#ittefaq

[averypretentiousreader]

Uh, found this on Pinterest (God bless the person who posted it); and dawg, look at those back muscles flexing 🫦✋🏼✋🏼. Like why he gotta be so lithe 🤭😏😮‍💨.

[carbonaramarinara]

Can we talk about the arms for a second??? They look so hot???

[godricpride342]

GODS AND MONSTERS

Based on the request for Rehman, tarun, dev and baru x oc. Dedicated to @brightchillstar @shadylovedhurandhar @peonies7002

STORY TAGS !

This is a 3 part story, contains EXPLICIT sexual content. Free ticket to hell. Read at your discretion.

Not in this chapter but still

Vaginal sex, fivesome, anal sex, double penetration, facials, orals and god knows what filth. Porn with plot. DO DM ME IF YOU WANT TO BE REMOVED FROM TAGS.

Summary !

Vrinda sharma is a brilliant diplomat but with a failed love life. However when Balochistan's alliance with india brings her three ex lovers and current crush at once, under one roof... What does vrinda sharma do?

Jump in bed with all of them, of course!

Tags !

@maraudersbitchesassemble @afortoru @multifandom-boss-bitch @mainyahaankyunhoon @sanpiece @harrystyleskiwi9 @nerdreader @myboysfavouritetoy @desi-brownie @warnermeadowsgirl @hairandjhumkhasintheverandah @aaglagibastimainhumapnemastimain @peonies7002 @dilfconisuer @scentedwolfdragon @skiicoreee @poetry-beauty-love-writez @prahelika-fics @shippingtheshippers @cloudmast @wan2bey-n @euphorkive @losraire @tinyfoxpeach @ooopssssu @ninnimouse @cherryyelixir @laal-pari @softurns @dilfconisuer @snowsilk

CHAPTER - 1

The air in Mumbai was tense. Tides were restless against the rocky shores, the bustling life slowed down as people dropped everything to watch the screen wherever possible.

Whether it was the corner TV mounted on top of a barber shop or numerous screens in an electronics showroom, the wide LED screen in a café or small compact ones in people's respective homes, millions were watching.

Why wouldn't they?

Balochistan had decided on an alliance with India, a major supporter of their freedom cause against Pakistan. It would change the pages of history with one single wave — the oceans of events that had already happened, the rivalry between India and Pakistan, would harden even more with Baloch on India's side.

Dev Varma drove through the Mumbai roads, the traffic thankfully not as heavy. A soft sea breeze cooled his nerves, the sky clouded with faint blue. The weather was a relief. A few pitter-patters, a mostly cloudy sky, the air thick with petrichor.

Even the weather knew this was a historic moment.

But Dev had been hit with a rock the size of a boulder. The burden of protecting the prime diplomat overseeing the negotiations — it was an indirect promotion, yes. After his promotion to ACP, the rundown police station had transformed into a neatly renovated building. No more tube lights flickering like old men on their deathbeds. 

No more stinky toilets with the toilet paper inexplicably placed outside the stall. In their place; a bidet, tiled bathrooms, strong lavender air fresheners. Oh, how happy it made him. It motivated him to wake up every morning and come to work.

But then he had been assigned to protect Vrinda Sharma.

A simple question surfaced in his mind. Why? Why?

Like a centuries-old grave dug up from the earth, he had been assigned to protect his ex-girlfriend. Dev made his way toward the diplomat's bungalow, unwilling to admit that he would rather chase a criminal through Mumbai's narrowest lanes or solve the trickiest of cases than face her again.

It wasn't a bitter breakup. It was a confusing one.

If they had ended on terrible terms, it might have been fine — clean, at least. If they had ended on bittersweet terms, it would have been soul-crushing but still, somehow, fine. But Dev had no idea how it ended. It just did. It wasn't as if she had lost interest, or he had. 

Since he had nothing to name it, he called it 'career' — career quietly eating away at everything they had, until one day there was nothing left to eat.

He had thought about her more than he would ever admit out loud. Especially on nights when Mumbai went quiet and his old vintage house felt empty without her presence. 

Especially every time her face appeared on the television — he was her biggest cheerleader, silently celebrating her every milestone. Every headline of her he searched like a child searching for presents. 

He could never move on. 

His Royal Enfield halted with a groan. The bungalow was just as he remembered — the epitome of modest generational wealth. A long path leading to the front porch, the garden well-maintained by her loyal gardeners, soft grass and a mix of flowers, all of her choosing.

People greeted him with respect, motioning him to follow their lead to the madam of the house, the supreme ruler who ran the place with an iron fist. The interiors remained the same. Classy marble, warm lights, delicate vases. The classic furniture from her ancestors' era — royal oaks with textured carvings — smooth under his fingers as he grazed them walking through the corridor.

"Madam is inside. You can go now," the woman in a simple saree said, gesturing to the closed double doors. 

He thanked her and watched her go. Then he exhaled long and slow, looking at the ceiling as if God was going to be any kind of help to him tonight. 

Now or never, he muttered, and knocked thrice on the hard wood before entering. 

The instant he stepped inside, her scent hit him like a ton of bricks. Sweet — vanilla and chocolate. The cold air of the conditioner and her perfume both caught him off guard simultaneously. 

There she was. Seated in a leather chair, looking at him from beneath her lashes. Papers everywhere, a magnificent mess on the table. Pens, pencils, highlighters, and God knows what other stationery scattered across it like fallen soldiers. She was always a messy person. Looked like she had never learned her ways.

She looked the same as the day he had last seen her. Wavy hair falling around her face, tied back with a small clip — stray strands and loose curls escaping regardless. 

Her bespectacled eyes adorned with kajal and eyeliner, sometimes smudged, sometimes daring with a wing. Her lips, sometimes in bold red, mostly in nude browns, always hiding her laughter and smiles behind her palm.

God. She was still the same Vrinda. A few more years on her face, a few wrinkles where there were none — but a girl had nurtured into a beautiful woman.

