Deez Nuts

I do

Trigger Warning: This content contains explicit sexual material including consensual BDSM practices (breath play, knife/gun play, bondage, impact play, orgasm control/denial), power exchange dynamics, dacryphilia (tears as arousal), and elements of danger/violence within sexual contexts. Includes themes of jealousy, possession, and psychological domination. Reader discretion advised.

A — Anal training. Not for degradation — for patience. He likes the months-long process of preparing you, the daily plugs, the gradual stretching, the trust required. It's methodical. He schedules it.

B — Breath play with timing. He doesn't choke randomly; he counts. Knows exactly how many seconds until your vision tunnels, releases you at the precise moment before panic, then enters you while you're still high on oxygen deprivation. It's calculated. Safe. Which makes it more dangerous.

C — Cock warming. He'll stay inside you for hours while he works — laptop on the bed, phone calls, you full and stretched and forbidden to move. You're furniture. A sheath. He'll pet your hair absently while typing one-handed, occasionally rock his hips just to remind you he's there.

D — Dacryphilia — tears as arousal. Not from pain. From frustration. From being edged for three hours until you're sobbing with need, and that's when he finally lets you come, drinking your tears like they're part of the orgasm.

E — Edging with spreadsheets. Literal tracking — how long he can keep you there, your highest record, the exact pressure and rhythm that maintains the plateau. He reviews the data like quarterly earnings, adjusts technique accordingly.

F — Face-fucking with his watch still on. The visual of him fully dressed — cufflinks, belt, the shine of his shoes — while you're naked and gagging. The power differential is the kink. He'll come on his own shirt just to make you clean it with your mouth.

G — Gun barrel temperature play. Cold metal tracing your spine while he's inside you, the safety on, his finger never on the trigger but the threat implicit. He watches you clench around him when the steel hits your entrance.

H — Hair cutting as intimacy. He trims your pubic hair himself, with a straight razor he sharpens beforehand. The vulnerability of a blade there, his concentration, the nick that earns him punishing you for moving.

I — Impact play with precision. He knows exactly how many strikes, where, to leave bruises that bloom like flowers. He maps your body for pain tolerance like he's scouting territory. Each slap is placed with intention.

J — Jealousy extraction. He makes you describe past lovers while inside you, not to humiliate you — to claim the memories. Replaces them stroke by stroke until you can't remember anyone's face but his, anyone's voice, anyone's cock.

K — Knife play at the throat. Not cutting — the flat of the blade, pressure, watching your pulse jump against the steel. He times his thrusts to your heartbeat, accelerating as you panic, slowing as you calm, controlling your biology.

L — Language domination. Switching to Urdu when he's close — guttural, ancient words you don't understand but feel in your cunt. He knows the power of incomprehension, of being reduced to pure sensation without narrative.

M — Marking with semen. Not coming inside when you want it — pulling out to paint you, claim your skin, your face, your breasts. Rubbing it in like lotion, making you wear it under clothes, his scent leaking through fabric all day.

N — Nipple torture with clips and weights. He times the removal — the rush of blood back — with your climax, so pain and pleasure become neurologically indistinguishable. You learn to crave the ache.

O — Orgasm denial as lifestyle. Weeks. He'll fuck you daily, make you serve him, but you don't come. Your pleasure becomes his alone. When he finally permits it — with conditions, with begging, with promises — the release is religious.

P — Praise kink directed at himself. He wants to hear how big he is, how good, how no one else compares. The ego stroke is foreplay. You learn to narrate his body like poetry, and he rewards your worship with deeper thrusts.

Q — Quiet sex as discipline. You're gagged, he's silent, the only sounds are the wet slap of bodies and your muffled whimpers. He maintains eye contact the entire time, watching you lose your mind in the silence.

R — Restraint with his clothes. Silk ties, leather belts, the fabric of his own shirt twisted around your wrists. Using his garments to bind you means he's partially naked too — vulnerability he only shows in this context.

S — Size kink — his hands around your throat, your wrists, your waist. Demonstrating how easily he could break you, choosing not to, the restraint itself becoming the arousal. He measures you against him constantly.

T — Temperature play with tea. Hot liquid sipped, held in his mouth, transferred to yours during kisses. Ice cubes in places that make you shiver, then his tongue warming you. The contrast makes nerves scream.

U — Under his clothes. The kink of concealment — you beneath his kurta, your mouth on him while he stands at the window taking a business call, your body wedged between him and the wall while his cousin discusses logistics in the next room. He doesn't flinch, doesn't break cadence, even as you choke, even as he grows harder against your tongue. The danger of discovery, the mundanity of his tone contrasted with what you're doing — he gets off on the split-screen, the secret, the way he can command armies and your throat simultaneously without anyone knowing.

