Untitled

(Part II)

This fic is in the same universe as my 1st fic, Pehla Pyaar. It was an angst fic, and I had left the ending sad. Recently, I started writing this fic to give my darling Jassi a happy ending (like he deserves). So this fic is for @hajmola-vs-aamchaska, who convinced me to write this with her sweet comments. This started as a one-shot, but this became too big (like most of my one-shots); thus, this is now a miniseries. This is part 2 of the series. Constructive criticism appreciated. This is not beta read, so if you guys find some typos/ errors, please feel free to correct me. Warnings: angst, fluff, identity crisis, multiple identities, unhealed trauma, pain and suffering, first love, second chance at first love, unsaid feelings.

PS: In this universe Zayan doesnot exist. Yalina came to know Hamza's truth a few months into their wedding and Hamza came clean to her. He later sent her to Canada for her medical studies. They were separated officially

Happy reading...

(Author's note: this is a long chapter sorry.. ahh)

(part i)

PART II

Shaurya moved quietly through the corridors; it was one of those nights when sleep did not come. A month had passed since she had come to the academy, and Shaurya had done everything he could to avoid meeting her. It was not like he had to work too closely with her; she was a doctor, so she was mostly present in the medical wing, but he made sure he kept their meetings limited. Never once did they cross paths leisurely. Shaurya had calculated all her movements.

Jassi was bothered. It was quite difficult for him to keep his distance, but he knew he had to draw a line; he had to be far from her presence. She was very perceptive; she had always been, and one slip in his actions would expose his identity, and he could not afford to do that. He was Shaurya, and he had to continue being Shaurya. That was for the good of all. He had seen it in her eyes, how she looked at him when she thought he did not notice. How it often flickered to his green eyes, how she noticed the way he held his pen or how he tucked his shirt. She knew Jassi to his core, but Shaurya, she knew nothing about him. He was a different man; only his eye colour matched Jassi’s, but the darkness in him was far removed from Jassi’s innocence, yet he feared that in a slip of a fraction she might find her Jaskirat somewhere in those darker green orbs of Shaurya Bharadwaj.

It would be a lie if Jassi Shaurya said he did not keep tabs on her. he knew her routine to the core: when she woke up, sent her son to school, sat in the medic wing, had lunch, everything was written like a holy scribe in his mind. Sometimes, when the wildness of Hamza took over, he wanted to take her away to the woods of Uttarakhand, elope from these harsh duties, forget everything and live with her. He wanted her close; his territorial vision spiked whenever he felt her around, but he remembered she had a child. A baby, she named after his real dead identity. A family she built. He had no right; however much he loved her, he had no right to be away from her. He had left her alone for twenty years, and now, suddenly, he wanted to take the family she had created. It was unfair, unjust, and completely deranged, but Hamza seldom did anything fair. He was born to live amongst the dirty to do the dirty. Maybe if not for Shaurya’s voice of reason, he might have gone deranged.

The confused thoughts clouded his mind when he heard soft repeated thuds on the ground. Someone was jumping- maybe an animal, but it sounded like a two-legged jump, but it was too light to be an adult. Shaurya’s instincts spiked as he silently moved towards the corridor overlooking the gardens.

There was a boy, her boy. He was jumping softly from the open area at the edge of the corridor to probably pluck a flower from a creeper which was hanging from the top. It was too high for him, yet he continued.

“What are you doing, son?”

The boy let out a silent scream. He was terrified and almost fell, but Shaurya got hold of his little body.

“Aap itni raat to yahan kya kar rahe hain? Kya main jaan sakta hu?” Shaurya asked as he made little Jassi stand steady in the corridor.

“Sir. Sorry, Sir.” The boy stood straight, like a soldier responding to his commanding officer. His eyes were downcast.

“I did not ask for your apology. I asked for the reason.” Shaurya asked with the softness he seldom used now.

“Woh sir, kal nahi, abhi to aj, Mumma ka birthday hai. So, I wanted flowers for her.” He answered honestly.

