Jamais Vu ::

Kabhi kabhi Aditi zindagi mai yunhi koi apna lagta hai....♡

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ೃ༄ Major Iqbal ♤

Jaha Tum Ho

Hum Teen

Aapki aankhon mein

Barish ke din

Adhoore lamho ki raat

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ೃ༄ Uzair Baloch ♤

Jo Reh Gaya

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note:

I mostly write when i’m overthinking or avoiding something important so… enjoy that energy!!

Major Iqbal x Reader

Disclaimer :- The fic is about the fictional version of Major Iqbal (played by Arjun Rampal) not the real life person. I am not romanticizing the real individuals or supporting the real event, this is purely fictional storytelling.

Summary :- A day full of interruptions turns into a night they finally get to keep for themselves.

Word count :- 1.6k words

Warning — heavy tension, suggestive scenes, implied smut.

A/N :- First time writing suggestive content so feedback is welcome (be gentle plz)

1. Morning — Almost Too Far

The rain paints the world in slow strokes, a morning meant for tangled limbs and stolen hours. You wake to the drum of droplets against glass and the heat of Iqbal’s chest pressed to your back, his arm already slung possessively over your waist.

“Uth gayi?” His voice is rough, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your kurta to trace the dip of your hip.

You don’t answer. Just arch into his touch, a silent go on.

Iqbal doesn’t need permission twice. He rolls you onto your back in one fluid motion, his knee coming in between your legs as his mouth crashes into yours. There’s no gentleness here, just hunger. His tongue swipes past your lips, swallowing your gasp as his hand palms your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple through the fabric.

“Iqbal—” You claw at his shoulders, as he’s already dragging your kurta up, his mouth following the exposed collarbone, the trembling valley between your breasts—

“Iss ghar mein koi uthta bhi hai ya nahi?!”

The shout from Brigadier Jahangir from the living room freezes him mid-motion. His chest heaves against yours, lips still hovering over your perked nipple.

“…ignore karo,” he grits out, but his fingers dig into your thigh, frustrated.

“Subah ke 8 baj baye hai—”. Yet another scream from the living room.

"Nahi uthi toh pura Ghar sar par utha lenge". You say in a frustrated tone, as you try to wriggle your way out.

He doesn’t let go. Not fully. Just sinks his teeth into your neck claiming, before wrenching away with a groan, as he watches you leave.

2. Late Morning — Worse

The kitchen reeks of interrupted desire. You’re chopping vegetables with unsteady hands when Iqbal steps behind you.

“Akeli ho?” His breath ghosts over your ear as his hands slide around your waist then lower. One palm presses flat to your stomach, pushing you flush against the counter’s edge while the other slips boldly beneath your salwar.

“Iqbal—Sofia aa jayegi—”

“Nahi aayegi,” he murmurs, fingers skimming lower to his desired destination.

You reach back to swat him, but he just laughs softly, his hands gripping your hips to keep you still. He buries his nose in the crook of your neck, lips grazing the delicate skin there as his other hand inches lower, teasing the edge of your underwear. You shiver partly from his proximity, partly from the prospect of getting caught. He must sense it. He chuckles again, low and smug.

"Agar tumhari awaaz sunegi, toh woh zaroor aa jayegi." he murmurs against your ear.

His fingertips press dangerously close to where you ache, but he doesn’t give you what you want. Not yet. Just traces slow, torturous circles high enough to make your breath hitch, low enough to leave you squirming.

You bite your lip, nails digging into the countertop. "Bas wo—"

"Nahi," he interrupts, voice low. "Abhi nahi."

And then—

Footsteps.

He tears himself away just as Sofia rounds the corner, her eyes flicking between you both. She bows slightly acknowledging Iqbal before turning to you.

 "Bibi, khane mai aur kuch banana baki hai kya?"

Your face burns with embarrassment as you answer.

"Roti bana de zara," you say as you turn to continue your work.

Iqbal steps back, expression schooled into indifference but the look he shoots you promises this isn’t over.

3. Before He Leaves — Almost Breaking Point

The doorway becomes a battleground. Iqbal stands at the doorway as he pins you against the wall, one hand cradling your jaw while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise.

“Aane mein late hoga kya?” you whisper, already breathless.

His answer is a kiss that steals reason, all tongue and teeth and suppressed frustration from hours of interruptions. When he pulls back, his pupils are blown black. “Pata nahi".

You whimper, arching into him—

Then—

“Abbu!”

Mehr’s voice snaps the tension like glass. Both of you pull away immediately. Iqbal exhales sharply through his nose before adjusting himself subtly and then smiles at Mehr.

"Allahafiz" he say quietly to both you and Mehr before walking to his car.

4. Night — No More Interruptions

The house finally sleeps. Rain blurs the world beyond your bedroom as Iqbal crowds you against the door the moment it clicks shut.

“Abhi… koi disturb nahi karega,” you breathe.

His answering smirk is feral. “Pakka?”

