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The Aslam Masla

SP Chaudhary Aslam x Indian Journalist Rashmika Raina

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Disclaimer: This oneshot is inspired by the 2025 movie Dhurandhar by Aditya Dhar. This is in no way meant to idolize the real people the movie is about; they are bastards, and this is just a fanfic for the appreciation of the movie and the lovely actors who brought the characters to life. SO TAKE A FUCKING CHILL PILL and enjoy <3

Warnings: Cursing, Angst, Drinking, annoyance, slight violence, super sexy smut (khush hojao tharki log)

Masterlist

Author's note: Hello, my Jaan-e-maans and my Jaan-e-jigars! Welcome to my first work that isn't DSKVS. I hope you enjoy this, and also always comment down below to make your feelings heard! (YOU KNOW I LOVE THEM AND RESPOND TO EVERY SINGLE ONE!)

(before anyone asks: NO, I AM NOT LEAVING/ABANDONING DSKVS. THIS IS JUST A BREAK. WE WILL BE BACK TO THE REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING SOON PLZ DONT SHIT BRICKS!)

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Special Note:

SP Aslam was genuinely not in my plans to write for. But my darling wife and the love of my life @patrakilekha once told me how she is desperate for someone to write about her husband (SP Aslam).

She is the sweetest, most kindest, most supportive reader on this platform. Any author she loves is truly lucky to have a fan like her. Id like to say I'm the luckiest. Other than that, she is a great person and an even greater friend(IMEANWIFEPLZDONTKILLMEBABY) who deserves the world.

She has been traumatized by me regarding DSKVS for weeks. She has known about the chapter 15 plot point for so long and has been suffering in silence. Her love in particular is the biggest thing that keeps me going with my work.

The best part about being a writer is that I, at the very least, have the power to make her fantasies slightly real. I gave her this concept, and she has been obsessed ever since. Her reaction and her joy just solidified that this needed to exist.

So for the trauma she has endured and the love she showers. Let me present to you a tribute to her-

THE ASLAM MASLA for my darling Patrakilekha <3

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- DADDY'S HOME

pairing: dev verma x wife!reader

tags: 18+ smut, sub reader, softdom dev, nipple play, yeah….tits.

authors note: requested by a pyari baby of mine :3 , hope you all like it Hehehhe. Sit back and enjoy ;)

Summer day’s in mumbai were the worst.

And Dev Verma’s job of being an investigator in the police force? became unbearable during the scorching heat and humidity.

The relentless heat, the mounting pile of case files on his desk, and that one stubborn investigation that refused to yield any answers had left the brooding officer far snappier than usual. As a result, everyone in the station found themselves walking on eggshells, careful not to attract the attention—or the wrath—of their increasingly irritable superior.

Dev had spent the last six hours in a sweltering interrogation room, sweating through his white button-down while a suspect played dumb. The case was going nowhere and his patience was now a frayed wire, sparking at the edges.

He drove home with his jaw locked, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.

The usual relief that he felt pulling into the building's shaded parking was absent. Instead of a sense of contentment washing over him in the anticipation of reaching home and seeing his lovely bebe, a gnawing need coiled low in his gut—something he'd been holding back all week.

The workload, heat, frustration,etc had got to the head of our beloved officer.

He wanted his wife . Needed her in that specific, consuming way that only she could fix.

He sat in the car for a long moment, breathing through his nose. The parking was quiet, just the hum of the AC unit and the late afternoon sun slanting through the leaves of the old oak out front. He needed to decompress before he entered your home where you would be present…waiting for him.

His wife. His young, cute wife.

The thought alone loosened something in his chest. The way you smiled when he came home.

The way you’d pad over to him, barefoot, in some ridiculously oversized shirt that hung off one shoulder. The way you'd wrap your arms around his neck and press that soft body against his, and he'd feel the tension start to drain out of him like water through a sieve.

Finally he got out of the car, slammed the door harder than necessary, then made himself take a long, slow breath to cool down.

Don’t take the stress of work at home.

It has always been the officers mantra for a good and happy home life.

The front door creaked open. The living room was empty, but he heard a faint rustling from the kitchen.

He followed the sound, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood, and when he rounded the corner, he stopped dead in his tracks.

There you were— leaning over the kitchen counter, scrolling through your phone having a glass of Glucon-D beside you.

But that was not it , you were wearing the shirt—one of his old white button-downs, unbuttoned at the top three buttons, the fabric so thin it was practically translucent in the afternoon light.

No bra. Fuck.

The late sun streamed through the window behind you, backlighting your figure, and he could see the outline of your dark nipples, the gentle sway of your breasts with every small movement you made. All thanks to the absence of the confines of a bra.

He was a gone man at the sight

No panties either, judging by the way the shirttail just barely grazed the tops of your thighs.

Dev was hard as fuck, the usually well fit trousers now tightening at his crotch.

You hadn't heard him come in.

You hummed a little tune under your breath, completely oblivious to the man thirsting over you, and Dev felt his throat go dry.

His frustration and pressure at work — all of it just melted away, replaced by something raw and immediate.

Awe. Pure, unfiltered awe.

"Hey, baby," you said, finally glancing up, pausing the reel about some sob story a man was using as a voice over while making a mid-ahh cake. Your face lit with that smile he'd been craving all day. "You're home early. How was—"

The last thread of restraint snapped.

You didn't get to finish your sentence before Dev crossed the kitchen in three long strides.

His big calloused hands came up and cupped your face, tilting your head back.

He kissed you hard, without preamble, his mouth claiming yours like he'd been starving for it, which he had. You gasped against his lips, then melted into him instantly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, "Fucking day," he muttered. "I needed you."

You caresses his cheeks with your soft palms as he nuzzled into it, nipping the tender flesh playfully.

"Kya hua Dev?" You whispered, eyes searching his. He looks so tired it makes your heart ache.

He didn't answer. Instead, his hands slid down from your face, over your shoulders, along the curve of your neck, until they cupped the sides of your breasts through the thin cotton.

You let out a small squeak of surprise at his rough hands against your soft mounds.

Dev squeezed, gently at first, feeling their weight almost assessing as you leaned into his touch.

"Bebe…Bra nahi pehna?," he said, his voice so deep it hit your cervix.

"Garmi," you replied back, a little breathless at his gentle assault . "I like wearing your shirts without my bras." You added , arousing him further.

He knew and he fucking loved it.

Dev's thumbs found your nipples through the fabric, rubbing slow circles.

They were already hard, pebbled against his touch. He squeezed again, fuller this time, his palms molding your breasts like clay, using them the way he always did—as stress relief, something to ground him back to reality.

