away from the shivering figure to find the woman he was searching for—confused eyes trying to understand what conspired behind her back while a plastic bag with medicine hung from her fingers.
A chemist shop.
That is where she had gone.
An absence of perhaps ten minutes in totality that reduced the composed figure of Iqbal to a crazed beast looking for his precious fakhta.
The young man is pushed back until his knees hit the back of the metal bench, body slumping against it as tears fall without a thought—weak. But the major pays him no attention now, predatory steps stalking away the distance separating him and the woman until only a few necessary inches of decency separated them.
His dark eyes traced every bit of her features—from her widened eyes to her parted lips, her fingers curled around the handle of the bag, the heave of her chest beneath the soft coloured kurta, the confusion painting her face in a youthful light so unlike her usual self of composure and confidence.
His digits hooked into the bag of medicines, taking it away from her grasp and handing them to his loyal servant that took them with a nod of head.
“Woh…ussi mein receipt bhi hai,” she whispered quietly, trying to wrap her head around the situation she had walked into, struggling to understand why Iqbal had held a knife to the once-asleep soldier or why his gaze seemed to devour her entirely—not the vulnerable man from the previous night but an apex predator in its truest form.
The knife returned to its hiding place while his empty hand wrapped around her much smaller wrist, dragging her to the end of the corridor with a commanding, “chalo mere saath.”
She was pushed into the a room—a spare metal table sitting by the nearest wall to the door with several shelves and equipments she could not quite name lining the another wall. Broomsticks stacked in one corner alongside moppers and a bucket with a distinctive crack in its body. Cardboard boxes pushed into a corner while the reek of medicines annoyed Drisana.
Her chest heaved with shallow breaths, confusion still lining as she took in the change of surroundings while the imposing presence of the barely restrained beast behind her made goosebumps rise on her skin.
She turned around, ready to demand answers, but the questions did not receive the liberty to be vocalised.
Calloused hands frame her face as hungry lips descend upon hers like a crazed traveler that had found water at last, insatiable as he moved her back. His beard brushed against her chin while his hands shifted, one curling around the curve of her waist while the other tangled into her hair—loosening the braid until her hair cascaded down her back.
A surprised yelp escaped her lips, muffled by his own before her own began to move in cadence with his—trying desperately to keep up with his rough pace while her fingers find purchase on the collar of his kurta. Her body arched against the wall that meets her back—cold and unsettling, her softness pressed against the hard panes of his muscles, separated by the constraining material of their clothes.
His teeth nipped the soft plush of her lower lip, hard enough for her lips to part in a gasp—just the opening he needed for his tongue to slither into hers, probing and taunting hers to fight him, just as she always did.
The hand on her waist shifted, tracing the curve of her body before it slipped inside her kurta, calloused skin grazing the smoothness of her abdomen while he groaned against her in appreciation. His lips parted from hers, eyes devouring the sight of her chest heaving with cheeks flushed and the delicious curves of her parted lips swollen.
Her face chased his with the intention to continue the battle of tongues she was already losing, but the hand in her hair moved, thumb and index finger gripping her chin while he raised an eyebrow in amusement. He preferred this side of her—the one that indulged in her primal urges without thinking. The one that desired him just as much as he did her.
“Sabr,” he chastised, relishing in the whine that slipped past her as the hand inside her kurta reached the modest barrier of her bra covering the firm curve of her chest, thumb flicking over a hardening nipple—a mere trial before he truly began his ministrations.
His lips find the soft spot hiding behind her ear easily, tipping her chin back until her head rested against the concrete behind her, baring to him the enticing length of her neck while his fingers became bolder in their action—groping the flesh and pinching the pebbled peak until the lady underneath him was a squirming mess of pants and pleased sighs.
Her own hands shift, no longer holding onto his collar like an anchor but exploring the feel of his hardened chest from the barrier of his clothes and the broad shoulders that crowd her against the wall.
His lips left behind a trail of blooming evidences of bites he soothed with a lick of his tongue, sucking marks while his hips bucked against her, hardened arousal pressing against the supple flesh of her upper thighs—desperate, not that he would ever admit it. The hand on her chin disappeared, moving south to grip her hips while his boot-clad foot slipped between her feet, pushing hers away to create a gap enough to slip his knee.