You nod.

That’s all he needs.

In three strides, he has you on the bed, his body covering yours completely. His mouth is everywhere, your neck, your collarbone, the frantic pulse at your wrist each kiss a brand. When his fingers hook into the waistband of your salwar, 

“…finally,” you whisper.

He lets out a quiet breath, something more of relief.

“Haan,” he murmurs.

The last coherent word either of you speaks for hours. Dawn finds the sheets tangled at the foot of the bed, your body curled into his, and his arm slung possessively over your waist. The rain has stopped. The world finally feels at peace.

P.s :- The text dividers have been taken from pinterest.

Taglist :- @pleasetagmejaaneman @humsafarhumhihai @miraclejin1204 @budugu @cakiebleh @seasonofthenerd @mango-dolly @goodnightkatherine @anxiousbeeing @cloudyparadoxqueen @wanderingangelinsight @mango-dolly

Major Iqbal x Reader

Disclaimer:- The fic is about the fictional version of Major Iqbal (played by Arjun Rampal) not the real life person. I am not romanticizing the real individuals or supporting the real event, this is purely fictional storytelling.

Summary :- On a stormy morning, Major Iqbal insists on going to work despite the heavy rain but for some reason he’s forced to stay back. What follows is an unexpectedly soft day at home, filled with small moments, playful chaos, and quiet warmth.

Rain had been falling all night, steadily like the sky had decided it wasn’t stopping anytime soon. You wake up to the sound of it. The windows slightly misted, the air cooler than usual, the faint smell of wet earth drifting inside.

And the other side of the bed, empty. Of course.

You sigh, pushing the blanket aside and stepping out, already knowing where he’d be. Iqbal stands near the mirror, adjusting his watch, uniform crisp as always, as if the storm outside had nothing to do with him.

“Aap seriously jaa rahe hai?” you ask, leaning against the doorframe. He glances at you through the mirror.

“Office hai,” he replies simply.

You walk further in, folding your arms.

“Office kal bhi hoga,” you say.

“Yeh baarish kal nahi hogi.”

He ignores that. Focuses on straightening his sleeve instead.

“Aapko dikh nahi raha bahar kya ho raha hai?” you press on.

“Raat se baarish ho rahi hai. Road ka kya haal hoga—”

“Manage ho jaayega,” he cuts in calmly.

You stare at him.

“Of course. Aapke liye sab manage ho jaata hai,” you mutter.

He almost smiles. Without responding, he picks up his files and walks past you toward the dining area. You follow behind him quietly.

Sofia is already there, placing a cup of chai in front of him, she nods politely before stepping aside. Iqbal sits, picking up the cup like this is any other morning. Like the sky isn’t literally falling outside. Right on cue a loud crack of thunder echoes through the house.

You pause. Look at him. He doesn’t react.

“Suna aapne?” you ask.

“Haan,” he replies, taking a sip.

“Aur?”

“Aur kuch nahi.”

You blink. Before you can respond small footsteps echo behind you.

Mehr appears, rubbing her eyes, hair slightly messy, blanket still clutched in one hand.

“Ammi…” she murmurs. You soften immediately.

“Aao,” you say, bending slightly. “Uth gayi meri bachchi?”

She nods, then looks toward Iqbal.

“Abbu kaha jaa rahe hai?” she asks. Iqbal glances at her.

“Office beta,” he replies.

Mehr frowns.

“Baarish ho rahi hai,” she says, like it’s the most obvious argument in the world. You try very hard not to smile.

“Exactly,” you say, pointing at her like see?

Iqbal exhales quietly.

“Baarish se kaam rukta nahi,” he says.

Mehr walks closer to him.

“Mat jao,” she says simply.

And that makes him pause. Just for a second. He looks at her properly now.

“…jaana toh padega,” he says, but it’s softer this time.

Mehr doesn’t argue. Doesn’t insist. Just nods slowly and sits beside him. That’s worse. You watch his expression shift.

Before the moment can stretch a knock comes from the door. Iqbal looks up. His driver stands there, slightly drenched, clearly having rushed.

“Major sahab,” he says, a bit hesitant.

“Saare rasto par paani bhar gaya hain. Gaadi le jaana mushkil hoga.”

Silence. You raise your brows slowly. Turn toward Iqbal.

“Oh,” you say, trying and failing to sound neutral.

“Ye toh problem ho gayi.”

He gives you a look. You ignore it.

“Areyy aap fikr na kare,” you add sweetly, turning to the driver.

“Major sahab toh phir bhi jayenge. Zarurat padi toh boat le lenge.”

The driver freezes. Iqbal closes his eyes for a brief second.

“…theek hai,” he says finally, standing up.

“Aaj nahi jaa raha.”

You blink. That was easier than expected.

“Achha?” you say, clearly enjoying this.

“Aap nahi jaa rahe?”

He gives you a look.

“Zyada khush mat ho.”