V — Voyeurism of your own reactions. Mirrors positioned so you watch yourself being taken, your face contorted, your body penetrated. He makes you keep your eyes open, witness your own undoing, learn what you look like in extremis.

W — Whipping with his belt. The one he wore to meetings, to killings. The leather knows his body, now knows yours. He doesn't strike hard enough to scar — hard enough to remember, to feel when you sit, to associate pain with arousal forever.

X — X-frame spread. Wrists up, ankles wide, stretched open while he circles fully dressed. He inspects like you're merchandise, comments on your wetness clinically, makes you beg to be touched before he even unzips.

Y — Yielding control — but only for exactly five minutes. Timed. He submits, lets you ride him, use him, and the moment the time is up, he flips you, punishes you for every second of his vulnerability, fucks you like he's erasing the memory.

Z — Zenith denial — keeping you at 90% of orgasm indefinitely. He knows your body better than you do, can read the muscle tension, the breath rate, the clitoral pulse. He stops exactly before the point of no return, leaves you hovering, desperate, for hours. Your begging becomes his favorite music.

Taglist:

I am conducting research. It would be really helpful if you guys can fill this short survey. I will be highly grateful to you guys.

Soft Rehman?

I see it. I see it.

Xerses Desai (played by Jim) par padhoge kya kuch?

That man has me in a chokehold-

Soon babygirl, soon

Babe I uploaded the third chapter, like, yesterday 😭😭

Summary: You thought you had buried your first love forever, until Uzair Baloch crashed your engagement night, darker and more dangerous than the boy who once promised you the world. Now he’s back to claim you, refusing to let you marry anyone else, even if it means dragging you into his violent, blood-soaked world. You hate him. You crave him. And you’re not sure you’ll survive the poison of loving him again.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

The rain had not stopped for three days. Karachi wept with the sky, streets turned into rivers of mud and reflected neon, as if the city itself mourned the slow death of whatever remained between you and Uzair. Or perhaps it laughed. The monsoon had always been your accomplice once — hiding stolen kisses under leaking rooftops, washing away evidence of trembling hands and whispered sins. Now it felt like judgment.

You hadn’t slept properly since the night he left you drenched on the pavement, his umbrella still clutched in your numb fingers like a surrendered weapon. Ahaan had noticed the shadows under your eyes during lunch yesterday. He had touched your hand gently and asked if you were having second thoughts. You had smiled the way porcelain dolls do — beautifully empty — and told him it was just wedding nerves.

Lies had become your second skin.

But Uzair refused to let you wear them in peace.

He waited for you outside the firm again that evening, leaning against his black SUV like a predator who had grown tired of chasing. The rain plastered his white shirt to his chest, revealing every hard line of muscle earned through violence and survival. His hair clung to his forehead, water tracing paths down his sharp jaw. He looked devastating. He looked ruined.

You tried to walk past him toward the cab stand.

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your arm with that familiar bruising grip. “Get in the car.”

“Not today, Uzair,” you said, voice steadier than you felt. “I’m tired of your games.”

His laugh was low, bitter, cutting through the sound of rain like a knife. “Games? You think this is a game to me?” He pulled you closer until your back hit the side of the car. Cold metal against your spine. Burning man against your front. “You breathe and I feel it in my lungs. You smile at that bastard and something in me dies every single time. This isn’t a game. This is hell.”

Water streamed down both your faces. Your clothes clung transparently. His eyes dropped to the way your blouse had become sheer, then snapped back up with something feral.

“Let me go,” you whispered.

“Never did. Never will.”

He opened the car door and practically shoved you inside. You could have screamed. You could have fought harder. But some broken part of you had been waiting for this collision. The door slammed shut, sealing you both in a world of leather, rain-muffled silence, and eight years of unresolved bloodshed.

The moment the car pulled away from the curb, the storm inside broke.

“You killed us!” The words tore out of you like shards of glass. “You stood there while they dragged my brother away. You knew what they were going to do to him and you said nothing!”

Uzair’s hands tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. The car sped through flooded streets, wipers fighting a losing battle against the downpour.

“I was seventeen,” he said, voice dangerously calm. “My father had a gun to my head — not literally, but close enough. One word from me and they would’ve put a bullet in yours next. So yes. I chose silence. I chose my blood.”

“Your blood?” You laughed, the sound hysterical and wet with tears. “My brother was my blood! He used to carry me on his shoulders. He taught me how to ride a bicycle. And you… you let them slit his throat like an animal.”

The car swerved sharply into an abandoned construction site near the sea. Gravel crunched under the tires as Uzair slammed the brakes. For a moment, only the rain and your ragged breathing filled the space.

Then he turned to you, eyes black with torment.

“I dream about it every night,” he confessed, the words scraping out like they cost him pieces of his soul. “I see his face. I hear him calling your name before they… before it ended. I carry that. Every single day. But you—” His voice cracked. “You want me to rot for it. You want me to watch you marry someone else and pretend I don’t want to burn everything to the ground.”