Shaurya Jassi knew this; this was the reason he could not sleep. He knew it was her birthday; she was turning 38. Oh, how beautiful she looked; the way age had caressed her gracefully made him breathless. Her eyes were softer now, her face more mature; a motherly vibe had enveloped her presence. She looked more beautiful than what Hamza had even imagined in his dreams. He had once imagined growing older with her, marrying her, having kids with her. In Pakistan, for Hamza, it was a distant dream far removed from the reality he lived in to dull the pain of solitude. It was his fantasy, but now with her so close, that dream spiked again and again. Shaurya knew it was wrong.

Seeing her son trying to get flowers for her reminded him of the time he would search for sunflowers in the fields, secretly and gift them to her. He remembered the glow in her eyes, how she accepted them with a wide smile. Jassi felt his heart ache again. Did she still like sunflowers? Did she still remember him gifting her that?

He looked at little Jassi and asked, “Woh to aap subah bhi le sakte hain?”

“Per phir to Mumma ko pata chal jata. Unke sone ke baad main chup-chup ke aya, it’s a surprise.” Jassi answered in a very low voice.

“I see. But itni raat ko yahan aana sahi nahi hai. Aur aap garden se bhi to flowers le sakte the apni Mumma ke liye. Yahan pe it’s risky, you might have fallen and hurt yourself.” Shaurya patted his head. The boy loved his mother; it put his heart at ease.

“Actually uncle, I mean Sir, Mumma ko sunflowers pasand hain aur yahan pe to sunflowers hain hi nahi, bas yehi flower hain yellow colour ka. To mujhe laga yehi de dunga”

That hit Shaurya Jaskirat. She still loved sunflowers, the same flowers he brought for her twenty years back. Did she still love him? Shaurya’s heart pained for her. His sacrifice for the nation was his greatest duty, but he had no right to leave his loved ones like this, unanswered.

Shaurya cleared his throat and said, “I see. Let me get it for you.”

He raised his hand and plucked a bunch of bright yellow flowers from the creeper and handed them to little Jassi, whose smile grew brighter. His green eyes glowed in innocence, the innocence that he had once.

“Thank you so much. Aap kitne ache ho. Mumma kitni khush hongi”

“You are welcome, brave boy. But aapne sahi nahi kiya yaha akele ake. It is not right.” Shaurya knelt in front of him and said.

“I am sorry, Unc-Sir”

“You can call me uncle”

“Per aap to sabke sir ho. Mumma bhi apko Sir bulati hain. Shaurya sir.”

“Aapko mere bare mein pata hai?” Jassi Shaurya’s heartbeat picked up when he heard this. She talked about him, about Shaurya. What was this feeling? Jassi was already in love with her, but was Shaurya starting to fall for her?

“Hain mumma to bolti hai, Jassi agar tumne ache se padhai ki tum bhi in soldiers ki tarha Shaurya sir ke under train ho paoge. Aap train karoge mujhe?" little Jassi asked. He looked with such wonder in his eyes; Jassi Shaurya could not believe he was talking to his own younger self.

“Aapko soldier banna hain?” He asked, patting. A strange fatherly feeling took form in his heart.

“Yes Sir. Indian Army, sir.” Little Jassi stood in attention position, saluting Shaurya with a discipline one can never expect from a 7-year-old.

The salute made Shaurya stand up and return it. “Wow, great form. Apne ye salute kisse sikha, son?”

“Mumma ne sikhaya.” He claimed proudly.

“I see. And why do you want to serve in the army?” Shaurya asked in the tone of a commanding officer.

“To protect my nation, sir. Balidan Parmo Dharma”

Those words, those exact words, were his life. Shaurya’s eyes got a little moist. This little boy, he reminded Jassi of the greatest sacrifices made. He felt like he looked at his own reflection from years ago. Balidan Parmo Dharma- sacrifice is the greatest virtue; the reality of the soldiers here and this boy was stating this with such understanding that it made his heart fill with pride. He was surprised by the strength she possessed, the strength his mother possessed, the strength the mothers and family of all these soldiers possessed. She had lost her lover to this; her mother had lost his son to the nation, yet they continue to teach this value. He realised the strength of sacrifice in him was not his own; it was of his loved ones who had enriched him with the values of patriotism which did not fade even after the system had failed him. He realised the fact that the sacrifice he so bravely accepted was not his own but of his loved ones who enriched his mind with these. What was he even without those values of patriotism?