You look down at his veiny hands doing wonders, moaning softly.

Dev didn’t seem to like that, he needed to capture each and every expression of you into memory.

"Look at me," he commanded , his voice low.

You obeyed, your big eyes finally meeting his dark ones.

"Bad day," he repeated, his fingers kneading your flesh, rolling your nipples between thumb and forefinger. "And all I could think about was coming home and seeing you like this."

"Hngh…I’m here," you reassured, trying to muffle those adorable noises of pleasure.

"I know, and I’m going to take full advantage of it.." He backed you up against the counter, forcing you to sit on the edge. His hands never left your tits, palming them, using them like the stress balls he needed. "God, I love your tits, bebe. You know that?."

You nodded, a tiny whimper escaping your lips.

He pulled the shirt down, exposing both your breasts fully—full with dark nipples that begged for attention.

He dipped his head and took one in his mouth, sucking hard, swirling his tongue around the sensitive tip.

You arched your back, pushing more of yourself into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair.

Dev groaned against your skin, the taste of you, the feel of you, washing away every last shred of his earlier frustration.

He worked your left breast with his mouth while his right hand kept kneading the other, pinching and rolling your nub between his fingers until you were trembling.

When he finally pulled back, your nipple was red and glistening. He switched sides, giving the same treatment to the right, his big palm cupping the left and squeezing rhythmically, like he was massaging his own stress away into your soft flesh.

"Harder," you whispered, grinding on to him. Your own pleasure overriding your being.

He complied, his grip tightening, his mouth sucking harder. His fingers dug into the plump curve of your tits, leaving faint red marks. He didn't care if it bruised a little—you loved the marks, loved being his and ESPECIALLY—loved being manhandled by his big hands.

Minutes passed, the only sounds in the room being your breathy moans and the wet suction of his mouth slobbering all over you. When he finally straightened, he kept his hands on you, cupping both breasts, holding them like they were the most precious thing in the world.

"Relaxed?” You murmured, your voice husky.

He looked at you—you with your flushed lips, half-lidded eyes, shirt hanging off one shoulder, tits bare and marked by him. The sight of you like this, so open and willing, made something hot and possessive burn in his gut.

"Getting there," he said. He lifted one of his hands to your mouth, his long thick fingers inviting "Suck."

You took his fingers into your mouth without hesitation, your tongue curling around them as your eyes locked on his. He watched you, his cock thickening in his pants. He let you suck his fingers clean with no desire to rush you.

When he pulled them out, he reached down and unbuttoned your shirt the rest of the way, letting it fall open, exposing you completely. Then he slid his hand down, between your thighs, playing with your folds and found you already wet.

You were such a good girl for him, always prim and ready to satisfy him.

"Been waiting for me?" he growled.

"All day," you whined. Dev's frustration was gone now, replaced by a focused, hungry need. He lifted you off the counter, your legs wrapping around his waist, and carried you towards the couch, your bare tits pressed against his hard clothed chest as you grind your wet heat against his belt buckle.

His forehead pressed against yours as he gently put you down on the sofa, the weight of his satisfaction settling between you like a blanket. "Good wife," he murmured, the words a brand on your skin.

Then he pulled back, his hands leaving your marked breasts, and you felt the absence like a withdrawal—cold air rushing in where his palms had been. But the predatory look in his eyes was enough to warm you up again.

"Now," he continued, voice dropping to that quiet register that made your thighs clench, "I will take off my clothes, and you will lie there, still, with your tits bare and wet for me. Understand?"

You nodded, the word catching in your throat. "Yes, Dev."

"Hmm?"

"Yes, Sir," you corrected yourself, wanting to make your husband proud.

He stood up from the sofa, the cushion shifting as his weight left. You stayed where he'd placed you—sprawled on your back, legs slightly parted, your chest damp and aching from his attention.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the window, catching the lines of his body as he moved to the foot of the sofa.

He started with his White cotton shirt, damp with sweat from the long day. He unbuttoned from the top down, slowly, each button slipping free with a soft pop. His chest was revealed inch by inch, showing the broad planes, the dusting of dark hair that thickened at his sternum, and the faint scar near his ribs from a case gone wrong.

His skin was warm, flushed, and when he shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, the muscles in his arms flexed as the fabric fell to the floor.

Your mouth watered at the delicious sights of your husband.

His smirk caused you to blush a beautiful red blush. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and pushed his trousers down. He stepped out of them, kicking them aside. Now he was in nothing but his boxer briefs—dark grey, the outline of his cock visible, the head pressing against the fabric. Pre cum staining the fabric a darker color of grey.

He climbed onto the sofa. His weight dips the cushions as he looms over you. Straddling your hips, his knees bracketed your thighs, and cock brushed against your bare stomach through the thin fabric of his boxers.

He looked down at you with want, and his hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

"You're doing so well," he said, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "So perfect. I have had a rough day, so keep your hands at your sides and let me take what I need."

He shifted forward, his boxer-clad cock sliding against your belly, rubbing the wet fabric on your skin. His hand moved to his waistband, and he pushed his boxers down just enough to free himself— the head flushed and slick. He didn't remove them fully. He wanted the fabric still there as a tease.

He pressed the tip of his cock against your stomach, then dragged it up, over your sternum, until it rested between your breasts. The wet head touched your skin, and you shuddered.

"Now," he said, his voice a whisper, "hold them together for me."

Your hands rose, trembling, and pressed your breasts around his shaft. The soft flesh enveloped him, the slickness of his arousal and your own sweat due to the heat making the glide easy.

He began to move—slow and shallow thrusts, his cock sliding through your cleavage, the head emerging at the top, brushing against your chin.

His breath hitched at the lewd sight, eyes staying locked on yours.

"That's it," he breathed. "That's my good wife. That's exactly what I needed."

He moved faster, his hips rocking, his hands bracing on either side of your head. The slap of his balls against your chest was rhythmic, punctuated by his low moans.

With a guttural groan he released onto his second favourite spot on you.

His rhythm between your breasts faltered as your hands pressed your breasts tighter around his shaft, slick with your drool and the first pearly beads of his cum.

He let out a long, shuddering breath, his eyes half-lidded, but then he stilled. His cock rested against your sternum, hot and heavy, the head just below your chin.

He looked down at you—at the wet mess he’d made of your chest, at your parted lips waiting for his next command, at the way your body trembled beneath him, wanting more. You were the picture of divine ruin.

He pulled back slowly, the glide of his shaft leaving your cleavage with a wet sound.

You whimpered at the loss, but he placed a reassuring hand on your stomach.

"Shh," he murmured. "I know what you need. What I need, too."

