Major Iqbal x reader
"Shades of Emerald and Gunmetal" (smut)
(Brat-taming yall)
༺♡༻
The bass in the club was a physical heartbeat, thumping through the floorboards and vibrating in the ribcages of the elite youth of Islamabad.
Iqbal stood on the mezzanine level, his broad shoulders leaning against the railing, half-hidden by a velvet curtain.
He didn't belong here. He belonged in interrogation rooms or in the silent halls of the ISI headquarters.
But the intel was specific: a foreign asset was meeting a courier at this specific "Blackout" party.
His eyes, cold and calculating, scanned the moving bodies below.
Then, the music shifted to a heavy, rhythmic beat, and the strobe lights flashed, illuminating a girl in the center of the floor.
It was Y/N.
She was a vision of rebellion.
The daughter of politician Malik, a man Iqbal knew to be as corrupt as he was powerful, was supposed to be at a charity gala tonight.
Instead, she was here, wearing a dress that was little more than a silver shimmer, her hair flying wild as she moved.
Iqbal froze. He had seen beauty before—he had used it as a tool and a weapon—but this was different.
There was a raw, untouched fire in the way she moved. He found himself gawking, his grip tightening on the railing until his knuckles turned white.
"Allah..." ( God...) he muttered under his breath, his dark eyes tracing the curve of her waist, the sweat glistening on her collarbone.
For a man who dealt in death, she looked like the most dangerous kind of life.
Y/N felt the weight of a gaze. It wasn't the usual hungry stares of the boys around her; this felt heavy, like a physical touch.
She paused her dancing, her chest heaving, and looked up.
There he was.
A man who looked like he had been carved out of granite, dressed in a sharp black shirt, watching her with an intensity that should have made her run.
Instead, Y/N arched an eyebrow.
She knew who the "scary men" in this city were—she grew up around them.
She didn't give him the satisfaction of a smile.
She looked him up and down, let out a deliberate, audible huff, and then rolled her eyes so dramatically it was a blatant insult to his presence.
She turned her back on him, picking up her rhythm again as if he were nothing more than a fly on the wall.
Iqbal’s jaw ticked. A vein pulsed in his temple. No one—not a double agent, not a general, and certainly not a girl—had ever dismissed him like that.
He didn't leave. He watched her for another hour, his mind spiraling into a dark, possessive haze.
The neon lights of the "Blackout" club eventually faded into the rearview mirror of Iqbal’s memory, but the image of Y/N—the girl who had dismissed a killer with a roll of her eyes—remained burned into his retina like a solar flare.
Weeks passed. For Iqbal, those weeks were spent in a dark room, staring at surveillance photos of her.
He knew what time she woke up, what she ate, and exactly how many security guards followed her. He was a man of the shadows, and she had become his sun.
Soon the wedding of Yalina and Hamza news broke out. It was not held at a hotel.
It was held at a sprawling, fortified farmhouse on the outskirts of Karachi, hidden behind twelve-foot walls topped with barbed wire.
This was where the elite and the lawless met to celebrate.
The air was heavy with the scent of night-blooming roses vines and the metallic tang of gunpowder from the celebratory shots being fired into the air by Hamza’s men.
Iqbal stepped out of his black SUV, his presence immediately cooling the atmosphere.
He wasn't wearing his formal attire, but the way he carried himself in a jet-black, tailored sherwani made him look even more lethal. His eyes didn't flicker toward the groom or the heavily armed guards. They searched for one person.
He found her standing near the fountain, surrounded by a group of laughing socialites.
Y/N was wearing an emerald green lehenga that flowed like liquid silk. The gold embroidery caught the light of the chandeliers, making her look like a goddess from an ancient, forgotten era.
Iqbal took a glass of Black Cristal from a passing waiter, his eyes never leaving her.
He didn't approach her immediately.
He watched as she laughed, watched the way her throat moved when she drank, and watched the way she occasionally glanced around the room as if she were looking for someone.
When her eyes finally landed on him, she didn't look away. Instead, a small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.
She whispered something to her friends and began walking toward the darker, quieter end of the gardens.
It was a trap. And Iqbal was more than happy to walk into it.
He followed her, his footsteps silent on the manicured grass.
The music from the wedding became a dull thud in the distance, replaced by the sound of crickets and the rustle of leaves.
She was standing by a marble pillar, looking out at the darkened fields.
"Aap peecha karne mein bohat mahir hain" ("You're a very good stalker") she said without turning around.
"Lekin aap thora der se aaye hain. Mujhe aap ka intezar dakhli raastay par tha." ( "But you're a bit late. I expected you at the entrance.") she said in fake sad tone, mocking tone.
Iqbal stopped a few feet behind her. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble.
"Dair se aana meri aadat hai, jaaneman. Lekin jab aata hoon, toh sab kuch badal deta hoon." (Coming late is my habit, sweatheart. But when I come, I change everything.)
She turned around, her eyes sparkling with that bratty, defiant fire.
"Aap khud ko bohat kuch samajhte ho. abbu kehte hain ke aap sirf ek bandooq wale aadmi ho jis ka dil patthar ka hai." ("You think highly of yourself. My father says you're just a man with a gun and a cold heart.")
Iqbal stepped closer, the heat radiating from his body.
"Tumhare abbu ko mere baare mein sirf utna pata hai jitna main chahta hoon. Magar tum..." (Your father only knows about me what I want him to know. But you...) He reached out, his hand tracing the line of her jaw.
"Tumhe bohot kuch pata chalne wala hai." (You are about to find out a lot.)
Y/N didn't flinch. She leaned into his touch, her breath hitching.