“I am proud of you, Son” Shaurya held the little boy. He felt like he really was talking to little Jassi.

The moment suddenly broke when they heard a concerned voice from the corridor. She was here. She looked at her son and let out a deep breath.

“Jassi. Kaha tha tu? Mumma ki chinta nahi hain tujhe?”

Shaurya shielded the little child from his mother’s wrath and said, “Dr he is fine; he was with me. We went to take some flowers for you. Right, Mr Jaskirat?”

“Yes, Sir.” Little Jassi agreed and held out the bunch of yellow flowers towards her, “Happy birthday Mumma”

She instantly melted and pulled the little boy into a hug and kissed his face frantically. “Kyu karta hain tu aisa bacha? Tu nahi hoga to kya karungi main? Bol ke to ja sakta tha na.”

“I am sorry Mumma phir se nahi hoga. Promise” Jassi looked really sorry for the stress he had caused his mother.

“Yes, young man, remember this promise. Varna mujhe apko army wala punishment dena parega.” Shaurya said with the seriousness of a commanding officer.

“Yes, sir.” Little Jassi replied like the rightful soldier.

They talked as she felt little Jassi slowly fall asleep in her arms.

“Sorry, Sir. Isne tang to nahi kiya?” She asked, still carrying Jassi in her arms, who had fallen asleep.

Shaurya took sleeping Jassi in his arms and said, “No. He is a sweet child. Apne bohot ache values diye hain ise” They continued walking to her quarters.

“Thank you, sir. He is the light of my life, pata nahi iske bagair kaise jeeti main. He came into my life like a blessing. Usne mujhe phir se jeena sikhaya” She soothed the little boy's hair.

The scene felt oddly domestic. This was the life Jaskirat had wanted. To marry her, have a family with her. He wanted to believe this small walk to the quarters was his reality. He was living happily with her and his son; maybe he could remember this moment and die peacefully. Maybe in another life Jassi could have a family like this.

“He is a bright child, Dr. Also, happy birthday.”

She smiled, “Oh, thank you, sir. Isne aapko bhi yesab mein shamil kiya?”

“Well, I helped willingly. He insisted on these flowers. He was saying aapke favourite hain sunflowers, and since these are yellow, he wanted these.” He said pleasantly, the mention of sunflowers making him remember the past again.

“I love sunflowers, but these flowers are more special now. They are my favourite now.”  She looked at the bunch of yellow flowers she held in her hands.

These words hurt Shaurya Jassi somewhere: “Itni jaldi pasand badal jate hain?”

“Time ke sath insaan badal jate hain. Per pasand woh hamare yaadein hoti hain. Sunflowers ke sath meri yaadein hain, jo kabhi nahi jayenge, per aj Jassi ne is phoolon se nayi yaadein banai hain. Samay ke sath nayi yaadein naye pasand ate hain, per hum purane yaado ko apne dil ke pitare mein rakhte hain.” She told him, looking at his eyes, as she took the little boy back in her arms. They had reached her quarters. Shaurya’s journey had ended.

“Main chalta hu. Happy birthday again.”

“Thank you, sir. Good night”

“Good night.”

The next day, when she reached her chamber, there was a bouquet- those yellow flowers which Jassi gave her and sunflowers. And a small note which said, Happy Birthday, doctor.

“Kaise ho Shaurya?” Sanyal sir said. He had come for a visit to the academy. He just wanted to see how things were going.

“Good sir,” Shaurya responded.

“How are things going on here?”

“Great. The soldiers are good. They are hardworking; just a little more polishing and it will be done,” Shaurya explained.

“Aur Dr.?”

Shaurya looked at Sanyal sir with a shocked expression. He was not surprised he knew about her, but his asking about her was a surprise. Shaurya Jassi had distanced himself from his past, his family and suddenly Sanyal sir asked him this. Suddenly he realised Sanyal sir had known about her transfer here, yet he approved. What was going on?

“Sir?”