He grounded her hips against his knee, her body jumping as the her deprived core received the sparse stimulation of her slicked panties against the small bundle of nerves begging for attention. Her body moved—driven by pure instinct craving for the sweet pleasure she hadn’t experienced in so long—hips bucking against his thigh, setting a rhythm of her own.
Her thighs clenched around his, stomach tightening while her hands moved to anchor her shuddering body, one digging into his shoulder while another held onto the bicep of the arm that remained busy in making sure her nipples received no moment of reprieve.
His name was a chant on her lips, spoken between moans and whimpers—music to his ears while his lips delivered the last mark of claim on her junction of her neck and shoulder, straightening up to study the piece of art he had created on the pristine canvas she had presented him with.
His fingers tightened around her hips when he felt her twitch against him—close to the edge of euphoria, but he won’t allow it.
Not yet.
His grip slowed her hips down to a reluctant stop, her lips parting in a breathless protest while her eyes stung with tears of frustration, the coil of pleasure in her stomach unravelling quick as the seconds passed by.
“Iqbal kyu—”
“Humari marzi ke bina nahi,” he growled, his chest tightening with a sick pleasure at the sight of her pleading eyes, wide and hazy from the denied orgasm, looking up at him through the shades of her lashes. Her lips moving in barely coherent pleas while her hands tugged him closer until not an inch separated them.
His knee shifted back from between her thighs, a smirk dangling on his lips as he felt them clench around him in an attempt to keep him there unsuccessfully.
With a last pinch on her nipple, his hand moved down, tracing the curve of her waist before his long fingers hooked into the band of her trousers, his lips grazing the tip of her ear, coarse hair of his beard brushing against the purple love bite that bloomed behind her ear. His voice was a deep rumble in his chest, vibrating through him and her equally, “soch lijiye, jaan, iske baad narm-dili ki iltija mat kijiyega.”
Drisana met his dark eyes, lips parting as her core pulsed with unadulterated want, trembling fingers uncurling from his shoulder to reach for the sunglasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. She removed them, letting it fall to the ground before her fingers cup the side of his face, thumb brushing against his cheekbone while she nodded.
But a nod wasn’t enough for the major.
“Apne alfazon ka istemaal kariye, warna badqismati se, hume yahi rukna hoga,” he tusked, nearly cruel as he watched her lips part, but all that came out of them was an anguished sigh and the tightening of her fingers in his clothes.
“N-no,” she yelped, making Iqbal smile as he hummed encouragingly, his face disappearing in the crook of her shoulder. His nose brushed against her racing pulse, inhaling her intoxicating scent—sweetened even more by the smell of her arousal that clung to her like shadow.
All for him.
“M-mujhe barbaad kar do.”
That is all he needed.
The fingers hooked to the waistband of her trousers dragged it down, letting the fabric fall in a heap around her feet along with the ruined panties.
Her core pulsed as the cold air of the storage room grazed against her warmth, eliciting a whimper that melted into a loud moan as his long digits explore her folds, gathering her arousal with a self-assured smirk on his lips.
His fingers circled her clit, pressing hard enough for her body to shudder in pleasure and eyes glaze over, before they shifted, circling her entrance—clinging around nothing—while his thumb took over the duty of torturing the small source of euphoria, switching between light flicks and hard circles.
The tip of middle finger brushed against her entrance, slowly pushing in as he watched her face scrunch up with rapture, groaning into her shoulder as he felt her walls sucking him in—tight and warm and slick with arousal, welcoming. His mind wondered how she would feel against him, or rather, how she would accommodate his length.
“Itni itaat guzaar, kis ke liye, Drisana?” He groaned, into her ear, his teeth nipping at her skin while his finger thrusted into her slowly before he added another finger, scissoring her open—readying her for what is to come eventually.
Readying her for him.
A whine spilled from her throat, trembling legs nearly giving out on her as his fingers sped up, rough tips brushing against her wet walls—exploring, trying to find that one spot that would have her singing for him like a songbird. The cool metal of his ring presenting an overwhelming sensory contrast on her skin that had her eyes rolling back into her skull.
“A-apke liye,” she mewled, interrupted by her own sounds as her body arched off the wall, the familiar knot in her stomach returning—only stronger at the sight of the dark eyes staring down at her body and the feel of his large fingers inside her.
So much bigger than hers.
Just like he was, in comparison to her.