He shifted his weight off your hips, sitting back on his heels between your spread legs.

His boxer briefs were still rucked down, his cock standing proud.

His eyes traveled down your body, from your swollen nipples to the curve of your waist, then lower to where your thighs were open, wet, glistening.

Your pussy was slick and ready. He traced a finger through the moisture, gathering your arousal, then brought it to his lips, tasting you with a low groan.

Your breathe hitched at the scene.

"You're so wet for me," he said, his voice thick. "This is what I do to you. This is what you need isnt it baby girl?."

He leaned forward, positioning himself between your thighs, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance.

He teased you torturously , dragging the tip along your slit, collecting your wetness, circling your clit with the sensitive head.

You gasped, your hips bucking, but he pressed a hand to your hip to still you. Like you were a petulant impatient puppy.

"Stay"

He pushed in, just the tip watching your face as you stretched around him. Not wanting to miss a single moment of this intimate evening.

You made soft noises of pleasure as you adjusted to his impressive length. He waited, giving you time before pressing deeper—inch by inch, filling you, the thick length of him pushing past your tight walls.

You felt every ridge and pulse of his vieny cock. He was so deep inside you that it stole your breath, drawing an overwhelmed scream from your lips.

He finally bottomed out, his hips flush against yours and balls resting on your plump ass. He stayed there, letting you adjust, his forehead resting against yours, your breaths mingling.

"Look at you," he grunted in pleasure, absolutely pussy drunk “Taking all of me like the good dutiful wife you are"

He began to move—slow, deep thrusts that made the sofa creak in rhythm.

His hips rolled, each stroke deliberate, grazing that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. He watched you, his hands gripping your hips.

He started to increase his pace, unable to resist the need that had been bubbling inside him since the work day ended.

"Fuck! My good little wife…. who only is a slut for her husband~”

“O-only for you”

The sound of his skin slapping against yours filling the room. The wetness of your pussy made every thrust slick and easy, his cock gliding in and out, coated with your arousal.

He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a deep, languid kiss, his tongue sliding against yours as he fucked you.

"I'm going to fill you up," he growled against your lips. "I'm going to pump you full of my cum, and you're going to take every drop. Understand?"

You could only moan in response, your nails digging into his shoulders, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. His thrusts grew harder, faster, more erratic.

The springs of the sofa made creaking noises. His breath came in ragged gasps.

"I'm close," he panted. "Tell me where you need it”

"Please—please, Dev—fill me up—in me…I need it—"

That was all the permission he needed. He buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing as he spilled inside you—wave after wave of hot cum, flooding your pussy, leaking around his shaft.

He groaned your name, his body trembling, his forehead pressed to yours as he rode out his orgasm.

When he finally stilled, he stayed inside you, his cock softening slowly and breath mingling with yours. He kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips in reverance, worshipping your features.

"Good wife," he whispered woth each peck. "My good wife."

He pulled out gently, a trickle of his cum seeping from your used pussy ruining the newly installed couch. He lay below you, pulling you against his chest, one hand splayed possessively over your belly where his seed was still warm inside you.

Suddenly…summer day’s in mumbai didn’t feel the worst.

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#sam writes #desiblr #dhurandhar #writers on tumblr #akshaye khanna #rehman baloch #rehman dakait #dhurandhar fanfic #uzair baloch #hamza ali mazari #dev verma #dev verma x reader

Valentine's Day:

[Akshaye Khanna, Rehman Baloch (dhurandhar), Tarun Saluja (section- 375), Dev Verma (ittefaq), Tarun Ahlawat (Drishyam)]

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Akshaye Khanna’s Valentine’s Day wouldn’t be a loud, commercial spectacle.

He isn't the man who buys a giant teddy bear or books a table at the trendiest, loudest restaurant in Mumbai. Instead, his approach would be understated, sophisticated, and deeply private.

He’d likely whisk you away to his sanctuary in Alibaug. The day wouldn't start with a "Happy Valentine's Day" shout; it would start with the smell of high-quality coffee and the sound of the wind through the trees.

He is a tactile lover. He’ll constantly be touching you—a hand on the small of your back, a finger tracing your jaw, or simply holding your hand under the table.

He loves a partner who can give as good as she gets. If you tease him back about his brooding nature, he’ll find it incredibly endearing.

He likely smells of high-end vetiver, cedarwood, or a classic tobacco-based cologne.

He won't buy you a trendy bag. He’ll buy you an antique piece of jewelry with a story, or a customized fountain pen because he noticed you like to write.

fluff:

The sun is setting over the balcony of his home, the air smelling of sea salt and the expensive sandalwood incense he favors.

Akshaye is dressed simply—a crisp white linen shirt, top buttons undone, and dark trousers. He isn't holding a giant bouquet.

Instead, there’s a small, heavy box on the coffee table next to two glasses of vintage red wine.

"I don't really believe in the commercial circus of today, meri jaan" he says, his voice that famous, velvety drawl as he hands you the glass.

"But I do believe in things that last."

Inside the box isn't just jewelry—it’s a vintage, 1920s Art Deco watch or a first-edition copy of your favorite book, something with history and weight.

But the real gift is the card tucked inside. It’s handwritten in his sharp, masculine script: “For the only person who makes the silence feel like music.”

He watches you read it, a faint, lopsided smirk playing on his lips. When you look up, his eyes are intense, focused entirely on you. He reaches out, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip.

"Dinner is ready. But I find I’m not particularly hungry for food anymore."

fluff smut:

Akshaye doesn't rush; he’s a man who appreciates the journey.

He leads you by the hand, the house dimly lit by candles. He likes the atmosphere—the shadows playing against the walls, the way your skin looks in the amber glow.

In the bedroom, he pulls you against him. He’s not aggressive like a street fighter; he’s possessive like a connoisseur.

He unzips your dress with slow, agonizing precision, his breath hot against the back of your neck.

"You've been driving me to distraction all evening," he murmurs, his lips brushing your shoulder.

"That dress... the way you looked at me over the wine. I want to see if you taste as good as you look."

He turns you around and lifts you onto the high mattress. Akshaye is a tactile lover.

He spends a long time exploring you with his hands—his fingers are long and steady, tracing the curve of your hips and the dip of your waist as if he’s memorizing a map. He’s vocal in a low, gravelly way, whispering praises that make your blood hum.

When he enters you, it’s a deep, rhythmic sink. He doesn't go for speed; he goes for sensation.

He wants to feel every internal muscle clenching around him. He watches your face the entire time, his own expression a mask of concentrated pleasure.

"Look at me," he rasps, his hands pinning yours to the pillow. "I want to see you when you break."