“Tum Shaurya ho, Jaskirat nahi; aur tumhe bhi life ko jeene ka haq hai. You are an asset, Jaskirat. You have done the unthinkable as Hamza; you are still doing the best as Shaurya, making sure our next line of soldiers are as perfect. Try to live a little.” Sanyal sir said, getting in his car.

“I will try, sir.”

Shaurya understood what he meant. Jassi was dead, for Shaurya was alive, and he deserved to live a life. He was increasingly drawn to her, but he was scared to go near her. Maybe this is the push he needed.

“Aur Mr Jaskirat? How are you today?” Shaurya asked little Jassi, who was walking in the tracks near the resident quarters. It was evening.

“Great, sir. Aj maine sara homework karliya, so Mumma allowed me to walk here alone.” He said proudly.

“Wow. Waise, how is your new school and life here?” Shaurya asked as they sat on a small bench.

“Bohot acha hain. Mujhe to yahan ka weather and greenery bohot pasand hain, Delhi mein bohot building hain, mujhe pasand nahi. School bhi bohot acha hai, mere seven friends huye hain. Uper se mujhe soldiers ke sath rehne ka chance mil raha hai.” Jassi replied with a fulfilled joy.

“I see. Tum pehle Delhi mein rehte the?” Shaurya was curious. He could get information out easily, but he had stopped himself. Yet this conversation suddenly sparked his curiosity. Shaurya wanted to know about his father.

“Yes. Mumma aur main. Kabhi kabhi nanu aur nani bhi aate the. Aur Jasleen bua, Harman bhaiya aur Akshu ke sath”

Those names made his brain freeze. What did he say? Did he say Jasleen bua? Did he mean his sister Jasleen? But why did he call her bua?

“Jasleen bua?” Jaskirat Shaurya asked, his throat feeling dry.

“Hain, Jasleen bua aur dadi to Punjab mein rehte hain. Mujhe Punjab bhi bohot pasand hai. Wahan kitne khet hain. Mumma mujhe waha par water tank dikhane le gai thi. Kitne sare bare se khet hain Dadi ke. Wahe pe to mitti se khelne se bhi Mumma mujhe nahi danti kyuki dadi mujhe bacha leti hain.” Little Jassi said with a mischievous smile.

Punjab- dadi- jasleen. Shaurya Jaskirat could not comprehend it. Was he talking about his family? The family he had abandoned for his duty, and she had accepted as hers? He did not even marry her; hell, he did not even get the chance to love her as she deserved. He felt guilty; his heart ached; it felt more painful than all the torture he experienced in Pakistan. Did she take little Jassi to the same tank he confessed his love to her? Her son played with his mother, called her dadi. How much did she love him to actually do this? Did he even deserve this love? He was a worthless lover; he had abandoned her for his duty, and she lived like this. Took care of all the things he should have. His throat constricted. He wanted to curse himself. He was a perfect soldier, a perfect spy, but he was a cruel man; he felt shame. He was such a cruel lover to leave his love in such a miserable situation; he abandoned her, and this realisation made his knees weak.

“Jassi. Aap phir se Sir ko tang kar rahe ho.” Her soft voice came to his ears.

Little Jassi ran to his mumma and said, “Main thang nahi kar raha tha Mumma. Unse baat kar raha tha. Jasleen bua air dadi ke bare mein.”

“Acha. Aap unko miss kar rahe ho? Chalo humlog unko kal call kar lenge. Now go and pack your bags for school.” She kissed her little forehead. He ran to the quarters.

“I hope he did not disturb you, sir.” She sat beside him.

“Aap Punjab se hain?” He asked her, trying to make his voice as normal as possible.

“I lived in Punjab for a long time. Pathankot. Waha ki baat kar raha tha.” She looked at Shaurya. She saw a flicker of someone, of someone she loved.

“So, your in-laws live there?” Jaskirat Shaurya wanted to believe she had a family; he did not want to think that she had sacrificed even her married life for her love of him, Jassi.

“I am a single mother, sir. I hope I am not asked any questions about it.” She stood up and walked away.