Too late. Mehr smiles. A proper one this time. And just like that the entire mood of the house changes. The rest of the morning is slower. No rushed footsteps. No constant checking of time.

Instead, Mehr drags him toward the living room.

“Abbu chalo drawing kare,” she says, holding onto his hand.

“Meri shehzadi, office nahi ja raha iska matlab ye nahi ki ghar pe rehe kar file nahi padh sakta,” he replies automatically.

“Aaj rehene de, waise bhi bohot dino ke baad aap ghar par hai,” you cut in, dropping onto the sofa. He looks at both of you. Then sighs.

“Thik hai, bas thodi der.”

That “thodi der” turns into much longer. The whole afternoon was spent drawing and playing with little Mehr.

Mehr laughs when the block structure she made collapses.

“Abbu ne giraya!” she accuses.

“Maine haath bhi nahi lagaya tha,” he defends immediately.

“Jhoot,” you say from the side.

He looks at you aghast.

“Tum bhi?”

You shrug.

“Ha toh? Maine dekha aapko.”

He didn’t even do anything. But somehow he still loses the argument. At some point, Mehr climbs onto his lap, fully claiming her spot. He adjusts without thinking, one arm steady around her. And for once he’s not in a hurry to move.

By evening, the rain hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s heavier now. Mehr dozes off eventually, right there between both of you. Her head resting partly on his lap.

Sofia quietly brings chai again and places it near you leaving without a word. You pick up a cup and hand the other to him carefully.

“Dekha,” you murmur softly, looking toward the window.

“Ek din ghar pe rehne se kuch nahi hota.”

He takes the cup.

“…haa,” he says after a pause.

Outside the rain continues, steady and endless.

You lean back slightly, sipping your chai, he does the same. Neither of you speak again. Because you don’t have to, the calm feeling in the moment felt more rewarding than anything.

Major Iqbal x Reader

Disclaimer :- The fic is about the fictional version of Major Iqbal (played by Arjun Rampal) not the real life person. I am not romanticizing the real individuals or supporting the real event, this is purely fictional storytelling 

Summary :- After a long, exhausting day, Major Iqbal returns home carrying more in his mind than he lets on. Sensing the weight he refuses to voice, his wife gently pulls him out of it. What begins as a simple attempt to distract him turns into a tender moment. For a little while, the world fades away, and Iqbal is left with a single, grounding thought no matter how heavy life gets, he has her.

Word count :- 1.2k words

The house is finally quiet. The kind that settles after a long day, like everything is slowly exhaling. Iqbal sits on the edge of the sofa, shoulders slightly slumped, fingers loosely interlocked, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the room. He’s been like this since he came home. Present. But not entirely here.

You watch him for a moment from the doorway. The way his jaw tightens unconsciously. The way his thumb keeps rubbing against his knuckle, something he only does when his mind won’t stop.

“Iqbal…”

He looks up immediately. That part never changes. No matter how far his thoughts drift he always comes back when it’s you.

“Haan?” His voice is softer now, but tired. You walk toward him slowly, stopping just in front of where he sits.

“Kitni der se dekh rahi hoon,” you say, tilting your head slightly.

“Ghar aa gaye hai aap… lekin dimaag abhi bhi wahin hai.”

A faint, almost apologetic smile touches his lips.

“Thoda sa,” he admits.

“Thoda sa?” you raise a brow, a small teasing smile forming.

“Mujhe lag raha hai pura ka pura wahin reh gaya hai.”

That earns a quiet huff from him. “Aadat hai,” he says after a pause.

“Band nahi hoti itni easily.” You nod. Of course it doesn’t. His life doesn’t allow easy switches. But still you step a little closer.

“Aaj ke liye try kijiye,” you say gently.

“Bas thodi der ke liye. Mujhe de dijiye.” He looks at you, confused for a second.

“Kya?”

“Yeh sab,” you gesture vaguely toward his head, his thoughts, the weight sitting on his shoulders. “Worries. Stress. Sab.” A pause. Then a small, tired smile.

“Tum le logi?” he asks quietly.

“Main sambhaal lungi,” you reply just as softly. Something in his expression shifts. You extend your hand toward him. “Uthiye.” He glances at your hand. Then back at you.

“Kyun?” There's the faintest hint of suspicion now. “Bas uthiye,” you insist, a little grin slipping through. He exhales softly but places his hand in yours anyway. You pull him up. He stands close now. For a second, neither of you says anything.

Then, softly almost like you’re testing the air you begin:

“aapki aankhon mein kuch…”

He freezes.

“…mehke hue se raaz hai…”

Your voice isn’t perfect. It doesn’t need to be. Because this isn’t performance. It’s home.

Iqbal watches you, something softer replacing the tension in his eyes.

“Yeh kya kar rahi ho tum?” he asks, but there’s no real resistance in his voice. You smile, stepping closer.

“Aapko distract kar rahi hoon,” you say simply.

“Cooperate kijiye, Major sahab.” That almost makes him laugh.