The pace quickens as the friction builds. He moves with a quiet, powerful grace, his body lean and corded with muscle.

Every thrust is deliberate, bottoming out until you’re sobbing his name into the quiet room.

He catches your cries with his mouth, kissing you deeply, tasting the salt of your skin and the heat of your breath.

As he nears his limit, his composure finally cracks. His movements become more frantic, more primal.

He groans against your neck, a raw, visceral sound that vibrates through your chest.

When he finishes, he stays buried inside you for a long time, his forehead resting against yours, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

He doesn't pull away immediately.

He pulls the duvet over both of you, tucking you into his side. He’ll light a single cigarette, the smoke curling toward the ceiling, while his other hand strokes your hair.

"Happy Valentine's Day, meri jaan" he whispers, a trace of that dry, intelligent humor returning to his voice.

Rehman Dakait doesn’t know how to love "normally." His affection is a mixture of raw power, old-school Lyari chivalry, and a dark, suffocating possessiveness.

He is the King of the Underworld, and you are his only law. To him, Valentine’s Day isn't about heart-shaped candies; it’s about reminding you that in a city of millions, you belong to the most dangerous man alive.

Rehman doesn't take you to fancy restaurants; he brings the restaurant to the haveli.

He hates the idea of you being in a public space where some rival might look at you.

He shows love through territory.

He’ll sit on his charpai, cleaning his gold-plated pistol, while watching you move around the room. His eyes are always on you, like a hawk guarding its nest.

He smells like high-grade hashish (charas), expensive oud, and the faint, cold scent of gunpowder. It’s an intoxicating, masculine scent that you’ve learned to associate with safety.

When he holds you, he wraps his large, scarred arms around you so tightly you can feel his holster pressing into your ribs.

Firm and marking. He likes to leave hickeys and bruises—"ownership tags"—where others can't see them.

He speaks a mix of Balochi, Urdu, and Punjabi, his voice becoming more "street" and aggressive when he’s excited.

He’ll light another blunt and share it with you in the dark, his hand never leaving your hip, whispering stories of his childhood in the streets until you fall asleep.

fluff:

The haveli was silent, save for the rhythmic whirring of the ceiling fan. Rehman had dismissed his guards for the night, but the tension in the air remained thick.

He sat on the edge of the sprawling bed, his black kurta unbuttoned halfway, revealing the rugged, scarred landscape of his chest.

He was cleaning his silver-plated Tokarev, the metallic click-clack of the slide the only music in the room.

When you walked in, he didn't look up, but his jaw tightened.

"Idhar aa, meri jaan," he rasped, his voice like gravel grinding together. (Come here, my love.)

You approached him, and he finally set the gun aside. He reached out, his large, calloused hand wrapping around your waist to pull you between his knees.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark, bloodshot from a long day of "business," but burning with a familiar hunger.

"Aaj shehar mein sab gulaab baant rahe hain..." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy gold necklace, the diamonds catching the dim light.

"Lekin Rehman Dakait khoon bahata hai taaki tum sona pehan sako." (Today the whole city is handing out roses... but Rehman Dakait sheds blood so you can wear gold.)

he stood up and clipped it around your neck, his rough fingers grazing your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

He leaned his forehead against your neck, inhaling your scent deeply.

"Tumhari khushbu... sirf yehi ek cheez hai jo mujhe pagal hone se bachati hai." (Your scent... it’s the only thing that keeps me from going mad.)

fuffy smut:

Rehman had stripped you bare, but he insisted you keep the heavy, diamond-encrusted gold necklace he had just given you draped around your throat.

The cold, sharp edges of the stones dug into your collarbone—a stark, expensive contrast to the warmth of your naked skin.

He pushed you back onto the center of the bed, your body pale and exposed under the dim yellow light of the chandelier.

He stood over you for a moment, still half-dressed in his black Pathani suit, his eyes dark and dilated as they roamed from your face down to the sparkling gems resting on your chest.

"Dekho isse," he rasped, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register. (Look at this.) He reached down, his rough thumb tracing the line of the necklace, his callous skin catching on the gold links.

"Yeh sona tumhare jism par aise chamakta hai jaise andheri raat mein chand. Iska matlab samajhti ho? Iska matlab hai ke tum Rehman Dakait ki amanat ho." (This gold shines on your body like the moon in a dark night. Do you understand what it means? It means you are the entrusted treasure of Rehman Dakait.)

He didn't wait for you to answer. He knelt between your thighs, his large hands gripping your knees to spread you wide.

He didn't remove his kurta; he liked the friction of the rough fabric against your inner thighs.

When he entered you, he did it with a slow, agonizingly deep sink, his eyes locked onto yours to watch the exact moment your breath hitched.

"Bismillah," he groaned, his jaw tightening as he bottomed out.

He began to move, his rhythm heavy and relentless. Every time he drove his hips forward, the necklace bounced against your skin, the metallic chink of the gold matching the rhythmic thud of his body against yours.

He reached up, wrapping his hand around the front of the necklace, using the heavy pendant to pull your chest closer to his mouth.

"Tadap rahi ho? Tadapna chahiye," he whispered against your lips, his thrusts becoming shorter and more punishing. (Are you writhing? You should be.)

"Tumhari har cheekh, tumhara har saans... yeh sab ab mera hai. Is haar ki har kadi gawah hai ke tum sirf meri malkiyat ho, meri jaan" (Your every scream, your every breath... it’s all mine now. Every link of this necklace is a witness that you are only my property.)

The sex was visceral and raw.

He wasn't gentle; he treated your body like a conquest. He used the necklace as a handle, his fingers tangled in the gold as he pushed you deeper into the mattress, his movements becoming frantic.

The cold diamonds pressed into your skin while the heat of his body overwhelmed you, creating a sensory overload that had you sobbing his name.

"Abhi nahi... mere saath aao," he commanded, his sweat dripping onto your stomach. (Not yet... come with me.)

"Bolo, meri jaan...kiska raaj hai?" (Say it loudly... whose rule is it?)

"Aapka... Rehman, aapka!" you cried out, your head thrashing against the pillows.

With a final, guttural roar, he buried himself to the hilt, his body going rigid as he released everything.

He gripped the necklace one last time, pulling you up so your chests were fused together, his heart hammering against yours like a trapped bird.

"Haan... mera," he exhaled, the word a dark, possessive prayer. (Yes... mine.)

He collapsed onto you, his heavy breathing the only sound in the room. He reached up and gently adjusted the necklace, which was now slightly crooked and smeared with the heat of the encounter.

He kissed the spot right above the pendant—a rare, soft gesture from a man who lived by violence.