Towering and intimidating and all-consuming.
“Kitni haseen hai aap—sirf humare liye. Sirf meri.”
The proclamation had her walls fluttering and closing in around his fingers, trying to keep him in while her body was at the edge of the mountain, ready to be thrown into the sea of searing pleasure that shall drown her until her limbs were twitching and slack with blissful exhaustion.
The knot in her stomach tightened, and a single touch of his thumb against her throbbing bundle of nerves was the encouragement she needed to let go.
But Iqbal isn’t a fair man.
The fingers inside her disappeared in a flash, just before she could feel that intense wave of passion, leaving behind a gushing core that pleaded for relief. All while the proud man watched the slow collapse of the composure of Drisana Rajput, with her arousal coated fingers disappearing between his lips for a taste of the elixir of life.
“K-kya dikkat hai apko?” She accused between deep breaths, a tear of frustration escaping the corner of her eyes. Her fingers uncurled in the heat of the moment to push him away in annoyance, only for her knees to buck under her weight.
Iqbal’s arm snaked around her waist, keeping her upright against him while he let out a chuckle—dark with amusement at her despair of having her orgasm in reach but never pushed over the edge. He was toying with her at this point, testing her limits and pushing past her boundaries until she was only his.
Until all that she could remember was him.
No past lovers found and abandoned in the darkness of air bases. No drunk make outs in the narrow alleyways adjacent clubs.
Only him.
Only Major Iqbal Shah.
The hand on her hips stirred, dissipated after a teasing squeeze and a single spank delivered to the enticing curve of her ass, which earned him a confused moan that had his fingers around her waist tightening—wet with her arousal and his spit. His hand circled around her delicate wrist, guiding her smaller hand until it pressed against the hardened evidence of his own arousal straining against the fabric of his trousers, eager to be out and sheathed into her warm embrace.
A groan rumbled through his chest as he felt her fingers outline his length, fingers digging into her waist hard enough to leave bruises beneath her kurta.
“Apka pehla hejaan-e-shehwat humari ungliyon pe nahi aaega, jaan-e-jaan.”
His chin tipped down, beard caressing her cheek while his lips brushed a lingering kiss on her temple—the only gesture of softness since he had dragged her into this room. Another deep inhale of her scent mixing with her arousal and desperation before he flicked her hand away from his length.
His hands shifted yet again, curling around her thighs and picking her up while he took a step forward, pressing back deeper into the wall behind while her legs locked around his waist. His dominant hand returned to the curve of her hip, keeping her place as the other hand reached down to unzip himself.
For a moment, there was only silence.
No words but shared pants of breath.
Her body jumped at the feel of the tip of his hard length grazing against her clit, sending a shudder down her spine while her arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, nails digging into the fabric as she felt him tease her entrance a little. Not with his fingers anymore, but his cock.
“Iqbal,” she cried out, exhausted from the want for the peak that he had so cruelly deprived her of, not once but twice in a row. “Abb aur mat tadpao.”
He sheathed himself into her in a single thrust, a hand covering her mouth to muffle the scream at the sensation of being filled to the brim after so long, stretched just enough for pain to wave a greeting but not enough to cloud the pleasure as his tip brushed against the soft spot he had been trying to find with his fingers.
“Shhh, fakhta,” he hushed, groaning lowly as he felt her walls cling to him like they wished to devour him just as much as he wished to do the same to her. He pulled out of her until only his tip remained nestled in her warmth before pushing back into her, pulling out another loud whimper muffled under the weight of his hand.
“Kya aap chahti hai ki iss halat mein hume koi dhundh le?” He queried while setting a punishable pace that had her body bouncing up against the wall with every push—her flushed face tipped back, head against the concrete as her dark eyes rolled back in her skull.
The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in their ears as the scent of arousal tangled in the air like a provocation—an encouragement to the major to not stop until he had filled her womb with his seed.
His mind was spiralling faster than his body, conjuring images of Drisana bare underneath him, in his bed, moaning and whining freely without the fear of getting caught. Her bend over his desk in one of his shirts or riding him in his chair in the office late at night wearing a lacy lingerie he bought her. His seeding settling deep in her womb until it blossomed in a child—their child—and her stomach grew because of him.