"Does this give you déjà vu?" she asked, half amused.

He huffed. "A little."

"Why are you standing there… come sit." She beckoned him. And just like that, he was gone. The man who had decided the previous night to treat her like a stranger — gone, folded into a corner like an abandoned puppy. She only had to speak and he would let her rule over him, just like before.

Even a simple request was a command over his entire soul. Some things, it turned out, did not change in seven years. "Even the office looks the same," he commented, eyeing the interior as he took his seat.

She hummed. "Seven years, right?"

He nodded. "Seven years… indeed."

Her eyes flickered briefly to his hand. "I see no ring."

"Because there is no one."

She studied him, searching for hidden meanings, for answers he wanted her to find somewhere behind his eyes. There were none. The truth was simple — he hadn't married. "I could ask you the same question."

"Hmm. No, unfortunately, that badkismat ladka hasn't entered my life yet." She jested.

"Now, let's get to business, shall we? Rehman Dakait's convoy entered India over a month ago. He and his whole group have simply been sight-seeing for now. The alliance date is right around the corner. We need the whole Mumbai police with us. He's protected right now, but still… Yeh news international hogayi, and ISI is not happy at all. Gaand jal rahi hain unki," she uttered boldly, making Dev chuckle.

"No, I am serious!"

"Yes, I know. But hearing you curse always makes me laugh."

She rolled her eyes. "They could pull any stunt. The intelligence bureau is on it — they're doing their work to make sure nothing happens."

He nodded, slowly consuming the information. "There's security at his temporary residence too, right?"

"Honestly, since he's a gangster and very familiar with guns… our work is much easier. He's capable of protecting himself, and his closest men always surround him. We gave the press a wrong address — he's staying somewhere different entirely. So if any attack does happen, it won't happen where he actually is."

Rehman Dakait had come to India a month ago. And ever since, he had been the talk of the town. Talk of the whole country, to be honest. The man's name was on every tongue — internet, media, press; everyone had made him the source of every headline.

Rehman Dakait enjoying views of the Taj Mahal.

Sher-e-Baloch on his way to pay respects at Ajmer Dargah.

Rehman this, Rehman that. Vrinda had stopped watching the news because all they seemed to show was him.

And why wouldn't they? He had been declared Sher-e-Baloch by nine alliances of Baloch freedom fighters—their messiah, their chosen one, oh! their Harry Potter who dresses up as if there’s a funeral every day.

He looks dashing in every outfit, but she shut that sudden thought down, not wishing to go down that spiral staircase. 

The whole movement had selected him as representative for this alliance. A gangster who rose from the gutters to the high ladders of power, a force to be reckoned with.

It was infuriating, watching his handsome face everywhere. Uninvited and persistent. Especially when her heart fluttered every single time.

It was six months ago, when Balochistan's representatives first came to India for the preliminary alliance talks, that she had seen him for the first time. He had been a gentleman — polite, soft with her despite his hardened exterior. She had noticed how he kept stealing glances at her when he thought she wasn't looking. She had done the same, if she was being honest.

It began as small talk. Diplomatic, precise, to the point. A few smiles, a cracked joke here and there. Six months later and neither of them knew where they stood.

At least, she didn't know. And not knowing was its own kind of torment.

"Banda toh mast lagta hain," Dev commented, tapping the open newspaper on the table, its front page entirely dedicated to Rehman. "Puri country ka dil lutt le gaya yeh banda…"

Aur mera bhi, she wanted to say. She didn't. "So, what's your plan, Dev?" she asked instead.

"Oh, now we're back to Dev? Okay. At least you didn't choose to stab me with Mr Dev Varma."

She shook her head. "You wanted me to forget you?"

"You really can't forget me after the nights we spent." There it was — that infuriating smirk. 

Her eyes flickered. A memory resurfaced probably. A very familiar one — this same room, the study, except on the table rather than at it. Vrinda underneath Dev's body, papers scattered on the floor.

Her cheeks went bright red. She grabbed the newspaper and swatted him with it. "You are lucky no one is here!"

He smiled, entirely unbothered. "Okay, okay — personal history aside. I'm not assigned to protect Rehman."

"Not him? Then who?"

"You."

"Me?" Her eyes widened. "Why me?"

"You're the diplomat overseeing this entire alliance. There's a 99% chance you're a target. DSP Sahab assigned me to protect you."

"Theek hain. Papa ke close friend hain na — that's his way of taking care of me after Papa's death." She shook her head, pushing the old memories aside. She reached into a drawer and retrieved a brown parchment envelope. "This contains the meeting schedule. The venue, the timing, who's attending …"

Dev opened the parchment and read through the contents. Then his eyes snagged on something and he looked twice. "Tarun Saluja and Sanjay Baru?" he said. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

He looked at Vrinda. She had suddenly found the blank paper in front of her absolutely riveting, as if it holds national secrets of pakistan. 

"It seems like a reunion of your ex-lovers…" he chortled, shaking his head at the weird ploy of the fates that seem to haunt Vrinda Sharma. 

"No shit, Sherlock. I'm aware. I'm simply relying on years of professionalism to keep it together."

"That word doesn't suit you."

"What word?"

"Professionalism."

"Dev?"

"Hmm?"

"Fuck you."

Dev Varma left the bungalow laughing.

The meeting with Vrinda had concluded early — the girl had been breathing fire and releasing steam, and he had decided to spare her further suffering. He knew this week was going to be something else entirely.

There were variables and threats to consider — from Pakistan, from radical groups within India, But he was willing to gamble with all of them if it meant watching Vrinda navigate being in the same room as her three exes.

Of course he knew of their existence. Vrinda had... peculiar taste. She had dated only three men in her life and all of them were remarkably, almost suspiciously, similar.

Handsome was a constant. So was the height, the jaw, and the face cut. The age gap, however, is slightly concerning, causing several scandals if it wasn’t for Sanjay Baru pulling some strings. 

Dev and Vrinda's relationship had been a forbidden and well-kept secret from the public.