"Yeh haar kabhi mat utarna," he whispered, his voice returning to a low, protective hum. (Never take this necklace off.)

"Jab bhi isse dekhogi, tumhe yaad aayega ke tumhara naseeb Rehman Dakait se juda hai." (Whenever you look at it, you will remember that your fate is tied to Rehman Dakait.)

Tarun Saluja is a man who treats love like a high-stakes litigation: he is thorough, commanding, and plays to win.

As a top-tier criminal lawyer, his brain never truly shuts off, but when he turns that analytical focus on you, it’s both intoxicating and overwhelming.

He is obsessed with "The Look." He expects you to be the ultimate power couple.

He’ll buy you tailored suits and heavy silk sarees in jewel tones (emeralds, deep rubies) because he wants you to look as formidable as he feels. He likes it when people are slightly intimidated by you.

In public, he is the epitome of the "Old Money" gentleman—hands off, respectful, walking a half-step behind you. But the moment the car door closes or the house staff is dismissed, his hands are on you.

He’ll pin you against the nearest surface before you’ve even taken off your coat.

He uses his "Courtroom Baritone"—deep, authoritative, and impossible to ignore.

He smells of expensive leather, Cuban cigars, and a hint of peppermint.

He is highly jealous but too sophisticated to show it through yelling. Instead, he’ll simply "claim" you more aggressively that night.

He loves it when you fix his tie. It’s the one time he lets someone else take control of his image.

fluff:

Tarun doesn't do "cute." He does "significant." You walk into the bedroom to find a velvet box on the vanity. Inside is a heavy, platinum bracelet with a subtle locking mechanism.

He walks up behind you, his hands resting on your shoulders, his reflection in the mirror looking sharp even in his "relaxed" state (which is just him without the blazer, sleeves rolled up to the elbows).

"It’s not just a gift," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your ear.

"It’s a statement. I’ve updated my will and the trust deed today. Everything I’ve built—every victory in that courtroom—it’s legally yours. I want the world to know you’re the only person I answer to."

fluff smut:

Tarun’s bedroom was an extension of his personality: high ceilings, dark mahogany, and the faint, lingering scent of expensive tobacco and aged paper.

The only light came from the amber glow of the fireplace, casting long, flickering shadows across the silk sheets.

He didn't just lead you to the bed; he escorted you like he was presenting a star witness.

But the moment the door clicked shut, the polished, stoic lawyer vanished, replaced by a man who had been starved for ten hours of your touch.

He pushed you back against the heavy carved headboard, his hands coming up to cage you.

He didn't kiss you immediately. He just looked at you, his gaze tracing the line of your throat where your pulse was thrumming visibly.

"I watched you all evening," he murmured, his voice a low, sandpaper rasp that made your toes curl into the carpet.

"In that saree, looking so poised, so untouchable. Every man in that room was looking at you. But I’m the only one who knows what you sound like when you lose that composure."

He reached out, his long, steady fingers—the same fingers that drafted billion-dollar contracts—hooking into the fabric of your blouse.

He undid the buttons with a surgical precision, his eyes never leaving yours. When he finally pushed the silk off your shoulders, he let out a jagged breath.

He moved you to the center of the bed, but he didn't follow you down.

He made you stay on your knees, your body trembling in the cool air, while he stripped with a brutal efficiency.

He looked larger in the firelight, his frame corded with the lean muscle of a man who spent his stress at the gym.

He climbed onto the bed, looming over you. He grabbed your wrists, pinning them to the headboard above you with a single hand.

He used his other hand to guide your chin up, forcing you to meet his predatory gaze.

"You’re trembling," he noted, a dark, satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

"Is that fear, Jaan? Or anticipation? Give me your testimony."

"Tarun... please," you whispered, your back arching instinctively toward him.

"Not yet," he commanded. He leaned down, his mouth grazing the sensitive skin behind your ear. He began to kiss his way down your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone, leaving small, red marks—little citations of his ownership.

He moved lower, his tongue swirling over your nipples until they were aching and hard, his suction firm and relentless.

He spent an agonizingly long time preparing you. His fingers dipped into you, finding you slick and ready.

He used two fingers to stretch you, his thumb grinding against your center in a steady, rhythmic pressure that had you sobbing his name.

"Tell me who you belong to," he rasped, increasing the pressure until you were white-knuckled, gripping his forearm.

"Yours... Tarun, I’m yours."

He didn't wait any longer. He positioned himself and entered you in one heavy, unyielding surge.

The sheer size of him filled you completely, stretching you until you felt like you might break.

You let out a sharp, choked gasp, your legs locking around his waist to pull him deeper.

"That’s it," he grunted, his jaw tight as he began to move.

It was a slow, punishing rhythm. Tarun didn't go for speed; he went for depth.

Every thrust was a calculated strike, bottoming out against your womb, forcing the air from your lungs. He held your hands pinned, watching your face as the pleasure turned from a simmer to a boil.

He wanted to see every flicker of your eyelids, every part of the 'untouchable' woman shattering beneath him.

The bed groaned under his weight, the rhythm of his hips steady and dominant. He began to pick up the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, and more frantic.

The control he prided himself on was finally slipping. His movements became primal, the sound of skin hitting skin the only thing audible over the crackle of the fire.

"Look at me, meri jaan" he commanded, his voice thick with the coming release.

"I want to see you when it happens."

As the first wave of your climax hit, your walls clamped around him, pushing him over the edge.

Tarun let out a guttural, pained roar, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he drove into you one last time, his body locking in a rigid, trembling line.

He emptied himself into you with a desperate, violent intensity, holding you so tight you felt fused together.

He didn't pull away for a long time. He stayed buried inside you, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your chest.

The silence returned to the room, but it was heavy and charged.

He finally shifted, pulling the duvet over both of you and tucking your head under his chin.

He pressed a lingering, soft kiss to your forehead—a rare moment of tenderness that he saved only for the aftermath.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Jaan," he whispered, his voice returning to its calm, possessive baritone.

Dev Verma isn’t a man of many words; he’s a man of action, observation, and a very protective, almost possessive, brand of love.

As an Officer, his life is chaotic and gritty, so he treats his relationship with you as his only "clean" sanctuary.

Dev’s love language is protection. He doesn't just hold your hand; he walks on the side of the street closest to traffic.

He checks your car tires and makes sure your phone is always charged.

On Valentine’s Day, he isn't just celebrating "love"—he’s celebrating the fact that you’re safe in his world.

He always smells like a mix of crisp Jaguar classic perfume, old leather (from his holster), and a very faint, masculine woodsmoke.