He felt the telltale fluttering of her warm wall, her body twitching and convulsing in his grip while a loud scream of his name was cloaked by hand—trembling himself as his orgasm loomed ever closer. Years of celibacy coming to an end at the doings of a woman he shouldn’t love in the first place.
“Apke paak reham mein humara baccha—”
His sentence never finds an end, interrupted abruptly by a low growl that resembled more to an animal than a man as he thrusted into her one final time, emptying himself inside her—painting her walls slick with his seed while his hand moved away from her mouth to press against her stomach, almost as if he prayed for his child to grow already.
And yet, he hoped it wasn’t so soon. He had, after all, had her just once for now, and he was an insatiable man with dark desire for the woman who shifted the axis of his life.
He stood there, face hidden in the crock of her neck while she remained wrapped around him like a climber plant clutching to her sole support, his length softening in her sensitive walls as the two tried desperately to calm their racing hearts and attempt to normalise their shallow breaths.
“That was…something,” Drisana huffed a laugh, her lips grazing his disheveled hair, one of her hand moving from his shoulder to tangle into his strands, nails scratching against his scalp gently.
Iqbal hummed against her shoulder, a smirk tugging on his lips as his fingers press insistently against her stomach, straightening up to look at her properly. His eyes took in the deep flush of her cheeks and the glow of her skin after a long overdue orgasm, her lips swollen from his kisses and eyes having lost their usual guard—soft and vulnerable for perhaps the first time around him.
“Kya hua tha apko?” She asked quietly, softened gaze dancing with worry. An expression he had seen her embrace for his daughter, but never him. Until today.
“Hume laga tha ki aap chali gayi,” he confessed, words low and guttural as he let out a slow inhale—trying hard to push away the desperation and helplessness that had clung to him in those few minutes. The pain of losing another loved one that had transitioned quickly into anger, the only way he knew how to express himself.
But not with her.
Never with Drisana would he choose the path of anger to blind him.
His lips meet her for a kiss, no longer rough but a soft brush meant not to show dominance or possession, but affection and care.
“Khuda ki rehmat hai aap,” he whispered against her lips, sealing away the distance between them before she could question what he had said, letting the blooming desire in them sweep away his words for today.
For she did not need to know exactly how precious she is to him now.
Disclaimer: This story is a work of art and fiction and doesn’t wish to hurt anyone’s emotions or beliefs. Characters shown are purely inspired from their portrayal in the movie ‘Dhurandhar’ by Aditya Dhar and don’t glorify their real-counterparts. The author also does not support terrorism and condemns all the acts of terror mentioned in the series. Any resemblance to a real person is purely coincidental. Hate speech will not be tolerated.
Author’s Note: First off, I am sorry for the late update, I got stuck with lots of different things.
Secondly, @afortoru this is you in your original element——crushing on your own husband and pregnant with my pyaare bhaiya. Love you lots and lots 💋🫀
Warnings: MAJOR SPOILERS FOR DHURANDHAR: THE REVENGE. Timeline is sped up a lot. Some innuendo? Banter. Biwi paglu Iqbal and Hamza.
July 2009
Aarisha and Hamza’s Mansion
Power in Karachi was a shifting variable—sitting in the corrupt hands of Aquib Asif Zarwari one second, and dancing in the plump hands of Nawab Shafiq the other, mocking the former for his inability to neutralise the violence brought to Lyari due to the gang war while shaking hands with the victor of the very same war.
But it wasn’t the only power transfer that had followed the demise of Rehman Dakait.
Arshad Pappu was eliminated—beheaded publicly and played football with on camera by the bloodthirsty cousin of the deceased Sher-e-Baloch. But Uzair’s reign as the undisputed king of the historic locality was shorter than the lifespan of a mayfly, eclipsed by his arrest in Dubai in an attempt to run from the Pakistani government after the issuance of his arrest warrant under the Anti-Terrorism Act.
And then came the rise of Hamza Ali Mazari.
Not only the King of Lyari.
But the Badshah of Karachi.
The man in charge of everything happening under the careful mask of a mere supporter of the new leader—not merely in Karachi, but in the entire Pakistan.
The man that ruled the entire forest like a lion.
A journey that began from working in the shop of Aalam Bhai to living in the small matchbox apartment that once belonged to the brother of Ulfat bhabhi, but later, became his and Aarisha’s ‘Kabootarkhana’, and finally, the life of a nomad moving place to place ended with the mansion that overlooked the entire Karachi—a gift to the mother of his unborn child, whose joy had brought him peace in his chaotic life.