Shaurya does not remember how he reached his room. He finally went and looked up her information, something he had avoided. Her past twenty years came in front of his eyes. His guilt knew no bounds now. He raised a child alone; she named him Jassi. She looked after his family, cared enough to make her son call them dadi and bua.  He was the reason she did not marry; hell, he was the reason for all his sorrows. Yet this gave Jassi a sick pleasure; it made him both pained and happy that there was no man in her life. The happiness part gave Shaurya an ick.  Maybe he was not as good as he thought. The darkness of Hamza had seeped into him. What even was Shaurya without Jassi and Hamza? A thought came to his mind; maybe, maybe he could try to give her a fraction of the happiness she deserved.

The air was chilly. She walked into the small bakery to pick some muffins for her son. She sat there with a cup of hot chocolate and a sandwich when she felt his presence.

“Dr.” Shaurya’s voice was clear when he called her.

“Sir.” She stood up.

He looked extremely guilty. His eyes looked so much like Jaskirat’s that she was taken aback for a moment. He started, “I am sorry. I had no intention to hurt you. I was just having a conversation with Jaskirat, and usne dadi and bua mention kiya to I thought… Anyways, I had no right; I am extremely sorry about the unsolicited questions.”

“Let’s sit, sir.” She asked him to sit on the empty chair in front of her.

“I am used to these questions. Single mother hona is quite a surprise for many. Ab adat ho gai hain. Per professional sphere mein apne pucha to main weary hogai.” She answered, but there was something in her voice that unnerved Jaskirat Shaurya.

“Still, it was a mistake from my side.”

“How many years have you been posted here, Sir?” She asked him, looking straight into his eyes as if trying to pierce through his mask of multiple personalities.

“Just a year and a half. Call me Shaurya here. We are off duty.” He tried to answer as easily as possible.

“Okay. Shaurya. Aap muffins khayenge?” She asked him as the staff handed her the bag of muffins she had ordered for her son.

“Sure.”

She handed him a muffin and stood up to move, gesturing to him to follow. As they continued walking through the almost empty road, she asked, “Usse phele aap kaha the?”

“North East. Myanmar border, 7 years, usse phele Rajasthan-Pakistan border and before that J&K.” Shaurya answered with trained precision.

“Aap special forces mein the?” Each question she asked seemed harder and sharper. Her eyes were studying his every move.

“Yes. We were trained specially for intelligence and security. Different from regular army.” He was a trained spy; he knew how to handle it, yet Jassi was screaming from within.

“I see. Aur apki family?”

“I am an orphan. Was raised by my grandmother in Madhya Pradesh. She passed away when I was 19; I joined the army then.”

“Madhya Pradesh?” She looked at him standing still.

The road was empty now, the street lights flickering. She looked at him with accusing eyes. It was asking him questions, questions Jassi knew yet Shaurya refused to answer, to bend.  

“Yes. Aapko kuch puchna hain.” Shaurya asked.

“Kya tum Jassi ho?” Her eyes were moist now.

“Dr?” Shaurya could feel his mask breaking, but he could not; a spy's identity was his biggest asset, and once his identity was revealed, she would also be in danger.

“Kya tum mere Jassi ho?” She asked again, louder and clearer.

“I do not understand you. Apka beta Jassi hai. Main Shaurya hu. Shaurya Bharadwaj. Commanding officer.” He said, trying to sound as believable as possible. He was outright denying his identity.

The bag of muffins fell from her hands; her hands shot to the collar of his coat. “Tum jhoot bol rahe ho. Tum mere Jassi ho, tumhari akhein, ye Jassi wali akhein hain. Tumhe pata bhi hain tumhare bina kaise jiya maine.” She held him; her eyes had tears.

Shaurya did not know what to do. He wanted to scream; he wanted to hold her in his arms and say, yes, yes, she was her Jassi. But alas, he did not even have the right to accept this. He could live, but he was an asset.

“Dr, please, what are you doing?” Shaurya held her hand, trying to stop her from jerking his coat, which he held by his collar. She broke down into weeps. Into tears she had had for years now. After her son had come, she had stopped crying for her lover, but Shaurya’s presence made her wounds appear again. Her Jassi would have never denied this. Shaurya sir was surely himself; her Jassi was dead, she had to accept it. This made the last hope she had disappear; thus she broke down in front of him.