When he’s stressed, he’ll bury his face in your neck just to replace the smell of the city with the smell of you.

Dev can read people in seconds. He knows you’re upset before you do.

He won't ask "What's wrong, bebe?" ten times; he’ll just show up with your favorite food and put on a movie you like, sitting close enough that your shoulders touch.

Firm and grounding. He always has a hand on you—your waist, your shoulder, your knee.

Very quiet but very dangerous. He won't make a scene, but the guy talking to you will suddenly feel a very cold, very intense gaze on the back of his neck.

He loves it when you wear his oversized police department t-shirts, especially his fav white shirt. It’s his favorite thing to see you in.

He would take a bullet for you without blinking. You are the only law he follows at the end of the day.

fluff:

Dev comes home late—he’s always late because the city doesn't stop for holidays. He looks tired, his uniform shirt slightly rumpled,But the moment he sees you, the hardness in his eyes melts.

He doesn't have a flashy gift bag.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small, heavy box wrapped in simple brown paper.

"I saw this and thought of you," he says, his voice a low, tired rumble. Inside is a delicate, high-quality gold chain with a small, sturdy pendant—perhaps a sun or a star.

"It’s 24-karat. No matter what happens, no matter where we are... you keep this. It’s a piece of me you can always carry."

He steps behind you to clip it on, his large, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle against your skin.

He leans down, kissing the spot where the chain meets your neck. "Happy Valentine’s Day. Thank you for waiting for me. bebe"

fluff smut:

He doesn't even let you finish your glass of water. He picks you up, his arms like iron bands around your thighs, and carries you to the bed.

He doesn't undress fully; he just sheds his heavy boots and his tactical vest, leaving his dark uniform trousers on.

"I’ve been thinking about you in the middle of a stakeout," he rasps, pinning your hands above your head. He doesn't use cuffs tonight—just his own strength.

"Thinking about how much I need to get back to this."

He kisses you with a desperate, hungry intensity, his tongue claiming yours as if he’s making up for every hour he was away.

He moves down your body, his stubble grazing your skin, leaving a trail of heat. When he gets to your thighs, he parts them with a firm, no-nonsense authority.

"Dev... please," you moan, your fingers digging into his bicep.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice dropping into that "official" tone that makes your heart race.

"I’m going to make sure you don't forget who you belong to."

He enters you with a single, powerful thrust that makes the headboard thud against the wall.

Dev isn't a "fancy" lover; he is deep, rhythmic, and incredibly forceful.

He moves with a primal energy, his chest slamming against yours, his heart beating a frantic tattoo against your ribs. Every thrust is a declaration of possession.

He’s loud—grunting with the effort, whispering "Good girl" and "My girl" into your ear until your brain turns to mush.

He watches you fall apart, his eyes dark with a mix of pride and hunger. When he finally hits his limit, he drives into you one last time, his body going rigid as he releases everything into you, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he breathes your name like a prayer.

IG Tarun Ahlawat is the "Action Hero" of the police force—raw, impulsive, and possessing a massive ego that is only ever softened by your presence.

He has a specific way of walking—a confident, heavy-booted stride.

He’s the type to pull you onto his lap while he’s still on a phone call with the commissioner, his hand brazenly resting on your thigh while he barks orders into the receiver.

Heavy and frequent. He likes to leave "ownership" marks—bruises on your hips or a bite on your shoulder.

He’ll let you play with his service medals, watching you with a look of pure, unadulterated worship that he shows no one else.

fluff:

Tarun doesn't have the patience for slow-burn surprises. He arrives at the house, sirens still fading in the driveway, carrying a massive, heavy box.

He doesn't wait for dinner. He tosses his peaked cap on the table and pulls you into a rough, spinning hug.

"Open it," he grins, that cocky, handsome smirk plastered on his face. Inside is something extravagant—a heavy gold "necklace" or a designer watch encrusted with diamonds.

But then he pulls out the real gift: a set of keys to a secluded farmhouse he just bought in your name.

"I don't want to share you with the city tonight meri jaan" he rasps, his hand sliding to the nape of your neck.

fluff smut:

The moment you reach the bedroom, he has you pinned against the door.

He doesn't even bother taking off his uniform shirt; he just unbuckles that heavy leather belt, the clink of the metal loud in the quiet room.

"You've been teasing me all day with those texts," he growls, his nose brushing against yours.

"Do you have any idea what it’s like trying to maintain order in a precinct when all I can see is the way you looked this morning?"

He lifts you up, slamming your back against the door—not enough to hurt, but enough to show his strength. He enters you right there, standing up, his powerful legs supporting your weight easily.

It’s a jarring, deep connection. He moves with a rough, thudding rhythm, his breath hot and ragged against your ear.

"Say it," he commands, his hands gripping your glutes so hard he’ll leave marks.

"Who owns you?"

"You, Tarun... IG Ahlawat," you sob, your head falling back against the wood.

He loves the title. He loves the power.

He moves you to the bed but keeps the pace relentless.

He’s a "praise" lover but in a dominant way—whispering how good you feel, how much he’s going to ruin you for any other man, and how you’re the only thing that keeps him sane.

He doesn't do "slow." He builds the friction until you’re screaming, his thrusts becoming short, sharp, and punishing.

When he finally hits his peak, he let out a loud, triumphant roar, his body shuddering as he hammers into you one last time, pinning you to the mattress with the sheer force of his release.

𐙚

Tags:

@rini4everdreaming @jexify @skiicoreee , @suvarnarekha , @dearrosary , @rainpuddlesoup , @geometric-circle , @nooriyat , @strawbxx-blog , @serenevessel , @ramayantika , @pinkfreakpie @ooopssssu , @jkdaddy01 @zahraluvslilies @ashnotashkechum @i-am-yourmom , @kenkozkmg @nervouscashrascalflowers , @wwwjustkidding , @erenfox , @alyislost , @seasonofthenerd @feministmenlover , @girlonfloralcrack , @goodnightkatherine @maraudersbitchesassemble , @nerdreader @persistentgremlinrefuge , @dc-reign , @dhurandharuzair , @desi-brownie @doresthings , @patrakilekha , @sonakshiss @phenolphthaleinein @thewintersbloom @rehmandakaitswife , @sparksfromhell @darkstrawberrypirate , @bitchy-bi-trash , @cloudmast , @theoracleofocean , @mariaaysbusjs , @dumbestchaos , @draculauras-stuff @lanalove0 , @kidofmisfortune , @wan2bey-n 💌

#dhurandhar #akshaye khanna #rehman baloch #desi tumblr #rehman dakait #dhurandhar fanfiction #akshaye khanna x reader #rehman x reader #rehman dakait x reader #dev verma x reader #dev verma #tarun saluja x reader #tarun x reader #tarun ahlawat

Akshaye Khanna in a moustache is my favourite genre of men🙂‍↕️

@bhandarithegoat @devverma

#dhurandhar #rehman dakait #rehman dakait x reader #akshaye khanna #dhurandhar fanfic #akshaye khanna fanfic #akshaye khanna x reader #akshaye x reader #rehman baloch #dev verma #dev verma x reader #baba bhandari

Akshaye khanna as Dev Verma has a special place in my hole HEART💋

The shirt showing the baniyan is so hawt😩

Can we talk about Akshaye khanna as Dev Verma in ittefaq...