It was seven years ago. Vrinda was twenty-two, fresh out of college, and the daughter of Maharashtra's most prominent politician. It was a difficult time. 

The Mumbai underworld had shaken the overworld. People walked with their hearts clutched in their hands, each step taken carefully as if one wrong move could cost them everything. It did, actually.

Her father's life was in danger. More than that — her life was in danger. So her father had assigned Dev Varma to protect her.

Dev was already ten years into the field, had earned the rank of inspector, and was at the peak of his career. But the world had felt like a void back then in ways he couldn't fully explain. Then he was assigned to protect a twenty-two-year-old girl, and thirty-two-year-old Dev had done his duty sincerely.

A bit more sincerely enough to take a bullet to the chest for her.

He had thought it was naive of her to fall in love with him. The relationship was doomed from the start—he knew that even as it was beginning. 

Daughter of a politician, young and beautiful. He was an unmarried inspector in his thirties. Handsome but otherwise a scandalous choice of groom for someone like her.

But God, that hadn't stopped them. Nothing did.

The scandal had ignited a flame. Stolen glances, eyes that said everything while everyone around them remained conveniently blind. Stolen glances became stolen kisses. Stolen kisses treaded on dangerous waters. But dangerous waters were the whole point — the entire fire of what they were to each other.

The thrill of it. Dev fucking her in her own bed, her hand pressed hard over her mouth to muffle the sounds, failing anyway because his fingers, this thrusts claiming the deepest depths of her body and his patience made her see stars. 

Their favourite place had been the study — her father's gift to her. Lovely daughter reading papers by day, letting Dev have his way with her by night. 

Knowing they could be caught at any moment and not stopping regardless. In fact, that knowledge only seemed to turn them in even more.

It was pure adrenaline. Nasty, consuming lust and a heart full of fiery love, all tangled together until neither of them could tell which was which.

Her father passed away. She had rested her head on Dev's shoulder and cried until she had nothing left, and he had held her through all of it.

And then they had drifted. No one knew how or why. 

She had chosen not to follow her father's footsteps. She had chosen diplomacy instead — Amal Clooney, her role model, her north star. 

She had become that woman. Dev had watched it happen from a distance, through television screens and newspaper headlines, over seven years of separate lives. He had been proud of her every single time.

He still was. 

Tarun Saluja was having a great day.

He had woken up, worn his favourite suit, and arrived at his firm to find the chai had been made correctly for once—the ratio of elaichi to cloves dancing on his tongue. 

The cases on his desk were interesting rather than soul-draining. No cases that drained his soul or demanded its exchange for riches and fame. Fuck you, Rohan Khurana. 

And then his PA walked in and announced that he would be the legal representative of Rehman Dakait.

Tarun spent a good ten minutes explaining to his PA — that mastering criminal law did not automatically make him the correct choice to represent the biggest gangster in Pakistan, who had come to India for a diplomatic and political alliance.

Then his PA told him it was Vrinda Sharma who had asked. What a beautiful day. He had half a mind to jump off the building.

Oh, Vrinda, Lucifer in female form. She was temptation wrapped in the form of an innocent looking girl capable of fooling the smartest. 

"Sir, she wants you to call her. To discuss the alliance and the legal formalities."

"Theek hain, tum jao." He dismissed his PA. Like a routine, a habit he couldn't quite get rid of, he pressed the memorised numbers on the dialpad. Let it ring once, twice and then…

"So you got my invitation?" Her cheeky voice sent warmth down his heart. He truly missed her, his little firecracker.

"Yes, sweetheart. This habit of yours, catching me off guard, has never diminished."

"Learnt it from yours truly. And there's no man more perfect for this job than you. I wanted familiarity and—"

"Familiarity isn't the word I would use, love. Not after our nights of passionate—"

"Tarun! Talk about business!"

"Yes… yes, business indeed. Now what do you want me to do?"

"Come meet me at my house."

Usually that was the code for Tarun, I want you right now. Throw away your goddamn files and come home. But the circumstances weren't as before. He was not her boyfriend anymore. "Okay then. Hope you made my favourite pasta."

He heard her chuckle before the call ended. He left his office, got into the sleek Mercedes, and let the car take him closer to her one more time.

He was in his late thirties when he met her. She was in her mid-twenties. Sirens rang in his head and he avoided her desperately, respectfully. He was simply a big-shot lawyer of Mumbai who had come to help Vrinda Sharma sort out her father's properties.

He didn't even consider such cases ordinarily, but Vrinda's father was a man well-respected in the industry, and as a favour repaid, Tarun Saluja had agreed to become Vrinda Sharma's legal representative until her name was settled in her father's will and assets.

She was a smart little thing — asking him how law worked, how he had started pursuing it as a passion, how he had earned the name.

It started from meetings where they were supposed to discuss her father's succession, what assets and liabilities would come to her. Then it reached a point where she would come to his office, they would talk for five minutes, and then both of them would be an entanglement of limbs, eating each other's faces as if it were their only source of nourishment.

Tarun knew it was dangerous — for him, for her, their careers at stake. But Vrinda's eyes… her lips, the way she walked and talked… the girl was irresistible. Long gone was the man who had perfected professionalism as his weapon and intimidated even the biggest of criminals behind the jury. In Vrinda's presence, he was a man worshipping her body for salvation — every whisper against her skin a prayer, a chant.

Her house looked the same. The workers and gardeners greeted him like a regular.

Déjà vu hit him in slow waves — memories coming back like a film reel, all in chronological order. The study where he had first met her. The living room where her father's will was announced. The dining room where she had cooked white sauce alfredo in a way that would make Italians roll in their graves but made Indians curl their toes with flavours dancing on their tongues.

Her PA took him to the dining room, and there she was at the head of the table, two plates of pasta waiting.

"Just as I remember. Hope you didn't add too much pepper as revenge?" he joked.

She smiled and shook her head. "I don't have ill feelings for my exes."