“Dr?” Shaurya held her in his arms.

“I am sorry, sir. I am very sorry. I don't know what happened. Mujhe aisa behave nahi karna chahiye tha. It’s just that. I am sorry.” She felt ashamed of her behaviour.

“Hey hey. Sit down. Tell me what happened?” Shaurya asked, as if he did not know what she felt. It pained him, but he was helpless; Jassi had died; he was Shaurya now. He had to remain Shaurya for himself, for her, for the nation. Shaurya was another chance for him to live, another chance to possibly be near her; he had to take it. He held her face in his hands and wiped her eyes.

She looked at him and took out her purse; there was a photo of him. The photo was cropped from the last family photo he took. “Jaskirat. Jaskirat Singh Rangi. The man I love.”

She spilt her story of how she loved him. How he went missing and how she was now fulfilling his dream. How baby Jassi came into her life. How when she saw Shaurya, his resemblance to Jassi made her believe he was alive. Shaurya listened like he had never heard those things. To be frank, he never knew the depth of her love until this day. He believed he loved more than anyone ever could, but he was wrong. He felt more and more guilty, heartbroken and angry that he had to leave her. His stomach twisted in rage. He never wanted her to live like this. The more he heard, the more he fell in love with her. He couldn't stay away.

But what she said next made his world pause "I am sorry, sir, but seeing you, I was slowly drawn towards you. The way you treated my son. The way you respected me. I started to believe you were Jassi. I know it's deeply unprofessional, but I am sorry. I don't know what to do. I love Jassi, but you..." she whispered the last words. She felt like she was cheating on Jassi if she fell for Shaurya.

Shaurya could not believe his ears; he could not leave her, not now. Not after knowing he had a chance to give her the happiness she deserved. Not after knowing there was a chance that he could live a life with her. He cared for her, and he fell in love with her. She deserved happiness.

“Hey. Tum maafi kyun mang rahi ho? Tumne hi kaha tha na, pasand hamarei yaadein hoti hain. Hum nayi yaadein banate hain. Iska matlab ye thori hain ki hum hamare purane pasand ko bhul gaye?” He held her hand as he said this. "Mere sath naye yaadein banaogi?"

She looked at him with wonder in her eyes. Was this a second chance?

“Yaha ke momo kaafi achhe hain khaogi?” He asked. Maybe this life, as Shaurya, he could live with her.

stepdad! Clark Kent x reader

Warnings: noncon, stepcest, somnophilia, kinda dark Clark

Don't like? Don't read!

He’d be so caring and fun, and you love him and he loves you too but, in a way, he knows he shouldn't… he sees you in your pretty outfits your pretty underwear peeking out from under your dress when you trip and fall from you two playfully chasing each other in the backyard and he shyly looks away as fast as he can. He tries not to see you that way, he found himself being somewhat glad when spring break was over and you'd go back to college. You won't plague his mind, he won't have to stop himself from looking at you.

cw: a little smut.

𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

zayan woke up from his cat nap disturbed.

having a restless toddler is never an ideal situation for his parents. his hands moved in frustration across the mattress trying to reach his precious ammi.

normally she had him in her arms. something was seriously off. he blinked, rubbing his tiny fists against his eyes, only to realise he had been deliberately pushed out of the way to the far end of the mattress. instead of him, it was his abbu was wrapped around his ammi, spooning her as his face was buried deep in her thick hair, looking as peaceful as ever. zayan’s little face twisted in immediate betrayal and jealousy at the atrocity. he quickly sat up, pointing a chubby finger at the thief who stole his cuddles, “haw! abbu chor!”

hamza’s eyes cracked open, a slow, smug smirk spreading across his face. he didn’t move an inch, instead tightening his grip around yalina’s waist to pull her even closer. looking at his grumpy son who was getting more agitated as the seconds passed, “maine kaha tha na, zayan,” his voice husky, laced with satisfaction at his win. “ammi meri hain. ab tum har gaye,” he sung out to irritate his baby further.