Gosh the fucking white button up and shades do so much for me🙏

The way in the first scene he keeps calling his partner "babe" is so cuteee aye hayeeee😍💥

And the last car chase scene was so well shot and the tension in his eyes was evident; the loss, despair, the criminal being let run fugitive, which he realized was orchestrated by him. He himself was made his own, Achilles' heel.

"Maine ittefaq ka sahara liya"...

Some stills because I'm still simping🎀

Every and all positions for this man(I SAID WHAT I SAID)🙏

Meme hona chahiye yawr-

Awwww he looks so domestic here🍸💌

ONE CHANCE PLEASE 🧎‍♀️🎀

istg I can't-

THE FUCKING SMIRK PLEASEEEE🛐🛐🛐

ok I'm done ranting

Thank you for coming to my ted talk xoxo💅

#ittefaq #akshaye khanna #dev verma #Siddharth Malhotra #sonakshi sinha #desi #movie #akshaye khanna you've outdone yourself again #dev verma x reader #dhurandhar #dhurandhar fanfic

BLUE BLOODED LIAR

Pairing:Dev Verma x Reader

T.W:Mention of murder?, Does not justify criminals

Chapter two, The Jasmine

Dev wakes up twenty minutes later, his neck cricked from sleeping against the seat, and his first thought is to pull you closer. But he felt a void, his eyes fly open. The backseat is still warm from your body, but you’re gone. He fumbles for her confiscated phone, which he no longer holds possesion of. He face palms himself, staring at the faint red lipstick mark you left on his collar, and his chest tightens.

He’d known there was something off, but he’d let you manipulate him anyway, let his heart override every investigator’s instinct he had. He pulls out his notebook now, flipping to the blank page where he was supposed to write your statement, and finds a tiny pressed jasmine flower you slipped into it. Which he knew was your favourite flower. He slumps back against the seat, jaw clenched, and laughs bitter and rough.

“Madarchod....poora chutiya bana ke gayi.”

Dev fixes his clothes and buttons his jeans, runs a hand over his head then steps out of the SUV and heads back inside the station. Kohli comes rushing over when he sees him, frowning and asking where you went. Dev leans against the desk, crossing his arms, and lies smoothly, his face set in a tight mask of frustration.

"Woh bahar nikalne ke baad... woh bhaag gayi meri pakad se. I got distracted for a minute, couldn’t catch her. I’ll put out an all-unit alert, we’ll find her soon," he tells Kohli, waving off the man’s questions and heading back to his office.

When the door clicks shut behind him, he drops his notebook on the desk hard, the jasmine flower falling out onto the wood. He sinks into his chair, rubbing a hand over his face, and the regret hits him like a freight train.

"I should’ve never taken this goddamn case," he mutters to the empty room, staring at the flower, his throat tight. "Main jaanta tha woh kuch chupa rahi hai, par maine uspe yakeen kiya." He cursed at himself, in vain and regret.

_________________________________________________

The next morning, Dev walks into the commissioner’s office, his tailored clothes sharp but his eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night. He sets the case file down on the mahogany desk, hands clasped behind his back, and asks straight out to be taken off the lead position. The commissioner leans back in his chair, frowning, and shakes his head immediately.

“Bilkul nahi, Verma. Y/L was one of the most powerful industrialists in the state, Press mera gala daba rahi he. You’re our best lead investigator, tumse hi yeh solve hoga,” he says, tapping the desk. Dev’s jaw tightens, and his mind drifts back two years to when they first met.

He’d been brought in to investigate a threat on her father’s life, assigned to shadow the family for a week until they found the culprit. He’d picked her up from a college event when the threat level spiked, and she’d started teasing him about how serious he looked, sharing her fries with him in the car, laughing at his dry jokes. By the time the case was closed, they’d been sneaking around meeting in secret, and he’d fallen hard, she was the first person who’d ever seen past the gruff investigator to the man underneath, and he’d thought she loved him just the same.

“Sir, I’m too close to her. My judgment will be compromised—” the commissioner cuts him off.

“Compromised or not, you’re still the best man for the job. If you step down now, it’ll look suspicious. Get back to work, that’s an order.”

Dev nods stiffly, picks up the case file, and turns to leave the commissioner’s office. He walks back down the station hallway, the paper heavy in his hands, all the old memories flooding back. He remembers the first time he kissed her, behind the college library after she’d brought him lunch during the protection detail.

She’d pulled him down by his tie and kissed him soft and quick, then grinned up at him and said she’d been wanting to do it for days. He remembers the nights they’d spent sneaking into each other’s apartments, her stealing his shirts and leaving them on his couch, laughing when he pretended to be annoyed. He’d even started looking at rings a month before the murder, planning to ask her to move in with him.

He stops outside his office, leaning his forehead against the cold door, and takes a shaky breath. He pushes open the door, tosses the case file on his desk, and stares at the jasmine flower he pinned to the bulletin board, his throat tight.

“Kya karoon main iska...,” he mutters to himself, pulling out his phone to check the missing person alert he filed. No sightings yet. Of course there aren’t, she was always smarter than him, even when he thought he was the one in charge.

In the afternoon, Dev drags himself to forensics, the forensics lab head Ramesh calls him over, tapping the new autopsy report on the metal table. The bullet pulled from your father’s body matches a service revolver registered to a retired police inspector.

Dev scribbles the note in his notebook, then heads out to question the retired inspector at his chawl apartment.

The man’s neighbor says he left town the night of the murder, paid off with a thick stack of hundred-rupee notes, Dev tucks that away, jaw tight.

That night, he calls all of your father’s business partners in, one by one, questioning them until his throat goes dry. He finds out your father was embezzling millions from worker welfare funds, and you’d found out three months before the murder. No one ever suspected you’d have the guts to arrange the hit. He sits back at his desk after everyone leaves, staring at the evidence spread out, all of it pointing straight to you but he still hasn’t put it in the official report.