The click of car doors being shut echoed in the spacious lawn while moon gleamed bright in the sky, witnessing the bickering of the pair that approached the main door.
“Agli baar se teen ghante pehle phone karke kaha na ki kisi ke ghar jana hai, toh bohot maarungi apko,” Drisana hissed, hands fixing the fall of her dupatta before she pressed the doorbell. A dagger-like glare thrown over her shoulder when she heard the snort from the towering man, a quiet warning that the major would not heed at all.
Iqbal shrugged with a smirk tugging at his lips, intense eyes set upon the figure of his beloved—scolding him like he was a child guilty of stealing her snacks, while she looked like one to him. Especially with the white kurta flowing down her body, framing every dip and curve he had learned in the past five months. Dark hair and golden skin a contrast against the angelic embroidery, wide fawn-like eyes his greatest weakness and strength.
“Humne apko tab bataya jab hume pata chala,” he replied matter-of-factly, raising an eyebrow when she turned around with a huff, her slender fingers reaching up to carefully straighten the collar of his Paithani kurta.
“Aap ghar chaliye, apki saari zahanat nikalungi.”
The major huffed a breath of amusement, eyes gleaming with anticipation and mischief as he leaned down, hair of his beard brushing against the tip of her ear as he whispered against her temple, “hum bhi dekhenge aap kya karti hai, jaan-e-jaan.”
Oh how he enjoyed the sight of her breath hitching and cheeks flushing. But alas! The moment lasted shorter than he would like, which was, in truth, forever. The sound of the front door opening made their attention shift, from each other to the middle-aged housekeeper who bowed respectfully before asking them to follow her inside.
The mansion was spacious, with long glass panes and warm lights, plants thriving in the white walls while charming chandeliers hung overhead. Tasteful luxury unlike the flashy show of wealth that most of the rich in Karachi possessed, designed by the lady of the house, as was expected. Because Drisana was sure that the place would resemble the dark weight of Iqbal’s ancestral mansion if Hamza was incharge of decorating the space, and she doubted whether the burly man had such patience for furniture or colour combination.
The said man stood like an executioner awaiting to deliver the judgment, the fingers of his right hand curled above the expensive watch on his left wrist, composed as always with his dark mane of long hair combed to perfection. Tailored blazer hugged broad shoulders and burly arms while a buttoned vest sat underneath it, leathery texture of black above the cotton kurta and salwar. Collar of the bottom-most layer sat leisurely over the long blazer, baring a sparse of the top of his toned chest and revealing the silver chains that sat in contrast against his crisply tanned skin. Gaudy silver rings lined rough fingers while his intense gaze watched the couple step into his territory.
But then again, the entire Karachi belonged to Hamza Ali Mazari now.
A polite smile tugged on his lips as he opened his arms to embrace the major, but not before nodding respectfully at the graceful woman, a hand pressed to his heart.
“Mere veer!”
“Iqbal bhai.”
The men hugged each other like old comrades meeting after a long time has passed, even though Drisana remembered Iqbal murmuring about some meeting with Bade Sahab that Hamza had attended too. They delivered pats on each other’s backs before letting go off one another, the Angel of Death returning to the side of his pilot, a large hand resting on her back instinctively.
“Bhabhi, sab khariyat?” The Sher-e-Baloch asked, corner of his eyes crinkled with the impact of his smile—not the polite plastic of an underworld king but the reality of an elder brother-like figure. And how could he not smile that way? Especially with how often the woman found herself by Aarisha’s side in the past five months.
“Khariyat? Apke bhai ne toh hume bataya hi nahi ki apne dinner pe bulaya hai. Teen ghante pehle phone kar ke kahte ki taiyar ho jana, Hamza ne bulaya hai,” she began, shutting the fearsome major with a single glare when his lips parted with the intention to defend himself. And even though he would never admit it out loud, the entire sight amused the observant Badshah despite the weight of the reality sitting heavy on his shoulders.
“Abb aap hi batao, bhaiya—kya koi teen ghante mein ghar ke saare kaam karva kar khud taiyar ho sakta hai? Nahi na? Lekin inhe toh yeh baat samajh hi nahi aati. Aur kah do toh bolte hai ki daat rahi hu.”