“aapse bhi khoobsurat…”

You gently take his other hand, placing it at your waist. He stiffens for a second. Then relaxes.

“…aapke andaaz hai…”

“Mujhe dance nahi aata,” he murmurs.

“Jhoot,” you say immediately.

“Bas try nahi karte aap.”

You sway slightly, guiding him with you. At first, he follows awkwardly. But then slowly he adjusts. His grip steadies. His steps match yours. And for the first time since he walked in he looks present.

“Lab hile toh mogre ke…”

You tilt your head, smiling up at him.

“Dekha?” you whisper.

“Aap ghar par aa chuke hai, bas yaha dhyan dijiye ab.”

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh.

“Haan,” he says softly. The room feels smaller now.

“Phool khilte hai kahin…”

You rest your head lightly against his shoulder for a moment as you sway.

“Har baar itna hi mushkil hota hai?” you ask quietly.

“Yeh sab chhod ke aana?” He doesn’t answer immediately.

“Har baar,” he admits after a pause. You nod, like you expected that. Then you lift your head, meeting his eyes again.

“Toh har baar main hoon na,” you say simply.

“Aapko yaad dilane ke liye ki aap sirf Major nahi hai, mere shauhar, Mehr ke aabu bhi hai.”

Something in his gaze softens completely this time. No walls, no distance just him and you. He adjusts his hold on you slightly, pulling you a little closer just enough to say:

stay.

And you do. The song fades into a quiet hum on your lips. The movement slows. But neither of you stop. Because it’s not about the song anymore. It’s about this small, stolen moment where nothing else exists.

After a while, you go quiet. But he doesn’t let go.

“Continue karo,” he murmurs.

You smile softly. “Aap sun rahe the?” you tease.

“Har shabdh,” he replies. There’s a pause. Then, quieter, more honest than before—

“Main lucky hoon,” he says. You blink, slightly surprised.

“Kis baat ke liye?” He looks at you like the answer is obvious.

“Tumhare liye, ki tum mere saath ho.”

You don’t respond immediately, because some things don’t need words. So you just rest your forehead lightly against his. And for once he doesn’t think about anything else. Not work. Not responsibilities. Not the weight he carries outside these walls. Just this. Just you.

And the quiet realization that no matter how heavy the world gets, he has somewhere to come back to. Someone. And maybe that’s enough.

A/N :- I was initially going to post ‘Jo Reh Gaya’ pt 2 but then I felt like it needed more work so I posted this instead. Also would ya’ll be interested in reading a Siyahi x reader fic, i have a basic outline of how i want the story to go but idk if people would actually read it, so please do tell me if ya’ll would be interested. Enjoy <3

The text dividers have been taken from pinterest.

Taglist :- @pleasetagmejaaneman @humsafarhumhihai @miraclejin1204 @budugu @cakiebleh @seasonofthenerd @mango-dolly @goodnightkatherine  

Major Iqbal x reader

Disclaimer:- The fic is about the fictional version of Major Iqbal (played by Arjun Rampal) not the real life person. I am not romanticizing the real individual or supporting the real events, this is purely fictional storytelling.

Summary :- Iqbal takes on a task far more difficult than anything he’s faced before—braiding Mehr’s hair. What starts as a clumsy attempt quickly turns into something softer, filled with quiet determination, small laughter, and unspoken tenderness. In the middle of the mess, the three of you find a moment that feels like home.

Word Count :- 1.6k words

Iqbal had faced interrogation rooms, gunfire, and men twice his size without flinching.

This, however—

“Seedha baitho, Mehr,” he muttered, already sounding like he regretted whatever decision had led him here.

Mehr sat cross-legged on the floor between his knees, her back to him, hair falling in soft waves down her shoulders. For once, she was relatively still, though the occasional sway of her head made his job infinitely harder.

“Aap kya kar rahe ho?” she asked, craning her neck to look back at him.

“Choti,” he replied shortly.

She blinked. “Aapko aati hai?” Iqbal paused. Just for a second. Then, with complete confidence that he did not possess—“Aati hai.”

From across the room, you nearly choked. You were leaning against the cupboard, watching the entire scene unfold with very little intention of interfering. This—this was far too entertaining.

Mehr seemed satisfied with his answer. “Ammi do banati hain,” she informed him helpfully, holding up two fingers. Iqbal stared at her hair. Then at his hands. Then back at her hair.

“Dekhenge,” he said.

That did not sound convincing.

He gathered her hair together awkwardly, fingers fumbling slightly as he tried to separate it into sections. It didn’t help that her hair was soft, slipping through his grip like it had no intention of cooperating.

“Hilna mat,” he warned.

“Mai nahi hil rahi!” she protested immediately, while very much moving.

He exhaled sharply. This was ridiculous. Carefully, he divided her hair into three uneven sections, holding them like they might disappear if he loosened his grip.

“Ab kya?” he muttered under his breath.