______________________________________________

NEXT DAY

Dev leans against the break room counter, sipping chai, when Kohli bursts in, his face pale and his radio crackling. Dev straightens immediately, already knowing it’s bad news by the way Kohli won’t meet his eye.

“Sahab...woh retired inspector mil gaya, par vo dead hai. Uski body khet mein mili hai, goli lagi hai sar pe," Kohli says, wiping sweat from his brow. Dev’s jaw tightens, his cup clinking hard against the counter.

He’d known you’d cover your tracks, but he didn’t think you’d kill to do it, not even after everything. He shoves his cup down, grabbing his coat off the hook.

“Chalo, chalo site pe. Koi kuch haath nahi lagaye jab tak main nahi aa jata,” he barks, already heading for the door. His stomach twists, every loose end you leave just makes it harder for him to protect you, and you know it. You’re cleaning up, and he’s left picking up the bodies.

A group of local farmers was out early this morning cutting back overgrown cane for the new season, when one of their bullocks stepped on a soft patch of earth and sank in. They started digging to free it, and found the man’s blue cotton shirt wrapped around his corpse, just under the top layer of soil. They called the station immediately, panicking, which is how Kohli got the alert before anyone else.

Dev kneels to brush a crumb of dirt off the man’s worn boots, his throat tight, you’d even made sure to leave him where you knew the body would be found eventually, all evidence pointing to the ex-inspector as the killer who was then killed by accomplices.

“Humare pehle koi idhar aya tha? To disturb anything?” Dev asks Tambe, not looking up from the body. Tambe shakes his head, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Nahi sir, Humne area seal karvaya tha, kisine kuch haat vaat nahi lagaya he sivay un shetkaro he .”

Dev stands up, brushing dirt off his knees, and walks over to the tree at the edge of the cane field to stare out over the green rows. He tugs his phone out of his pocket, scrolls to your contact, and hovers his thumb over the call button for a full minute.

He knows you’re watching, that you probably drove out here this morning to make sure the body was hidden well enough, that you’re probably somewhere right now looking back at him. He shoves the phone back into his pocket without calling, jaw set.

“Bag the body and send it to forensics. Get the bullet out, match it to the one from her father,” he calls back to the officers. They nod, and Dev turns back toward the SUV, his shoes crunching on the dry dirt. Every step he takes just wraps him deeper in your web, and he knows it, he’s still choosing you, even after two bodies.

That night, Dev drives back to your empty bungalow, the gate creaking open when he pushes it. He walks straight to your bedroom, the air still smelling like your jasmine perfume, and opens your wardrobe.

He runs a hand over your hanging dresses, and pulls out the old blue shirt of his you left there, the one you slept in more than once. He folds it slow, tucking it into his bag, when he notices a loose floorboard under your bed, peeking out like it’s been moved recently.

He kneels down, pries the board up with his pen knife, and his breath catches. Underneath, there’s a thick stack of cash, and a handwritten ledger full of your father’s embezzlement notes, and a small empty jewelry box, along with a note addressed to him, in your familiar looping handwriting. He picks it up unfolding the crumpled paper slowly, the scent of your jasmine perfume still clinging to the ink. His face hardens with every line, cold dread settling in his gut as you spell it all out:

you’d lured the ex-inspector in with a bribe, shot your father point blank in the study while he was reading, wiped your prints and called the station knowing Dev would get assigned the case, then shot the ex-inspector in the head a day later and buried him in the cane field.

At the bottom, you wrote your father earned every bullet,he’d stolen millions from workers who built his company, left them starving when he cut their pensions, and you didn’t regret a single death. The only regret you have is lying to the man you love.

He crumples the note in his fist for a second before smoothing it back out, his knuckles white. You don’t apologize for the murders, just for lying to him you make it clear you’d do every bit of it again if you had to, that those men got what they deserved.

You wrote that you left the ledger with all the proof of your father’s crimes for him to leak to the press if he wants, that it’ll clear the public if he turns you in. At the end, you give him hand-drawn directions to the cottage, hidden deep in the hills outside the tiny village of Chandar, only accessible by a dirt track in the monsoon. You warn him not to bring any other officers with him.

“If you bring anyone, I’ll put a bullet in my head before they can cross the threshold. You’ll either get me alone, or you’ll just get my body. I’m not going to hang for this, Dev. I meant what I said, I love you, but I don’t regret it. Come find me, or don’t.”

_______________________________________________

Very chaotic and rushed ik 🫩 but in my defense idk I don't have a defense 😔.

@angelllk1ssed @qalamband @euphorkive @rehmandakaitswife @tanipartner @twinblueflamee @y0uneversawmehere @iamadelusionalwriter @peonies7002 @softkissesandicecreams @sparksfromhell @saltedburns @sanpiece @shadylovedhurandhar @desigal-26 @glitchy-head @kidofmisfortune @ch3rrycok3s @goodnightkatherine @maidenofmelancholy @mandaakiniii @layss19 @daydreaming-in-moonlight @depressedgiftedburnout @carbonaramarinara @darkstrawberrypirate @subhu-99 @marlena-marlena @tojisloft

#akshaye khanna #rehman baloch #rehman dakait #bollywood #ittefaq #dev verma #dev verma x reader #light angst

Paani Da

Pairing: Dev Verma X reader

Summary: Officer Dev Verma is very dedicated to his job, till he gets distracted.

Warnings: sex, age gap, unprotected sex, kissing, biting, etc.

A/N: In this he is younger than he is in the movie, but still older than her, also I know his post would change if he was younger, shush. Translations are provided, but conversations are in Hindi.

Masterlist

#rehman x reader #rehman dakait fanfic #rehman dakait x you #akshaye khanna #akshaye khanna x reader #rehman dakait x reader #rehman dakait #dev verma #ittefaq #dev verma x reader

The Aslam Masla

SP Chaudhary Aslam x Indian Journalist Rashmika Raina

------------------------------

Warnings: Cursing, Angst, Drinking, annoyance, slight violence, super sexy smut (khush hojao tharki log)

Masterlist

(before anyone asks: NO, I AM NOT LEAVING/ABANDONING DSKVS. THIS IS JUST A BREAK. WE WILL BE BACK TO THE REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING SOON PLZ DONT SHIT BRICKS!)

----------------------------

Special Note:

SP Aslam was genuinely not in my plans to write for. But my darling wife and the love of my life @patrakilekha once told me how she is desperate for someone to write about her husband (SP Aslam).

So for the trauma she has endured and the love she showers. Let me present to you a tribute to her-

THE ASLAM MASLA for my darling Patrakilekha <3

------------------------------

#dev verma x reader

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