They took their seats. The plates were steaming, the smell of creamy oregano settling around them like something familiar and warm. Tarun didn't dig in — he glanced at her, held his glass of water, and waited.

And she did it. Hurriedly stabbed the pasta, tasted it, and the spoon fell from her hand onto the plate with a clink. "H-Hot!" she managed, mouth already full, fanning frantically with her free hand.

He snickered, handing her the water. "You never change. Do you, Vrinda?"

"Old habits die hard, Tarun."

He would have kissed her burnt tongue once — without thinking, without hesitating. But they were not lovers anymore. Only Vrinda Sharma and Tarun Saluja, a diplomat and a lawyer. "Yes… they do."

"So, I heard your licence was suspended for six months. The Khurana case?"

"Hmm." He ate steadily, knowing she had more to say.

"Quite a case. Shook all of Mumbai. But I know you wouldn't take up a case like that unless something was off about it."

And there was the Vrinda he knew — the smart vixen with the silver tongue. She got things done with just her words. He was proud she had learned that skill from him; stripping someone bare with nothing but language was an art form, and lawyers had to perfect it.

Being a diplomat, Vrinda's job was to persuade. To get done what ordinary politicians couldn't, with their promises as true as a sea of milk.

"The alliance is in three days. You know why I chose you as his legal representative. The man is interesting — I think you'll have a delightful conversation with him," she said, blowing carefully on the pasta before eating.

"And why does it seem that you already found him interesting?" he asked.

She paused mid-bite, eyes wide like a goldfish. "W — what do you mean?"

"Vrinda, don't act coy. You think I don't know you? Surely Rehman Dakait has caught your eye by now. You always had a particular taste in men."

"One cannot hide things from you, can they?" She gave up, collapsing back against her chair. "He's fine. Handsome, my type but…"

"Doomed from the start. Just like all your relationships."

"Awww, what a gentleman — assuring a woman that her love life is doomed."

"God has given me the power to vomit the truth from others, love. I don't have the ability to lie so easily."

"And here I thought lawyers made good liars."

It was then that footsteps echoed through the marble house, closer and closer. A few footsteps were such that Vrinda could easily guess to whom they belonged. Dev's were heavy — years of hard training and fieldwork in every step. Tarun's were smoother. They caught you off guard, determined to make you whip your head at the mere sound of them. He walked as if he always knew his way out of situations.

Vrinda's smile faltered. She looked at the entrance to see… Sanjay Baru, standing there with his cheeky smile — his signature look — in a pristine fashionable suit.

Baru's footsteps were a mix of smooth and tricky. You would never know when he was present unless he wished to announce himself. His pristine shoes, probably one among his collection, had not a single speck of dust or mud on them.

All her exes had a problem with mud stuck to their shoes. Dev literally used his handkerchief — didn't care if it got ruined — to clean the soles. He simply discarded it and bought another one. Half his salary went to handkerchiefs.

Tarun paused as well, internally cackling at the fog that had wrapped around the room. He glanced from the corner of his eye at Vrinda, who had gone completely still at Sanjay's presence. The girl was internally screaming. He was certain of it.

"Am I interrupting something?" Baru asked smoothly, making his way toward the empty chair on Vrinda's right.

"Not at all," Tarun replied, rising to shake his hand. Sanjay gripped it firmly, lips curved into a smirk aimed squarely at Vrinda, while the girl found something deeply fascinating about the pasta in front of her.

Was the pasta always this beautiful?

He pulled the chair out with ease and sat down. Vrinda did everything to ignore the specific quality of tension that had now settled over the room.

"What a timing, Baru," she commented. "Care for pasta?"

He shook his head. "No thanks, sweetheart. Already ate. It's so great to meet Saluja again — unforgettable man. Do give me another chance for an interview."

Tarun placed his hand over his heart. "My pleasure, Baru. If you're the interviewer it would be a delight. Been too long since someone asked me properly educated questions."

And now she didn't exist. They spoke with the familiarity of men who had known each other for years — because they had. Tarun had once defended Dev in a case, Sanjay had interviewed both Dev and Tarun. The three of her exes knew each other, moved in the same orbits, shared the same professional Mumbai air.

It was Vrinda who was the odd one out. Fifth wheel wasn't even the right count.

Tarun glanced at her over the rim of his glass. You knew he was coming.

She looked back steadily. I swear on my father's grave, he said evening.

"So, what did I miss?" Baru asked.

"Nothing!" Vrinda said quickly.

"Everything," Tarun answered.

Sanjay looked at the table where a plate was already waiting in front of him. Neha. Bless that woman. "Is it your Indian-Italian fusion pasta? Then I must have a taste!"

Wordlessly, without wasting a second, Vrinda's PA appeared and placed the steaming dish in front of him, reheated perfectly. "Thank you, Neha. Always lovely to see you."

Neha simply smiled and left, gliding through the room like a ghost. What a strange woman, Vrinda thought.

"Same house, same helpers. Even met Premilal Chacha in the garden," Sanjay said, blowing on the pasta.

"Heard his child got a job," Tarun added.

"Same recipe too." A nostalgic smile. "Burnt your tongue?"

"Tarun already made that joke."

"Great minds think alike."

The two men laughed. Vrinda's cheeks flushed red.

Two men, talking to each other as if they hadn't both been inside her many times. She envied their nonchalance honestly — neither of them had an ounce of envy for the other, no interest in winning some imaginary race for best boyfriend of Vrinda. They were maddeningly mature people. Her taste never disappointed her in that regard. The fact that they all looked so similar they could pass as relatives was a whole separate topic requiring its own hour-long discussion — but otherwise, Vrinda was a woman with no regrets.

"We're supposed to be talking business," she said, because someone had to. "Three days left for the alliance. I talked with Dev about police security — he's already on it. The government asked me to assign Rehman a legal representative. Gave it to Tarun."

"And leave the press, media and reporting to me, love," Sanjay said pleasantly. "You just… enjoy."

Vrinda knew exactly what he meant by 'enjoy'. Oh, that cheeky little shit— her pointed toe found his shin beneath the table. 