@goodasaysboo x @depressedgiftedburnout Collab kind shii, HUGE CREDS TO @depressedgiftedburnout dawg i couldn't have done it without her 😋😋😋

Pairing: Rahul Gandhi x Reader

T.W; THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION WRITTEN ON REQUEST. THIS DOES NOT IN ANY WAY PORTRAY OUR (@goodasaysboo and @depressedgiftedburnout's [helper in concept and editing]) OWN PERSONAL BELIEFS ON POLITICS. PLEASE TAKE THIS AS FICTION AND NOT ANY ADMIRATION TOWARDS ANYONE MENTIONED HERE

Ch.1- A moment and a Text

The office is quiet, the only sound being the low hum of the air conditioner and the occasional rustle of heavy paper.

It is well past midnight, maybe it's one am or maybe it's 2 am, who knew at this point? It was late. That was clear. No clock required. In fact, the ticking clock was making the room feel smaller with each tick. The heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains of the dark office certainly didn't help. In fact, they made the room feel more isolated from the rest of the world. The room was a world within itself and was painfully intimate. Almost too intimate for a professional setting. You sit at the edge of the desk, your eyes burning slightly from staring at the draft of the Lok Sabha speech for hours.

Beside you, Rahul is leaning over a stack of notes. The soft glow of the desk lamp caught the salt and pepper texture of his beard. In this light, it was even more apparent. Both the passage of time and the stress of politics had had an effect on him. His forehead was creased with numerous events and stresses that never really went away. But his eyes had crow's feet, and his face held smile lines beneath his beard. Both showed that even through stress, he had lived his life well. Even after a long day of politics, he looks composed in his crisp white shirt, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric slightly as he leans forward to read. But the day had taken its own toll; his shirt sleeves had been rolled up, his collar had been unbuttoned. His strong forearms flexed as he fiddled with a pen, deep in thought over the papers in front of him.

You try to focus on the wording of the speech, but your mind keeps wandering. Every time he shifts in his chair, you feel a jolt of desire. The movement was simple. He had just lifted off the chair slightly, and his fingers had pulled slightly at the fabric of his trousers that bunched at his thigh. He bunched up a bit more fabric so the seat of his pants would have more room for comfort. He had then sat back down with a little groan, his thighs splaying, manspreading casually. His mind was already back on the papers in his hands.

But your mind certainly wasn't on the papers anymore. You think you’re being discreet, your gaze lingering on the way his strong, disciplined hands move across the pages. His index finger traced a line he was reading, the rest of his fingers balling up as the finger moved on the crisp paper. The veins in his hands jut out with each movement. Those fingers held skill and experience. His index finger and middle finger slid down the margins of the paper absent-mindedly. That's when your legs cross of their own accord. One leg over the other, squeezed tighter than necessary. Those fingers on me….. trailing across my skin…. Began a dangerous thought.

He muttered tiredly to himself, mussing and fussing over the words in front of him. But all you could notice was the faint hint of a dimple through his short salt and pepper beard. And you swallowed hard. When he traced his finger along his lips, you found yourself biting the tip of a pen. Teeth clasping the tip while you watched him. If he felt your burning gaze, you could quickly look at the wall behind him, pretending you were deep in thought. A failsafe built directly into your shameless ogling.

Oh lord. Your brain gripped you by the face mentally, and it screamed brilliant advice. FOCUS Y/N. YEH SPEECH KAL SUBHA DUE HAI, ITNE HOT AADMI KO TAADNA BAND KARO FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

That does the trick, and you shake out of your lusty thoughts with extreme reluctance. Filing them away with the promise of making use of them later in the privacy of your own home.

As the night drags on, the distance between you seems to shrink. You lean in to point out a specific line he needs to emphasize, and your thigh accidentally brushes against his. You freeze, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You can feel the strong thigh muscle beneath his trousers. Not a single pure thought runs through your head

"Sir, yeh wala part... it needs more impact," you clear your throat, trying to hide any evidence of your husky voice.

He looks up, his eyes meeting yours for a second too long, and he pauses, his expression unreadable. For a moment, a cold fear slides down your throat. You hope to god he isn't a secret mind reader. You hope to god that in this low light, he can't see the flush in your face.

"Haan, dikhao," he replies softly, his voice deep and calm.