Hamza nodded, glancing between the two before he chuckled quietly, wrapping an arm around the major’s shoulder with familiarity while he addressed the woman who stood with her arms crossed and her eyes glaring at her husband.
“Arrey bhabhi, abb hum admiyon ko samajh nahi aata isiliye toh hum aap aur Aarisha jaisi samajhdar ladkiyon se nikkah karte hai,” he hummed, punctuating his words with a breath of laughter as the major patted his side in agreement.
“Sahi kaha Hamza ne.”
Drisana rolled her eyes, huffing in mock annoyance at the dramatics of two men that the entire Pakistan feared, reduced to husbands buttering their wives just to avoid any conflict.
“Yeh makhan kisi aur ko lagana, main toh ja rahi hu Aarisha ke pass.”
“Woh bedroom mein hai, bhabhi,” Hamza informed, a hand waving to gesture to the floor above while his face tilted in the direction of the staircase—more out of habit than necessity, for he knew that the woman clad in white knew her way around the mansion just well.
Iqbal moved, stepping closer to the former Squadron Leader, his long fingers curling around her hand and offering it a reassuring squeeze—the most public show of affection he would allow himself—before he looked back at the Lion born in the Balochi lands.
“Thik hai, jaan. Hum utne kuch zaruri baat kar lenge humare veer se.”
Both the men knew exactly what was to be discussed, and while Drisana wasn’t aware of the exact happenings, she knew the matter to be important enough to cloud Iqbal’s mind in the brief silences in their shared bedroom. Enough to make her concerned, but not enough for her to ask—not because she didn’t love him enough, but because she was afraid of his words turning out to be a poison to their connection.
White heels click against marble flooring as she moves through the corridors of the mansion with ease, guiding herself to the master bedroom situated on the first floor with nothing but her memory, nodding and smiling at the familiar faces of the servants that greeted her.
Fingers knocked against the smooth surface of the door, a gentle call of the name of the lady of the house as Drisana waited patiently outside the room.
The door opened to reveal the petite figure of sunshine personified—wearing a warm orange angarkha kurta and a loose palazzo with thin border at the hem and golden embroidery threaded at the top and the sleeves. Small golden jhumkas adorned her ear piercing, loose waves framing her face while her dusky skin came alive under the warm lights.
“Hi!” Aarisha squealed, arms wrapping around the taller woman, her baby bump nudging against the white linen of Drisana’s kurta. Her smile brushing against the former pilot’s shoulder before she dragged her into the room, closing the door behind them.
Drisana raised an eyebrow at the sight of the mess around the room—the tangled golden jewellery sitting in the corner of the vanity table, the half-finished packet of tamarind candy on the bed and the telltale mess of dupattas sitting in a heap on the chair.
Hamza’s wife returned to her place on the bed, unwrapping another piece of candy and popping it into her mouth with the grace of a newborn fawn, humming at the tangy taste before she patted the space next to her—a quiet invitation for the former Squadron Leader, who didn’t need to be asked twice.
Slipping out of the white high heels, she perched on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs while her dark gaze flicked to the packet of the tamarind candy. There was no doubt that she was salivating at the sight of her childhood favourite, but knowing Aarisha, Drisana was sure her question would spark mass teasing by the pregnant woman. Especially when she was aware of all the changes in the pilot’s and her major’s dynamics since February.
But the former soldier had forgotten that she was good at flying fighter jets, not hiding her longing expression for a pregnancy favourite—even though she wasn’t pregnant…yet.
“Lo na,” Aarisha encouraged, forcing the packet into her hands while she reclined back, one hand resting protectively on the curve of her baby bump while she licked the remnants of masala sticking to her fingers, humming to herself with her eyes closed.
Drisana whispered a thanks, fingers already diving into the open packet and fishing out a long stick of spiced tamarind wrapped in a thin sheet of plastic. Unwrapping it with the speed of light, she popped it into her mouth, letting out a pleased sigh as the taste of her childhood returned with delicate steps—the loud footsteps of children running through the farms of her ancestral village, giggling amongst themselves about a mischief; the laughter of her father and the other older men of her family, most of whom were deceased now; the overdramatic conversations of the ladies, whispering secrets and passing judgments.
The days when life was praise from teachers for good grades and a fun game of Kho-Kho.