Sanjay did not flinch, hiding his smile behind his glass of water.

Both men left soon after. The pasta dishes sat empty, and Vrinda finally exhaled. She asked everyone to take an early leave, leaving the bungalow empty and silent.

There were only a few dishes left to wash… and washing dishes felt therapeutic. So she held the Vim liquid in one hand and her Scrub Daddy in the other and attacked the dishes slowly, taking her sweet time, using it to think.

Her relationship with Tarun had lasted almost three years. It was slightly rocky—the cases he took drained his energy in ways he never fully admitted. But she was someone who replenished him. He always came back without fail, even when a mountain of files waited. Her soft embrace, her cooking, and her quiet rambles about her day made his day. And he would end every night the same way—sexing his way out of conversations that started in the dining room and finished in the bedroom.

But then life happened. Neither of them knew how or why. It just did, and they broke up with no ill feelings—only bittersweet smiles.

Then, a few months later, Sanjay Baru came to interview her—for her success in diplomatic ties with France and Afghanistan. His questions were educated and precise, testing her intelligence in a way that excited her.

She loved late-night calls with Baru, their back-and-forth about social issues and the economic situation of the country. Baru tested her knowledge; conversations with him were never boring and always left her learning new things.

Educational conversations turned into long, personal discussions… about his life, about hers. She was honest about herself, surprising him with her candour about her love life. He loved that honesty.

Then, it happened. He asked her out on a date. The struggles they faced trying to hide from the public were many, but he was an icon in media houses, pulling a few strings—and there were no scandals thereafter. He was much older than Dev and Tarun… closer to her father’s age than hers.

By then, her type had been cemented. She liked older men. It was the truth. But every relationship of hers was doomed from the start; her choice of boyfriend was scandalous in a country like India.

Especially when she was the daughter of a late politician and a well-known diplomat herself.

However, nothing stopped her from pursuing him. He was a cheeky, jovial man to the world; words flowed out of him like carefully crafted prose.

But behind bedroom doors he was a wanton lover — risky, experienced, always showing her something new. 

She would end up too exhausted to do anything but fall asleep. His hands always roamed like he was claiming territory. The bite marks scattered across her neck had shocked Neha so thoroughly that she seemed to conclude Vrinda had been attacked by a small group of vampires. It looked less like passion and more like a crime scene.

But Vrinda was freaky. She had always craved risk. No wonder her taste in men read the way it did.

It had only been a year since she and Sanjay separated. She had a curse — she was certain of it now. Everything else in her life she had built and kept. But love slipped through her hands every time, and each man left a bigger void than the one before. She wished, quietly, that someday someone would come and fill it so completely she'd forget it had ever been there.

The dishes were done, her hands pruny. Her spirits, however, were high. Her story with them wasn't an angry or regretful one — each of them had taught her everything. The woman she was now was because of them.

But why did she still ache? Why did she miss them when their goodbyes had been good goodbyes, with no villain to blame the cracks on. 

A knock followed by a doorbell, made her snap out of her thoughts. 

She glanced at the clock. Seven pm. It was too late for scheduled visits. She dried her hands and jogged to the double oak doors, opening them just a crack —

Rehman.

"Rehman?!" She opened it wide, grabbed him, pulled him inside hurriedly, peeked out to check the driveway. When the Coast was clear, She shut the door.

"Rehman! Are you out of your mind, coming to my house at—" she rambled, but her words were caught in her throat when he kissed her.

Her back collided against the carved door. His hands snaked around her waist, pulling her flush against his warmth. She wrapped her leg around him like muscle memory.

Her hands raked through the roots of his hair. His hardness pressed against her while he devoured her with an unknown frenzy, as if she would be nothing but stardust in his hands if he couldn't savour the moment.

His tongue was hot, running through her lips before he deepened it. Six months… six goddamn months, and she was finally rewarded for all the waiting. She jerked against him, relieving the ache against him, the wet spotch on her panties becoming more wetter and she, more desperate. 

The stolen glances, the small touches, the smiles that lasted a half second too long — everything had been a slow detonator, counting down without her permission, and now it had confirmed what she had been trying not to name for six months.

He paused, giving her Small, soft pecks. Their breaths mingled, the gap between them mere inches. Her head spun, the room blurred and tilted, but his hold was steady. He pulled her closer and rested his forehead against hers.

"Ya Allah, I wanted to do that for six months…" he murmured, drunk on taste of her lips. 

She chuckled, hiding her face in the crook of his neck.

[nevereversaygoodbye]

Losing Streak: Chapter 1

Dev Verma (Akshaye Khanna from Ittefaq) x OC

Is love enough? Dev believes so but his beliefs alone are not enough to sustain a marriage. But how can he ever think about moving on from her when she is all he has ever known?

TW! illness, hospitals, depression

Masterlist

Enjoy, my shonas <3

A low, hoarse groan leaves his lips as he feels the morning light sneak its way beyond the dark curtains of his room and hit his eyes. Sits up and stretches his arms above his head before opening the curtains. 

"The sunlight sets your circadian rhythm, Mona," he says to himself, closing his eyes, repeating what she would tell him while opening the curtains, much to his annoyance. She is everywhere, all at once, all the time. In fact, she had been the one who had purchased the blackout curtains; she could not sleep in the light of the city at night. Protima Roy, his beloved ex-wife. He can still feel his eyes on her, even though they do not live together anymore, her delightfully sharp eyes, which have a mysterious sort of hold over him. 

Washes his face with the same cleanser she used to buy for him, Cetaphil Gentle Skin Cleanser. She had told him he had dry skin, and he had no reason to doubt her; women know the best when it comes to these matters. He stares at himself in the mirror for a moment before wiping his face with a towel. Verbally sighs, closing his eyes. Every moment spent alone is a moment being haunted by memories of her; perhaps it would have been easier to forget if he had not been so involved in her life to this day. 