You pressed your lips together, watching. He had absolutely no idea what he was doing. One section slipped free. Then another.

“Mehr,” he said, patience thinning, “seedha baitho.”

She huffed. “Aapko nahi aati.” That did it. Iqbal’s grip tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to show he’d taken that personally.

“Aata hai,” he repeated, quieter this time. More stubborn. You raised an eyebrow. Oh, this was going to be good. He tried again, slower this time. Crossing one section over the other, then pausing like he needed to mentally process what came next. His fingers were too big, movements too stiff, nothing about this was natural for him.

“Abbu…” Mehr started again. 

“Chup,” he said automatically, though there was no real harshness in it. She fell silent for approximately three seconds.

Then—

“Ammi jaldi karti hain.”

From your spot, you couldn’t hold it in anymore, you laughed. Soft, but unmistakable. Iqbal didn’t turn immediately. But you saw it, the slight clench in his jaw.

“Hasne ki zarurat nahi hai,” he said flatly. You pushed off the cupboard, walking over slowly. “Main toh bas dekh rahi hoon.”

“Dekhiye,” he replied shortly, not looking at you. “Seekh raha hoon.”

That made you pause. Something about the way he said it, quiet, almost defensive. Not irritation. Just… intent. You softened slightly.

Mehr, completely unaware of the shift, tilted her head again. “Tight mat karna.”

“Hilna mat,” he shot back.

You crouched down beside them now, close enough to see the mess he’d created. Three sections, yes. But none of them even. And somehow he’d already managed to tangle one into the other. You bit back another smile.

“Dikhao,” you said gently, reaching forward. His hands stilled immediately. For a moment, you thought he’d let you take over.

Instead—

“Nahi,” he said. Not harsh. Just firm.

“Mai karunga.”

You leaned back slightly, surprised. Iqbal rarely insisted on things like this. But there was something in his expression now focused, almost stubborn in a quiet way that made you stop.

“Achha,” you said, lifting your hands in surrender. “Kijiye.”

Mehr seemed amused by this shift in power.

“Aapko nahi aati,” she repeated, sing-song now.

Iqbal didn’t respond. He just adjusted his grip, starting again. This time slower. More careful. Crossing one section over the middle,  then the other. Then again. It wasn’t neat. Not even close. But it was… something.

You watched the way his fingers moved now, still unsure, but deliberate. Like he was memorizing the motion with each attempt.

Mehr, for once, stayed still. Maybe she sensed it too. Or maybe she was just curious to see how badly this would turn out. A few strands slipped loose again. Iqbal didn’t stop. He just gathered them back in, adjusting awkwardly.

You could see the effort now. Not just in the braid. But in him. This wasn’t about hair anymore. It was about trying. And for a man like him,  that mattered more than getting it right.

“Ho gaya?” Mehr asked after a while.

“Bas,” he said, though it clearly wasn’t.

One last attempt. He secured the end with a band, fingers fumbling slightly before finally managing it.

Then—

he leaned back. A small exhale leaving him. Done. Mehr immediately reached back, trying to feel it.

“Ruko,” you said, gently catching her hand. “Sheeshe mein dekhte hain.”

You stood, guiding her toward the mirror. Iqbal stayed where he was for a second. Watching. Not moving. You positioned her in front of it, adjusting her shoulders slightly.

“Dekho.”

Mehr’s eyes lit up instantly.

“Do choti nahi hai,” she pointed out.

“Haa ek hi hai,” you agreed softly. She tilted her head, examining it from one side. Then the other. It was uneven.  A little messy. Strands sticking out where they shouldn’t.

But—

“Acchi hai,” she decided finally, with complete certainty. Iqbal’s gaze shifted. Just slightly. You looked at him through the mirror. He was already looking. Not at the braid. At her. And something in his expression softened.  In that quiet, almost invisible way he had.

“Haan?” he asked, voice low. Mehr nodded enthusiastically. “Haan!” That was enough. More than enough.

You turned back to him, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Bura nahi tha,” you admitted. “Thodi aur practice karni padegi.” He exhaled quietly, something close to amusement flickering across his face.

“Zarurat nahi,” he said. “Agli baar do banaunga.”

You blinked. Mehr gasped. “Sach?” He nodded once. Bas. Decision ho gaya. You laughed, shaking your head. “Dekhte hain.” Mehr ran off before anything else could be said, already calling out to Sofia and Bashir to show them her hair.

Her voice faded down the hallway. Silence settled in her place. You stayed by the mirror. Iqbal was still sitting on the floor. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then you walked back over, stopping in front of him. You looked down at him, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips.

“Choti tedhi thi.”

He didn’t even react properly. Just glanced up at you, expression flat.

“Haan toh?”

A beat.

“Meri Mehr ko pasand aayi.”

The way he said it,so matter-of-fact, so sure, made something in you give way. A small laugh slipped out before you could stop it. You shook your head, stepping closer.