“Yaad kar lo taste—” Drisana’s eyes snapped open at slow beginning, suspicious at the delicate stretch of every syllable but not yet replying, letting the pregnant lady complete herself, “—after all, kuch time baad apko bhi toh cravings hogi iski.”
“Par k—” she didn’t complete her question as confusion slowly turned into realisation, her jaw slackening while her eyes widened in quiet horror at the blatant suggestion.
Or rather, at the glaring prophecy.
An embarrassed squeal of Hamza’s wife’s name escaped the blushing lady—her composure gone like it didn’t exist in the first place. All while the woman dressed warmly giggled uncontrollably, not at all remorseful. And why would she be when she had voiced the obvious?
Drisana groaned into her hands, hiding the burning cheeks while she shook her head, trying to steer the conversation away from the topic, but her words failed her now. Traitorous, just as her cheeks were, for one left her when she needed it the most while another stubbornly clung to her.
“Woh sab chodo,” she tried, earning herself an acknowledging hum and a raised of eyebrow.
“Socha ki bache ka naam kya rakhogi?”
A meaningful silence followed the question as Aarisha glanced down at her bump, her hand caressing the curve while the other one cradled it—almost as if she wanted the growing life in her to be closer. Not physically but soulfully.
The young woman nodded with a small smile, her bubbly nature settling down into the maternal calm that made Drisana’s breath catch.
“Ladka hua toh Varun,” Aarisha announced proudly, at last, peeling her gaze away from her baby to the older lady sitting in front of her in white—pretty like an angel descending upon the mortal world, fierce and wise like a learned warrior.
“Aur ladki hui toh K se naam rakhungi.”
The pilot nodded, her gaze staring into a distance as her mind raced back to that one sleepy conversation she had with Iqbal on a random night after hours spent in intimacy and pleasure. One where the thoughts of a shared future had sneaked in without knocking, and they had laid in each other’s arms, panting and sweating and confessing dangerous secrets.
After all, what was more dangerous than two people meant to be enemies falling for one another and imagining the faces of their offspring?
“Yaha? Pakistan mein?” Drisana queried quietly, concerned because the name and the suggestion of another felt too unlikely for a child born to a Muslim couple—which Aarisha and Hamza are in the eyes of the world, and while the Squadron Leader remained unsure of the latter, she knew the former to be a Hindu though and though.
Much like herself.
“Mere dil mein.”
And then, before her three words could be registered in a mind and replied to, Aarisha shifted, slowly standing up from the bed and gesturing to the door separating the room from the rest of the mansion—or perhaps, from the rest of the world itself. A safe haven nestled deep in a hell.
Indeed, the said men sat in the living room, long fingers curled around their respective glasses of whiskey while the major quietly admitted to the weight of the ongoing spree of unknown men with guns killing men closely tied to ISI and their certain operations.
The shades say low on the bridge of his nose, baring only parts of his eyes, guarding most of it. But it wasn’t merely the eyes it protected, but the windows to the dark soul of Major Iqbal.
“—bass Hamza bhai, inn buzdilon mein thoda sa bhi dum ho toh samne se aake maare. Yeh chup-chup ke vaar toh kamzoor karte hai,” he hissed, fingers running through his hair in restrained frustration while he took decent sip of his drink. His second peg of the evening, and the ladies had been gone for only a handful of minutes.
The long-haired man leaned over the table separating their seated figures with a smile that held far more mysteries than the dark corners of Internet, patting the knee of the fearsome man while he reassured him: “aap chinta mat karo, Iqbal bhai. Main sab shambhal lunga.”
Iqbal let out a huff of breath, the sound treading dangerously between the line separating amusement from mockery, while he nodded slowly before raising his half-empty glass in a silent toast to his friend.
“Yehi toh etminan hai ki aap hai.”
“Agar itna hi etminan hai toh inhe hi ghar le chaliye,” the sarcasm dropped like a bomb unanticipated, and the godfather of ISI stood up in slight surprise, his arm snaking around Drisana’s waist while he hummed in response to her words.
Hamza too stood up, his arm carefully pressed against the back of his pregnant wife as he leaned down to place a kiss on her hair, other hand holding hers in quiet support. She was, perhaps, not glass, but in the eyes of the burly man—she was nothing less than the rarest of a flower in its bloom. Not merely his wife, but the mother of his already beloved child too.