"Aj chutti hai na?" his mother asks the moment he steps foot into the dining room. It's a holiday today, isn't it? 

"Haan, lekin hume kaam hai," Dev says dismissively, sitting at the table and picking up the newspaper. "Kyu aapko kuch chahiye tha?" Yeah, but I have work. Why? Did you need anything? 

"Tumhare liye ek ladki pasand ki hai," she says tentatively, pouring him a cup of tea. I have found a nice girl for you to consider marrying. 

Dev bristles, looking at his mother with an annoyed expression before taking a sip of tea. "Aapko pata hai hume yeh shaadi waadi nahi karna," he says dryly. You know I don't want to get married. 

"Magar kyu? Protima ke liye? Woh tumhe chod kar chali gayi toh," she insists. But why? For Protima? She has left you. 

"Pehli baat toh yeh ki aap usko Protima kyu bula rahi hai, kabhi toh aapki bahu thi, ab paraya hogayi hai kya? Sheuli naam hai," he says, irritated now. "Aur haan, Sheuli ke waja se hi mujhe shaadi nahi karna. Ab kya?" First of all, stop calling her Protima; she was your daughter-in-law at one point. Is she a stranger now? Her name is Sheuli. And yes, I don't want to get married because of her. Now what? 

"Puri zindagi akele reh loge?" she asks, frustrated. Will you stay alone for the rest of your life? 

"Papa ke jaane ke baad aapne kaunsi dusri shaadi karli?" he asks sarcastically, not looking at his mother and reading the incredibly uninteresting sports page. Not like you remarried after my father died. She opens her mouth to speak but closes it, taking a deep breath. They have had this conversation several times over the last three years since Protima left him.

Sitting in the outdoor section of the restaurant, he waits; he has seen the menu, and he knows what he will order. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Protima says with a smile, walking to his table. "Late again, I was finishing up laundry." Sits across from him. 

"Nah, you're barely ten minutes late," he smiles. "Why? I just did your laundry two days ago?" he inquires. 

"Bedsheets," she sighs. "Phir se wahi, heavy bleeding. I hope I get some answers today." Same thing again...

"I hope so too; that last gynaecologist was so full of crap, dismissed your pain and concerns," he sighs, handing her the menu. 

"Yeah, doctors suck like nine out of ten times," she smiles sadly. "Remember the eight doctors we changed before finding my rheumatologist?" She chuckles, opening the menu. 

"Yeah, what a wild goose chase," he laughs, but it does not reach his eyes. He remembers the intense pain she had been in, all the throwing up and crying. Painkillers had not worked, the heated pads, the massages; nothing had given her relief for months on end. 

"What have you been up to the last two days?" she asks, taking a sip of her Diet Coke.

"Working on a murder right now, actually," he hums, taking a bite of his lasagna.

"Oh, what do you think happened?" she inquires before chewing on her grilled chicken. 

"I think the husband did it, as it always happens with upper-class housewives mysteriously dying," he shrugs, taking a sip from her Diet Coke. 

"You are such a cynic, you know that?" she laughs. "What if it is a crime of passion? Maybe the husband had an affair, and the mistress killed the wife in a fit of possessive anger?" 

"Tum na yeh sab true crime podcasts chod do, please," he laughs, shaking his head. Please stop listening to true crime podcasts. 

"Yeah, but consider that angle too, come on," she chuckles, her dimples making his heart clench. 

"You are impossible," he says fondly, his eyes never leaving her.      

At the hospital, he sits in the sterile sample collection room, next to Protima. Her arm is stretched in front of her, the nurse tying a tourniquet on her bicep before feeling for a vein in the bend of her elbow. This doctor had listened to her concerns for once and had ordered a series of tests ranging from thyroid function to ultrasounds. He holds her free hand as the nurse inserts the needle into her vein; he winces. 

"I'm fine, Dev," she smiles, squeezing his hand. 

"It doesn't get easier to look at it," he sighs. 

"Then don't look at it," she chuckles. "Look at my stupid face." 

"You don't have a stupid face," he breathes out, looking at her face. She has changed over the years, more mature, thinner now due to her illness, but still the most beautiful woman in the world in his eyes, regardless of everything. 

"Husband?" the nurse asks, drawing the last tube of blood before taking the needle out gently and placing an alcohol wipe on the spot. 

Dev freezes, still looking at Protima. "Best friend," she smiles as the nurse applies a small band-aid on the needle prick. 

Two years and nine months ago

Dev enters the bedroom to find his wife lying on the bed, her hair a mess as she cries into the pillow. He crosses the distance between the bed and the room in seconds, sitting next to her, his hand on her back. 

"Kya hua, meri jaan?" he asks, stroking her back. What's wrong, my love? 

"I'm sorry," she sobs.

"What's wrong?" he asks again. 

"I can't be your wife anymore," she cries. 

"What do you mean, Sheuli?" he asks, alarmed. 

"I am not a good wife anymore," she sobs, her back to him still. 

"What are you on about?" he asks gently. 

"I am sick, and I am in pain aur hum dono ek saath kuch bhi nahi karte, bas hospitals aur physiotherapy," she bawls, her body trembling. ...and we don't do anything together, just hospitals and physiotherapy. 

"Sheuli, stop," he says in a choked voice, lying down next to her, pulling her close. 

"When's the last time we had sex? Hell, when's the last time we made out? The last time you touched me because you wanted me and not because you were trying to relieve me of pain?" she asks in a broken voice, turning to look at him. Even with her smudged kajal and sindoor, she looks like a dream, a dream he is about to lose as it seems. 

"I don't care about all that," he says, tears in his eyes. "I just want to be with you, Sheuli, just you." 

"Agar humare kabhi bacche na huye?" she wails, her voice cracking from the sheer pain she cannot seem to get out. What if we never have children? 

"I don't want to lose you," he sobs, his hand on her cheek, wiping her tears. 

"You'll hate me; you'll hate that you have to care for me, and I give you nothing in return," she insists, sobbing again. 

"I love you," he whispers, crying silently, pulling her closer. 