You were crying now, ugly, angry tears that mixed with the rain still dripping from your hair. “Then burn it! Burn me! Because I can’t live like this anymore — half in love with the monster who destroyed my family.”

Something in him snapped.

Uzair reached across the console, grabbed the back of your neck, and pulled you into a kiss that tasted like destruction. It was all teeth and fury. Tongues fighting more than dancing. You bit his lip again, reopening the wound from the engagement night, and he groaned into your mouth — pain and pleasure twisted together so tightly they were indistinguishable.

You climbed over the console with desperate, clumsy movements, knees straddling his lap. The steering wheel dug into your back. His hands were everywhere — gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks, sliding under your wet blouse, palming your breasts like he wanted to brand himself into your skin.

“I hate you,” you gasped against his mouth, even as your hips rolled against the growing hardness beneath you.

“Good,” he growled, biting down on your collarbone. “Hate me harder.”

Clothes were torn more than removed. Your blouse buttons scattered across the floor of the car. His shirt was ripped open by your frantic fingers. Skin met skin in the confined space, hot and slick with rain and sweat. The windows fogged completely, turning the car into a private coffin for whatever was left of your souls.

Uzair’s mouth trailed fire down your neck, sucking marks that would be impossible to hide tomorrow. When he pushed inside you in one brutal thrust, you cried out — half sob, half moan. The stretch burned. The pleasure destroyed. He filled you completely, not just your body but the aching void you had carried since the day he chose his family over yours.

He moved like a man possessed. Deep, punishing strokes that rocked the entire car. One hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. Every thrust felt like penance and punishment at once.

“Look at me,” he demanded, voice hoarse.

You did. And in his eyes you saw everything — the boy who once promised you stars, the man who had become nightmares, the love so poisoned it could only survive in darkness.

Tears streamed down your face as pleasure built alongside agony. “Why couldn’t you save him?”

“Because I’m weak,” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours, thrusts growing erratic. “Because I’m selfish. Because losing you was the only thing that ever truly terrified me.”

Your release hit you like a wave crashing against rocks — violent, shattering. You clenched around him, sobbing his name like a curse and a prayer. Uzair followed seconds later, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you with a broken groan that sounded like it came from his soul.

For long minutes afterward, you stayed like that — connected, trembling, breathing each other’s pain. His arms wrapped around you tightly, face buried in your neck. You felt his tears against your skin. Silent. Devastating.

“I love you,” he whispered against your throat. “Even when I hate you. Even when you hate me. Especially then.”

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. The words were trapped behind the wreckage in your chest.

Eventually, the rain softened into a gentle patter. Reality crept back in through the fogged windows.

Uzair helped you dress with surprising tenderness, his fingers lingering on every mark he had left. But when you looked at his face, the mask was already sliding back into place — colder, more guarded.

You climbed back into the passenger seat, legs shaky, body aching with evidence of what you had done. He started the car without a word.

The drive to your house was silent except for the occasional sniffle you couldn’t suppress. When he stopped at the end of your street, he didn’t look at you.

“Uzair…”

“Go inside,” he said quietly. His voice was hollow. “Fix your hair. Hide the marks. Marry him if that’s what you need to survive me.”

You wanted to scream at him again. You wanted to beg him to stay.

Instead, you stepped out into the lingering drizzle and walked away without looking back.

But as you reached your gate, you heard the car door open behind you.

You turned.

Uzair stood there in the rain, shirt still open, fresh scratches visible on his chest — marks left by your nails. His eyes were red-rimmed, devastating in their emptiness.

He didn’t say anything. He simply stared at you for one long, agonizing moment, as if memorizing the way you looked after being thoroughly ruined by him.

Then he got back into the car and drove away.

You stood there until the taillights disappeared, rain mixing with fresh tears.

Inside your room, you collapsed onto the bed still wearing your damp clothes. Your body throbbed with reminders of him. Between your legs. On your neck. Deep inside your chest where no one else could reach.

You pressed a hand to your stomach, where his release still lingered warm, and whispered to the empty darkness:

“What are we doing to each other?”

The answer came in the form of another sleepless night, haunted by the ghost of his touch and the terrible truth neither of you could escape.

You were each other’s venom.

And neither of you wanted the antidote.

Taglist:

Elder Boyfriend!Rehman x Bimbo!reader

When your elder boyfriend, Rehman Baloch, summons you to his Lyari safehouse, you show up in a fuchsia saree two hours late and deliberately draped wrong. He doesn't tolerate teasing—but he does enjoy correcting it.

The safehouse above the Lyari market smelled of expensive cologne and old books, the windows shuttered against the Karachi heat. You'd come here on a whim, draped in a saree that cost more than sense—fuchsia silk that caught the dim light like liquid sin, the blouse cut low and tight, your midriff bare where the fabric had slipped. Gold heels clicked against the concrete stairs, hair piled in a messy bun with tendrils escaping, lips glossy and eyes wide in that way that made men think you were theirs to handle.