" Aap kaanp rahe ho. Kya woh azeem aur khofnaak Major is liye pareshan hai ke ek larki us se darr nahi rahi" ("You're shaking, Iqbal. Is the big, bad Major nervous because a girl isn't afraid of him?")
That was it.
The teasing, the eye-rolling, the weeks of watching her from the dark—it all snapped.
He lunged forward, his hand wrapping around the back of her neck, and slammed her against the cold marble pillar.
His mouth descended on hers with a ferocity that was more of a bite than a kiss. He tasted of expensive tobacco and raw, unbridled possessiveness.
Y/N let out a muffled moan, her fingers digging into the silk of his sherwani, pulling him closer.
She wanted the monster.
"Bohat bolti ho tum," (You talk too much,) he growled against her lips, his breath hot.
"Aaj main tumhari sari batain bhula doonga." (Today I will make you forget all your words.)
He didn't care about the hundreds of guests just a few hundred yards away.
He hiked up her heavy, gold-encrusted skirt, his rough palms scraping against the sensitive skin of her thighs. He found her already wet, her body betraying her defiance.
He unfastened his belt with a sharp click, his eyes locked onto hers.
He didn't use a condom; he wanted her to carry the weight of him, to feel the consequence of her taunts.
He lifted her up, her legs wrapping around his waist, and in one swift, brutal motion, he drove himself into her.
Y/N’s head snapped back against the stone, a loud, jagged cry escaping her lips.
She was tight—almost painfully so—but Iqbal had no intention of being gentle. He began to move, his thrusts deep and rhythmic, slamming her body into the pillar with every strike.
"Kaho ke tum sirf meri ho," (Say that you are only mine,) he gasped, his teeth grazing her collarbone, leaving a dark mark that would stay for days.
"aah main-main sirf aapki- aah Iqbal hu aapki" ("I-I'm yours... Iqbal... ah!" ) she cried out, her nails drawing red crescents on his shoulders.
"Main sirf aapki hoon... please, aur..." (I am only yours... please, more...)
He didn't slow down.
He wanted to break her spirit, to replace her arrogance with his name.
He adjusted his grip, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe, his pace becoming a frantic, desperate blur of friction and heat.
The world outside—the politics, the gangs, her father—all ceased to exist.
There was only the cold stone, the dark garden, and the man who was claiming her with the same violence he used to claim his enemies.
As she reached her peak, her body shuddering and clenching around him, Iqbal felt his own control shatter.
He let out a low, guttural groan, burying his face in her neck as he emptied himself deep inside her, his body rigid with the intensity of it.
Afterward, he didn't let her go.
He kept her pinned to the pillar, his forehead resting against hers, both of them gasping for air in the humid night.
"Ab tum meri amanat ho," (Now you are my trust/possession,) he whispered, his voice like cold steel.
"Aur Iqbal apni cheez kabhi kisi ko nahi deta." (And Iqbal never gives his things to anyone.)
The garden was silent now, save for the rhythmic, heavy sound of their breathing and the distant, muffled echoes of the wedding music that felt like it belonged to another world.
The initial violence of their union had ebbed, leaving behind a thick, heavy tension that hummed between their bodies.
Iqbal didn't pull away immediately.
He kept his weight pressed against her, his hands still firm on her hips, anchoring her to the cold marble pillar.
He felt the tremors still racking her small frame, the way her legs trembled where they were hooked around him.
Slowly, his breathing began to even out.
The predatory fire in his eyes softened, replaced by a dark, simmering warmth that was almost more terrifying.
He lowered her feet to the grass, but his arms remained a cage around her.
He reached up, his large, calloused hand cupping her face with a tenderness that contradicted the bruises he had just left on her skin.
His thumb traced the line of her lower lip, which was swollen and red from his kisses.
He whispered, his voice dropping to a low, intimate hum.
"Tumhari sari akad, tumhara ye garoor... mere samne chur h meri jaan." (All your stubbornness, all this pride of yours... it all crumbled before me.)
Y/N leaned her head back against the pillar, looking up at him through hooded eyes.
The bratty, teasing girl who had rolled her eyes at him in the club was gone.
In her place was a girl who had been thoroughly claimed.
She felt a strange, intoxicating sense of peace.
She had played with fire, and she had finally been consumed by it—and she loved every bit of the burn.
Iqbal leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, then her eyelids, before burying his face in the crook of her neck.
He breathed her in—the scent of roses, sweat, and himself.
"Ab tum meri ho, meri Y/N," (Now you are mine, Y/N,) he murmured against her skin, his grip tightening for a brief moment as if reminding her of his strength.
"Sirf meri. Aaj ke baad, tumhari har saans par mera haq hai." (Only mine. From today onwards, I have a right over your every breath.)
He stepped back, reaching out to help her adjust her emerald silk skirt. He worked with a strange, quiet efficiency, his fingers deft as he fixed the stray strands of her hair.
"chalo" ("Let’s go back,") he said, offering his arm.
Y/N took it without a word.
The fire was still there in her heart, but it was no longer directed at him—it was burning for him.
She felt tamed, not out of fear, but out of a deep, primal satisfaction.
She didn't feel the need to objectify his profession or provoke his temper anymore; she had felt the full weight of his obsession, and she was addicted to it.
As they walked out of the shadows and back toward the brightly lit farmhouse, Iqbal walked with his head held high, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back.
The guards and politicians they passed looked at them—noticing the way the politician’s daughter walked a little slower, the way the ISI Major looked even more lethal than usual—but no one dared to speak.
They walked side by side, a predator and his prize, perfectly in sync under the Karachi moonlight.
༺♡༻
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Disclaimer- All characters, names, and settings belong to their original creators, including Aditya Dhar and the rights holders of Dhurandhar. I claim no ownership over them.