"Love is not enough. I am not the woman you loved anymore. You're doing this out of some obligation," she whimpers. 

"Sheuli, do you not know me at all?" he asks, appalled. 

"I know how it'll go five years down the road," she says softly. "Rose-tinted glasses are obstructing your CBI instincts." 

"I love you, Sheuli, yeh kyu nahi samajhti?" he asks desperately. ...why don't you understand that? 

"Then let me have my dignity and let me go," she says softly. He does not say anything further; he knows she has made her decision and he cannot stop her. Not in good faith anyway. Of course, he could force her to stay, not sign the papers, claim she is unstable in court; separation would be off the table. But alas, he does love her. Very dearly.

Present day 

That night, he lies awake in bed, staring at the ceiling; the curtains are drawn, the room is pitch black. He had dropped her off at her flat from the hospital. In fact, he had stayed behind to cook and meal prep a couple of meals for her in case she was in too much pain to cook. She always insists she does not need him, but he worries for her anyway, does not enjoy the fact that she lives alone, and fears for a day when she might faint or be in too much pain to even move.

He turns to lie on his side, turning on some playlist on shuffle. The first few chords are enough to send chills down his spine. Protima loves this song, specifically the acoustic version—Hairye Jawar Gaan by Anupam Roy. He knows the lyrics by heart because of how often she used to play it on the grammophone; she loved music in general, Bengali classics always played in the house as soon as the sun set and until dinner had been served. He walks down memory lane whenever he is alone because he loves running into her; he thinks, taking her into his arms and spinning her around until she laughs. The way she used to make him laugh. 

Often, she would take his hands and dance with him in the living room, her georgette and silk saris swaying under the ocean breeze, her infectious laughter. He would be entirely enamoured every time, fully believing it was her world that he lived in because no matter how tired he was, the moment she would pull him into the space of the living room, he would come alive, all to make her happy. When she had left him, it had not been as if he had just lost his wife; his life had been split into two. With Protima and Without Protima. They had grown up together in the same neighbourhood, in the same school, in the same college, in the same university. And she had been right today; before he had been her boyfriend and then her husband, he had been and still is her best friend. 

Ofc lmk if you want to be added or removed from the taglist, wouldn't want to spam anyone.

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[goodasaysboo]

All of them at the same time pls ✋✋✋

[angelllk1ssed]

WARNING: This fictional content is intended for adult audiences only (18+). It contains explicit sexual depictions and mature themes, including:

(Power Imbalance,BDSM & Restraint,Rough & Aggressive Intimacy,Public Exposure)

𐙚

The city was a blur of neon through the rain-slicked windshield of the unmarked police cruiser.

Dev had pulled into a secluded construction lot under the bypass, the heavy concrete pillars shielding them from the prying eyes of the midnight patrol.

Dev reached for the heavy tactical belt at his waist, the metallic clink-clink of the standard-issue steel handcuffs echoing sharply against the fogged-up glass. your fingers touched the Kevlar of his vest.

He didn't ask. He grabbed your wrists, pulling them together and snapping the cold, biting metal shut.

The sound of the ratchets locking was final—a cold, professional click that signaled your total loss of agency.

He raised your hands over your head, hooking the chain of the cuffs over the sturdy adjustable headrest of the passenger seat.

He was still in uniform (white shirt and those charcoal trousers), the fabric of his tactical shirt tight across his chest, the metallic clink of his belt a constant reminder of the authority he usually wielded.

But right now, his only focus was you, sitting in the passenger seat, breathless and trembling.

"Officer, we shouldn't... anyone could drive past," you whispered, though your hand was not resisting, and letting him do anything with you.

Dev didn't say a word. He reached over, his large hand cupping the back of your neck to pull you toward him.

"The windows are tinted, and I’m the only one who patrols this sector tonight," he rasped, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.

"I’ve spent twelve hours in this car thinking about the way you looked when I left the house this morning. I’m not waiting until I get home."

The engine was still idling, a low hum that vibrated through the floorboards, matching the restless energy radiating from Dev.

Dev didn't wait for the rain to let up. He reached over, unlocked your door, and hauled you out into the night.

The cold monsoon rain hit your skin like a shock, drenching your hair and making your clothes cling to your curves in seconds.

Dev’s grip on your bicep was a band of iron, his knuckles white.

He didn't care about the mud or the splashing gravel under his boots.

He marched you to the rear of the cruiser and yanked the heavy door open.

"Get in," he growled, the command leaving no room for negotiation.

He shoved you inside, the vinyl of the backseat cold and slick against your wet skin.

The back of a police cruiser is built for one thing: containment. There were no handles on the inside of the doors, no way to roll down the windows.

You were in a cage, and the predator was climbing in after you.

He slammed the door shut, plunging the cabin into a heavy, suffocating darkness.

The only light came from the red and blue glow of the dashboard reflecting off the concrete pillars of the bypass.

He looked less like a protector of the law and more like a man who had finally decided to break it.

"You think you’ve seen the worst of me?" he whispered, his voice vibrating in the small, enclosed space.

"You haven't seen anything until I have you where you can't run."

He didn't waste time.

He grabbed your wrists—still red from the front seat—and snapped the cuffs back on, but this time he pulled your arms behind your back.

The position forced your chest out, making you arch helplessly toward him.

He didn't fully undress; there was something intensely primal about the way he remained half-clothed, the rough texture of his attire rubbing against your bare thighs.

He didn't undress you. He simply hiked your skirt up and tore through the lace of your underwear.

The sound of the fabric ripping was drowned out by a crack of thunder outside.

"Dev, please... it's so cold," you whimpered, your cheek resting against the seat.

"I’ll warm you up," he rasped.

He entered you with a sudden, violent surge that made the car rock on its heavy-duty suspension.

There was no slow build-up this time. In the back of that car, he wasn't Officer Dev Verma; he was a man taking what he had earned.

He gripped your hips, his fingers digging into the flesh of your waist to stabilize his thrusts.