Despite the hard exterior he preferred to portray, Iqbal’s eyes softened at the sight of the beautiful protection and love of a husband caring for his pregnant wife. A life he had experienced once as well, albeit a long time ago, cherished it enough for his chest to feel hollowed at the thought of his deceased wife. And still, he could say nothing for none in the room knew about his past except for the woman clad in white, standing by his side.
Drisana recognised the longing in his hidden eyes, almost like a bird recognises the distress of her children or mate. A hand pressed to his side, her head resting against his shoulder—a reminder that she stood in solidarity with him, not for certain actions of his, but for the past that still made pieces of him ache.
Because who could understand longing for a life left behind in a past other the woman who once was a Squadron Leader.
She doesn’t comfort him with words, not when they stood under the roof of someone else, surrounded by walls not their own. Instead, her free hand curled in front of her stomach, an action of shy embarrassment at the sight of affection to the eyes that watched, but most would not notice the brush of her fingertips against the hand sitting on her waist.
“Dinner kare?” Aarisha beamed, her petite body snug against the well-dressed mountain of muscles, Hamza’s hand sitting comfortably on her slender shoulders as they gestured to the dining room.
The major came out of his stupor from bittersweet nostalgia at the question, nodding at the question while his hand naturally slipped into Drisana’s, fingers threading together as they followed the couple into the large room with a long dining table in the middle. A large chandelier hung overhead, with warm lights illuminating the room painted in white and contrasted with a black wood table, servants quietly rushing in to place the different dishes made in the honour of the two guests that sat side by side.
Iqbal’s hand, unseen by the moving servants and the couple sitting in front of them, rested on Drisana’s thigh—a gesture to anchor himself to her, and a reminder to him that she sat beside him willingly. The feel of the embroidery of delicate flowers over white cotton a gentle assurance that he wasn’t hallucinating anything but experiencing reality.
Steam curled deliciously above the ceramic pot sitting in the middle of the various delicacies—the central recipe that tied the rest of the menu together—but it made Drisana stiffen.
She has had mutton only once in her life, a few months ago when Iqbal had dragged her to some polite party hosted by a colleague of his. A small piece she had, and for the next couple of days, she had told shift to plain oats because her stomach had relented—not politely but aggressive enough for her to wake up at the middle of night to empty her stomach’s contents.
“Yeh mutton hai kya, Hamza bhai?”
Drisana blinked, surprised by the sound of the question as she glanced over at the man sitting on her right. His dark eyes firm at the container of mutton biryani before he scanned the other dishes that sat delicately under his scrutiny.
“Haan. Koi dikkat?” The Sher-e-Baloch queried, his deep set eyes watching the pair, trying to understand what was happening.
Hamza had seen the major consume mutton without any hesitation at his Walima, even praising the rich spices, and yet, the man seemed ready to torture the already dead meat for sitting on the same table as him. His gaze flicked to the former pilot, taking in the sudden pallor of her face and the nervous drifting of her eyes to her husband.
That is when he understood.
Drisana does not eat mutton.
“Myreen mutton nahi kha paati,” the man responsible for every action of the government informed with a matter-of-factly ease that made his wife flus and glance away. Not merely because of embarrassment of refusing food made in her honour, but because he remembered.
Because he didn’t need her to hesitate or glance at him or complain quietly—he just remembered.
“Arrey, toh Myreen humare saath veg kha lengi,” Aarisha suggested, nodding at the nearby servant with a smile before her eyes met Iqbal’s dark ones again, almost as if she was challenging him to refuse her offer. But why would he do so when he knew his partner’s comfort lined the best with vegetarian food?
Much to the quiet shock of the couple pretending to be something they aren’t, the Angel of Death smiled like a man half-smitten by the angelic beauty sitting by his side.
A smile tugged the corner of his lips heavenwards, not in the usual prideful authority he carried but in a genuine manner—one that made his entire aura less dangerous. He leaned sideward, nudging his shoulder against Drisana’s in quiet affection while his eyes were trained at the sight of the beauty that honoured him by letting him have her.
“Abb toh khush hai na aap, meri Fakhta?”
The words were quiet, not for the ears of others but only for Drisana, the only person other than his daughter that received the rare sight of his unconditional affection. The only two ladies in his life that whose mere breathing presence brought the unseen side of him out.