Rehman Baloch knew better.

He sat behind the desk when you entered, sleeves rolled to his elbows, that famous scar tracing his eyebrow. He looked up slowly, the movement of a man who had never rushed for anyone. His gaze dragged from your painted toes, up the length of silk hugging your hips, to the sliver of bare stomach the saree exposed with every breath you took.

"You're late," he said, voice like gravel smoothed by years of command. Not angry. Just stating fact. "I said seven."

You twirled, just enough to make the pallu flutter, the fabric whispering against your skin. "The traffic was terrible, boss."

His laugh was dry, almost gentle. He stood, moving around the desk with the economical grace of a man who knew his own strength and saw no need to prove it. He stopped inches from you, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. His hand found your waist, bare where the blouse ended, thumb pressing into the soft flesh there with a familiarity that made you shiver.

"Boss," he repeated, tasting the word. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

You let your lower lip tremble, eyes wide and wet, the pallu slipping deliberately from your shoulder. "What should I call you then?"

He didn't answer immediately. His hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, the silk between you doing nothing to hide the heat. "Take that off," he murmured against your hair. "Slowly."

You reached for the waistband where the silk was tucked, but he stopped you, catching your wrists in one hand. "I said slowly. That means you watch me while you do it."

You obeyed, eyes locked on his, pulling the pleats free one by one. The silk hissed against your skin as it unraveled, pooling at your feet until you stood in only the blouse and petticoat, the saree a puddle of pink on the floor. He watched, that famous restraint of his cracking at the edges, his grip tightening on your wrists.

"Good girl," he said quietly, and the praise went straight to your knees.

He led you to the bedroom with a hand at your back, not pushing, just guiding, as if you were something precious that needed direction. The room was sparse, expensive, the sheets imported cotton. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you between his knees, looking up at you with dark eyes that saw everything.

"Turn around."

You did, heart hammering, presenting your back to him. His fingers found the ties of your blouse, pulling the knots loose with frightening expertise, the silk slipping from your shoulders. His mouth found the nape of your neck, teeth grazing just hard enough to mark, one hand sliding around your waist to pull you back against his chest.

"You wear this to tease me," he said, not a question. His hand drifted up, thumb tracing the line of your throat. "You think I don't notice how you drape this saree lower every time. How you bend just so when you know I'm watching."

"I like when you watch," you admitted, breathless.

"I know you do." His other hand found your chin, turning your head so he could see your face. "That's the problem. You like it too much. You'd let anyone look."

"Not anyone," you whispered.

"Prove it."

He turned you then, all patience and command, laying you back into the pillows with your petticoat bunched around your waist and the saree forgotten on the floor. He hovered over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other tracing patterns on your bare stomach.

"Tell me who you belong to," he said softly, dangerously.

"You," you breathed, arching into his touch.

"Say it properly."

"Yours, Rehman. I'm yours."

He made a sound low in his throat, approval and possession, and then he was kissing you, deep and slow, taking his time like he had nowhere else to be. His hands were calloused but they moved over you with care, mapping your body like territory he intended to keep. When he touched you, it was with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what you needed, exactly how to make you beg, exactly when to stop and make you wait.

"Please," you whimpered, tangling your fingers in his shirt.

"Please what, darling?" He was smiling, the bastard, watching you come apart under his hands.

"I need you."

"You have me." He caught your wrists again, pinning them above your head in a grip that was firm but not cruel. "You've had me since you walked in here wearing silk and trouble. Now be patient."

He took his time after that, worshipping you with a focus that felt like gravity, until you were trembling and boneless and his name was the only word you knew. When he finally moved over you, it was with a slowness that was almost cruel, filling you inch by inch while he watched your face, memorizing every expression.

"Look at me," he commanded softly. "Stay right here with me."

You did, eyes locked on his, the world narrowing to the space between your bodies, the weight of him, the way he moved like he had all the time in the world and intended to spend it on you. When you came apart, it was with his name breaking against his mouth, his hand tangled in your hair, his other arm wrapped around your waist like he would never let you fall.

After, he held you against his chest, the saree draped over you like a blanket, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare shoulder.

"You're a mess," he said, but there was affection in it.

"Your mess," you mumbled, half-asleep.

He was quiet for a moment, then pressed a kiss to your forehead. "My mess," he agreed. "Go to sleep. I'll wake you in an hour."

"Bossy," you accused, smiling against his chest.

"Someone has to be," he murmured. "You certainly aren't."

His hand found your chin, tilting your face up for a kiss that was soft and slow and full of promise. You drifted off with his heartbeat under your cheek and his arm heavy over your waist, the silk tangled between you like a treaty.

Thank you!!