The sex was loud and visceral. Every time he drove into you, your forehead bumped against the door, the metallic thud echoing the rhythm of his hips.

The handcuffs jingled behind your back, a constant, sharp reminder that you were his prisoner.

Dev was relentless.

He used the limited space to his advantage, pinning you against the corner of the seat so you had no choice but to take the full depth of him.

He was breathing like a marathon runner, his sweat mixing with the rainwater dripping from his uniform onto your back.

"Tell me," he hissed, leaning down to bite the back of your neck.

"Tell me you're never going to forget the feel of this car."

"Never... I'm yours... Dev, please!"

He reached around, his hand finding your throat, not to choke but to hold you steady as he hit his peak.

He didn't slow down for your climax; he drove you through it, his movements becoming frantic and heavy.

When he finally broke, he let out a jagged, muffled roar against your shoulder, his weight crushing you into the seat as he emptied himself into you.

He reached out and turned you around, his thumb tracing the line of the cuffs before sliding down to your throat.

"You look exactly where you belong," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative baritone he used when he was breaking a witness.

"Pinned down. Handcuffed. Under the thumb of the law babe."

To say you weren't out of breath would be an underestimate, but he... on the other hand all fined up for 4-5 rounds more.

Your hands were bound above you, your chest was arched, making every touch of his tongue feel electric.

This time he moved with agonizing slowness, his mouth trailing fire from your neck to the peak of your breast, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin while you could do nothing but writhe beneath him.

Dev began to unbutton your blouse, his fingers steady despite the dark hunger in his eyes.

He peeled the fabric back, exposing your skin to the cool air of the car’s interior.

His mouth followed, his tongue tracing the line of your collarbone with agonizing slowness. He watched how his cum leaking out.He didn't rush. He wanted to savor the transgression.

"You're so soft," he murmured against your skin, his hand sliding down to your waist.

"Such a contrast to everything else in my life."

He couldnt help himself and guided himself to your entrance again, he paused.

He looked into your eyes, his gaze heavy with a possessive, almost manic heat.

"Tell me you can't go anywhere," he commanded.

"I... I can't move, Dev. I'm stuck," you whimpered, the metal jingling as you tried to adjust.

"Good girl."

He lifted you, guiding your hips until you were positioned beneath him.

When he entered in you again, it wasn't the explosive violence of his like a while ago. He took his white shirt off.

It was a slow, deliberate sink.

He pushed into you inch by inch, his eyes locked onto yours, watching your pupils blow wide as you took his full length.

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

"I want you to remember exactly where you are. In my car. Under my watch."

He began to move, a slow and punishing grind.

The car swayed gently this time on its suspension with every deep, rhythmic thrust.

Because of the limited space, every sensation was magnified—the heat of his chest against yours, the scent of the rain outside, the last orgasm and the overwhelming feeling of being completely occupied by him.

He reached down, his thumb finding your center and applying a heavy, steady pressure that synchronized with his movements.

You were weeping now, you're beyond gone from the last orgasm and this.... This is a torture. The pleasure building in a slow, agonizing climb.

The clinking of the handcuffs became the metronome for the sex—a sharp, metallic chime that matched the thud of his hips against yours.

He used his hands to grip your thighs, spreading them so wide it ached, forcing you to take him deeper than ever before.

He wasn't just fucking you like a while ago; he was processing you.

He was putting his mark on you with the same cold efficiency he used to book a suspect, but with a fire in his blood that was purely for you.

Every time you tried to reach for him, the cuffs snapped you back, reminding you of exactly who held the key.

He didn't speed up like a while ago.

He kept the pace slow and torturous, watching the way your body buckled under the pleasure.

"Dev... please... more," you sobbed, your head thrashing against the headrest.

"Slow," he grunted, his jaw tight.

"We have all night. I want to feel every part of you."

He pushed your legs up over his shoulders, opening you further, allowing him to bottom out with every stroke.

The intensity shifted from slow to relentless.

He was a man used to control (a while ago), but here at this moment, in the dark of his cruiser, he was letting the control slip, his movements becoming more visceral, his breath hitching as he felt you tightening around him.

Only when you were screaming his name into the damp air of the car did he let his own control snap.

"Please, Dev... now... I'm close," you cried out, your head thrashing against the seat.

As you reached the peak soon again, the windows began to fog from the heat of your bodies.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his hands tightening on your waist as he delivered three final, devastating thrusts that left you both shattered.

Dev let out a guttural, pained sound as his own release hit again, his body locking against yours.

He held you there, his face buried in your neck, the sound of your shared breathing the only thing louder than the rain hitting the roof of the car.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the rain and the slow tick-tick of the cooling engine.

Dev stayed on top of you for a long moment, his chest heaving. He didn't reach for the key immediately.

He liked the sight of you like this—marked by his body and bound by his steel.

He leaned up, kissing your forehead with a jarringly soft tenderness before finally reaching for the small silver key on his belt.

"I should leave you like this," he whispered, the dark smirk returning as the cuffs finally fell open. "So I can find you exactly where I left you."

𐙚

'the edit.... had to edit myself from the edit'

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fan fiction based on the characters and setting of the 2017 film Ittefaq. The narrative, character arcs, and specific plot developments within this version are products of creative imagination and are intended for entertainment purposes only.

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 , @darkstrawberrypirate , @bitchy-bi-trash , @cloudmast , @theoracleofocean , @mariaaysbusjs , @dumbestchaos , @draculauras-stuff @lanalove0 , @kidofmisfortune , @wan2bey-n 💌

[vakalatnelagadiye]

Akshaye's bts from Ittefaq's poster shoot. He looks so kasainuma tasty guys, could devour him right away 😋☝🏼

[golgappalicious]

cr: borehorhayr

Khanna sahab needs to stop (don't stop) with his streak of highly intellectual, hard to gauge characters because they require intense study to write but also make for the best plots.

WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH HIM AHHHHH HE IS SO ZESTY 😞🔥🔥