“Aap bhi na…”

And before he could respond, you lowered yourself, settling into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. He stiffened for half a second. Then didn’t move at all. You reached for his hand, turning it slightly, inspecting his fingers like you were genuinely evaluating his “skills.”

“Koi nahi,” you murmured, softer now. “Main sikha dungi.”

He huffed quietly. “Zarurat nahi hai.”

You glanced up at him, a small challenge in your eyes.

“Seekhenge nahi toh aur tedhi banayenge.”

“Phir bhi pasand aayegi use.”

That made you pause. Then your expression softened completely this time. You leaned in, pressing a brief, quiet kiss against his cheek.

“Phir bhi,” you whispered, pulling back slightly, “seedhi banana seekh lijiye.”

“Hmm..dekhte hai kitni acchi teacher ho tum” he said as he rested his hand more firmly against yours now. 

A/N :- no thoughts head empty just Iqbal trying to braid his daughter’s hair and taking it way too seriously. Had this idea in my head for a while now so just wrote it.

Uzair Baloch x Reader

Disclaimer :- This work is purely fictional and is based only on the character of Uzair Baloch as portrayed in the film. It is not intended to depict or reference the real-life individual in any way. This story does not romanticize or glorify real-world violence or terrorism, but instead explores a fictional context

Summary :- After Rehman’s death, Uzair is left with nothing but memories that refuse to fade. As grief consumes him, you try to hold him together reminding him of what still remains, even when everything feels lost. Between quiet breakdowns and unspoken pain, love becomes the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

Word Count :- 1k words

The house didn’t feel quiet. It felt abandoned. Uzair hadn’t slept. You could tell before you even saw him, the untouched side of the bed, the door slightly open, the absence that had started to feel heavier with each passing night.

You found him sitting on the floor near the cupboard this time, a football resting loosely beside his leg. That alone made your chest tighten. You didn’t say anything as you walked over, lowering yourself beside him. Close, but not enough to startle him. For a while, he didn’t acknowledge you. His gaze stayed fixed on the ball. Like it held something you couldn’t see.

“Sone nahi aaye?” you asked quietly. He shook his head. Then, almost absently, he nudged the ball forward with his foot. “Yeh…” he said, “bhai laake diye the.”

“Main chhota tha… gali mein khelta tha,” he continued slowly. “Har baar haar jaata tha.” There was the faintest shift in his expression, something softer, distant. “Phir ek din bhai bole… “idhar aa, chal tujhe football sikhata hu.’” Your throat tightened. Uzair let out a quiet, broken huff. “Daant bhi dete the… bolte the, pair seedha rakh, dhyaan rakh… ache se khelna seekhna hai na?.”

His fingers brushed over the ball absentmindedly.

“Aur phir… jab goal karta tha na…” He stopped. His jaw tightened. “…aise khush hote the jaise unhone khud goal kiya ho.”

Silence settled between you, thick and heavy. You could already feel where this was going. But you let him. He needed to go there. “Naieem…” his voice dropped at the name, softer. “jab paida hua tha, tab bhai ne bola “Ise sikhayega na tu football, jaise maine tujhe sikhaya tha?”

You swallowed hard. “Main… aur bhai…” he continued, slower now, like every word weighed something. “dono milke khelte the Naieem ke saath.” A faint, broken exhale left him.

“Chhota sa tha… ball usse badi lagti thi.” For a second there was something like warmth in his voice. Then it disappeared. “Gir jaata tha, baar baar, par fir bhi uthke wapas goal karta tha.” His grip on the ball tightened.

“Ab…” his voice cracked, sharp this time, like it hurt to even say it. “na woh hai… na—” He couldn’t finish. The sentence collapsed in the air between you. You felt something in your chest twist painfully. Uzair leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, one hand pressing against his forehead like he could hold himself together.

“Sab khatam ho gaya,” he said, quieter now. “Sab…” You moved closer immediately, your hand coming up to his arm, steady, grounding. “Uzair…” you said softly. He shook his head.

“Yeh kyu ho raha hai humare saath…” he went on, voice uneven now, spiraling without realizing it. “Pura ghar ab khali lagta hai.”

You reached for his face gently, turning it toward you despite his resistance. “Uzair suno,” you said, firm but soft. “Meri taraf dekho.” He didn’t want to. But he did. His eyes were red now, filled with something heavier than just grief. “Sab khatam nahi hua,” you said quietly. He let out a hollow laugh. “Kya bacha hai?” Everything in that question hurt.

“Faizal.” He stilled. “Faizal hai,” you repeated, softer this time. “Ulfat bhabhi hai.” His gaze dropped immediately. Like that hadn’t even crossed his mind in the way it should have. “Unke liye…” you continued, your hand still steady against him, “tum ho.”

“Faizal ko tumhari jarurat hai,” you said gently. “Jaise tumhe ek waqt Rehman bhai ki zarurat thi.” That landed. You saw it in the way his breathing shifted. In the way his grip on the ball loosened slightly. Uzair closed his eyes. And that’s when he broke. His shoulders dropped, the tension finally giving way as he leaned forward, and this time when you pulled him toward you he didn’t hold back at all.

His head rested against you, his hand gripping your arm like he needed something to stay steady. “Wo yaha hone chahiye the,” he said, voice breaking through every word. “Dono.” You tightened your hold on him. “Pata hai mujhe.”

“Bhabi aur faizal dono ko tumhari jarurat hai, agar tum aise toot jaoge toh Rehman bhai ka badla kaun lega,” you whispered softly. After a while, his breathing slowed, though his grip on you didn’t loosen. You let your hand move gently through his hair, grounding him, steadying him, the only way you could.

Uzair’s hand slowly fell away from you, not in rejection but in withdrawal. “Mai bhai ko nahi bacha paaya, par mai SP Aslam ko zinda nahi chodunga, usse mai–”

“Pehle Rehman bhai ko theek se ruksat karte hai, uske baad badla” You said reminding him that the funeral was more important than revenge. He didn’t argue. Your words didn’t break him. They anchored him. “Pehle…” he repeated under his breath. Like he was memorising it. Like it was the only thing holding him together. And in that silence, grief remained.

A/N:- Idk how this turned out, but this felt like a moment we should’ve gotten in the movie. Uzair clearly loved his brother and his kids, and the story kind of skips over how they all deal with that loss. Ulfat and Faizal just disappear after the funeral, and that never sat right with me, so this is me trying to explore that.

P.s :- The text dividers have been taken from pinterest

Dhurandhar : The Revenge Spoilers!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Summary :- It’s just another night in a house that has never known kindness. A father who wounds, a daughter who doesn’t understand, and a man caught somewhere in between. But behind closed doors, in the quiet moments that follow, something softer begins to take shape. Because sometimes, love isn’t loud it’s simply choosing to stay.

Word Count :- ~ 2 k words

Disclaimer:- This fic is about the fictional version of major iqbal (as portrayed on screen by Arjun Rampal), not the real-life person. i’m not romanticizing or supporting real events or individuals this is purely fictional storytelling.

A/N :- Never in my life have I ever written fanfics. I just felt like there were very little or no fanfics at all about major Iqbal from Dhurandhar : The Revenge, so I wanted to try writing. Please y’all don't judge me if this isn't good enough just wanted to get this idea outta me. Also i dont think his daughters name was mentioned in the movie so i just gave her a name. Enjoyyy!!!!!!!!!!

The door clicked open with a quiet finality. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to. The room had already shifted, the air tightening, as if it recognized him before you allowed yourself to. “Aa gaya tu, Major?”

The voice came sharp and precise from across the room. Brigadier Jehangir never raised his volume unnecessarily. He didn’t have to. Every word carried enough weight to land exactly where it hurt. You kept your eyes on the paper in front of your daughter.

“Ye aap hai?” you murmured softly. She nodded, smiling to herself, crayon pressed too hard against the page. Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Familiar. He didn’t respond. He never did.

Instead, Major Iqbal crossed the room and lowered himself beside her, the stiffness in his shoulders easing just slightly.

“Areyy waah meri shehzadi, jara humein bhi dikhana kya banaya hai.”

Your daughter lit up instantly, turning the paper toward him like it was the most important thing in the world. “Ye aap hai, ye mai hu, ye ammi hai aur ye daadu,” she said, a little uncertain, a little proud.

A crooked circle. Stick limbs. A line that might’ve been a smile.

He looked at it longer than necessary.“Hmm,” he said quietly. “Bohot acha banaya hai.” From behind you, a dry scoff. “Ha aapke liye toh acha hoga hi, baki aata kya hai iss ladki ko.”

Your fingers tightened just slightly around the edge of the paper. You didn’t turn. You had learned a long time ago, acknowledgment was fuel. Silence was survival.

“Tujh jaise bhadwe se baat bhi kya karna, pota toh de na saka,” Jehangir continued, voice laced with disdain. “Aur jo diya hai woh bhi—”

You shifted before he could finish, gently adjusting your daughter’s hand.

“Beta, yaha ek acha sa garden banaogi??” you said softly. “Yaha ammi abbu ke peeche.”

For a moment, the words hung in the air anyway. Unsaid, but never unheard. Iqbal’s jaw tightened. Just once. Then his hand moved steady, deliberate covering his daughter’s smaller one as he guided the crayon across the page.

“Aise yaha phool banana,” he murmured.

“Areyy uss ladki ko achese bolna toh sikaho, 8 saal ki hai aur abhi bhi dhang se baat nahi kar sakti ye nikammi ladki, meri nasl ko barbaad kar diya tumne, ek layak waaris tak paida nahi kar sake.”

The words came again. Sharp. Repetitive. Like they always did. “Ya woh bhi jyada ho jayega humari bahu ke liye” He said in a sarcastic tone.

You didn’t let him finish this time. Not because you hadn’t heard it before. But because she had. You stood up quietly, already reaching for your daughter’s hand. “Chalo beta,” you said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“Aaj ammi aapko room mai khana khilayengi.”

She looked up at you, confused for a second, then nodded, trusting, always trusting. You didn’t spare a glance toward Brigadier Jehangir. You had learned long ago, he didn’t deserve one. His voice followed anyway. Louder now.

“Areyy wahh bhaag rahi ho? Waise bhi aur kya hi aata hai iss ghar ki—”

The door to the bedroom closed behind you before the sentence could land.

Outside, the words didn’t stop. They never did. For a moment, nothing happened. Major Iqbal stood up. Not rushed. Not angry. Just… done. He walked past the table, past the scattered silence, and stopped beside his father’s wheelchair. The older man didn’t pause. Didn’t falter.

“Ab kya? Tu bhi bhaag jayege? Saale bhadwe, namard kahika”

Iqbal’s hand rested on the back of the chair. Firm. “Bas.” One word. Low. Final. It didn’t sound like a request. For the first time, the room stilled. But not for long.

“Warna kya?” The familiar challenge. The same old test. Iqbal didn’t answer. He simply turned the wheelchair. The wheels moved across the floor, the sound steady, unhurried, until it stopped at the doorway of the older man’s room.

A pause. Just a second. Then he pushed the door open, guided the chair inside, and stepped back. The protests came then, louder, sharper, edged with something unfamiliar. Not power. Something closer to… being denied it. Iqbal closed the door. And locked it. The click was soft. But it echoed anyway.

When he entered the bedroom, the world felt different. Quieter. Warmer. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, feeding your daughter slowly, patiently, like nothing outside that door existed.

For a moment, he just stood there,watching. “Aapko woh karne ki jarurat nahi thi.” You didn’t look up when you said it. “Jarurat thi.” His voice was quieter now. Not controlled. Just… tired. You finally glanced at him then. “Wo rukenge toh nahi,” you said gently.

“Aapko pata hai na?” “Pata hai.” A pause. Then, softer,

“Par iska matlab ye nahi ki meri beti ko ye sab sunna pade.” Something in your chest shifted at that. You held out the bowl toward him without thinking. “Lijiye.” He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then stepped forward, taking it from your hands. Your daughter smiled instantly. “Abbu.”

The word landed differently here. He sat beside her, carefully, like the moment required precision. You watched them for a second longer than you meant to.

“Tumhe pata hai na ki tumhe aur Mehr ko yaha rukne ki jarurat nahi hai, mai akela rehe lunga Brigadier ke saath” he said again, quieter this time. This time, you did smile. Slightly. “Aur tumhe akela chodh du iss buddhe ke saath?” His grip on the spoon stilled. “Mai yaha sirf tumhare liye ruki hu Iqbal, muje iss ghar mai koi dilchaspi nahi hai” you added, softer now.

Iqbal stayed quiet and continued feeding Mehr. The night settled slowly around the house. For once, it didn’t feel heavy.

Your daughter had fallen asleep curled against him, her small hand still fisted lightly in his shirt, as if even in sleep, she refused to let go. Major Iqbal didn’t move for a long time. Not until her breathing evened out. Only then did he shift carefully, easing her down onto the bed beside you. You adjusted the blanket over her, your fingers brushing his for a brief second, neither of you pulling away immediately. No words. Just that quiet, shared understanding. When he finally lay down beside you, the distance between you wasn’t as wide as it used to be. And sometime between that and morning, sleep came easier.

The house returned to itself with daylight.You woke to the faint rustle of movement. He was already up. Shirt half-buttoned, sleeves rolled just enough, every motion precise, habitual. For a second, you just watched him. Then—

“Aaj jaldi jaa rahe hai aap?.” He glanced at you, nodding once. “Duty.” Of course. Your daughter stirred beside you, mumbling something incoherent before settling again. His gaze softened at that. Just slightly. He stepped closer, adjusting the blanket near her shoulder with a care that didn’t match the rest of him. Then he turned to you.

“Aaj koi kuch nahi bolega.” Iqbal said simply before he left.

In the hallway, his footsteps were steady. Brigadier Jehangir’s door remained shut. At the far end, Bashir stood waiting, as he always did.

“Major.” Iqbal paused. Just for a moment. Then, quieter than expected “Aaj… unhe kamre se bahar mat aane dena.” Bashir hesitated briefly. Not out of defiance but surprise.

“Ji, sahab.” A beat. Then Iqbal added “Aur…” His gaze flickered, just once, toward the closed bedroom door behind him. “Unke paas jaane ki zarurat nahi hai, maine Sofia ko kaha hai wo sab kar legi.”

This time, there was no hesitation. “Ji.”

When the front door closed behind him, the sound didn’t echo the way it usually did. Inside, the house remained quiet. But not empty. Not unguarded. And in the room down the hall for the first time it felt like the silence belonged to you.