You reach for a highlighter to further emphasize your point on the paper. And he seems to have the same thought. That too at the same time. So when you reach for the same highlighter at the same time, your fingers graze his. The contact is brief, but it feels like a brand on your skin. You quickly pull back, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks. Well done. Very normal, and very oblivious. Your brain screams at you again. But you notice he doesn't immediately look back down at the papers.

He lingers on the contact for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary, his gaze steady on you before he finally nods toward the text. You try to pretend you're deeply interested in the speech, but the air in the room feels thicker now, heavy with a tension that has nothing to do with politics.

Finally, you check your watch. It's 2:45 am. The workday had ended hours ago, and even the janitors had left by now. It was much too late for coherent thoughts, much too late to bank on sane decision-making power. "Sir, kaafi late ho gaya hai... should we stop here?" you ask, trying to sound professional despite the chaos in your chest.

He looks at the large grandfather clock in the room. And then he nods at you. Leaning back in his chair with a tired sigh, his eyes scanning your face. Almost like he knows you are trying to run. Like, he knows you can feel the tension too. It's almost af if both of you know the air doesn't just hold politics anymore. And it had stopped holding it a while ago."Theek hai, let's wrap it up," he says, his voice sounding relaxed, though he doesn't look away as quickly as he usually does.

You start to gather your things, your movements clumsy and sluggish. Almost like you want to be in his air longer. To feel his presence longer. Beside you, he is straightening stacks of papers and organizing them. His hands cup the papers as he taps them on the desk. Tap. Tap. Tap. His arms….his hands… his fingers…The same loop of twisted fantasies flash before you again. You swallow them back with a sip of water from your glass on the table. As you drank, you began to wish that instead of water, this was vodka. Maybe that would help with the burning in your body.

As you push your chair back to stand up, your leg catches the edge of the heavy wooden table. You lose your balance for a split second, letting out a small gasp as you stumble forward. Instead of hitting the floor, you feel a pair of sturdy arms wrap around your waist to balance you. They seem to realize that just stabilizing you won't help, so they tighten and pull you along. You land right in his lap, your body sinking into his warmth.

The world seems to stop. You are sitting directly on him, your heart racing so fast you're sure he can feel it through your clothes. You look up, breathless, and find him looking down at you.

His eyes widen slightly in surprise. It's almost as if he himself can't believe that he pulled you into him. Despite his surprise, he doesn't push you away. You are so close you can smell the faint scent of his cologne and the warmth of his skin.

"Oh my god, I'm sorry! So so sorry, Sir!" you stammer, your face burning a bright crimson as you instinctively try to push yourself up.

But before you can move, his hand reaches out, his fingers gently catching your wrist to steady you. He doesn't pull you closer yet, but he doesn't let you go either. He looks at you, his gaze intense and searching, as if he's seeing you in a completely different light. He reaches up with his other hand, his thumb grazing your cheek as he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"Sambhal ke, Y/N," he murmurs, his voice dropping a bit. A small, almost shy smile touches his lips, and for a moment, the professional barrier between you feels incredibly thin. “I can't have my best speech writer incapacitated now, can I?” he hums with the ghost of a smirk on his lips. "You've been a bit distracted tonight, haven't you?" his eyes twinkle in a way that makes your resolve weaken.

"Nahi, Sir... woh... actually..." You start to stammer, your words tripping over each other as you desperately try to find a way to explain the clumsy accident. Your mind is racing, searching for any excuse: the chair was too far, the table was in the way, you were just tired, but the words won't come out right.

You feel completely exposed, sitting there on his lap, your heart thumping so loudly against your ribs that you’re certain he can hear it in the silence of the office. You look down, unable to maintain the intense eye contact, your face feeling like it's on fire. "It was just... accidental, really, main bas..." You try to continue, your voice trailing off into a breathless whisper.

You can feel the heat radiating from his body, the solid strength of his thighs beneath you, and the sheer proximity of him is making it hard to even breathe. You're so focused on trying to regain your dignity that you don't notice him leaning in closer, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second.

Before you can finish your explanation, before you can even gather enough breath to defend yourself, he moves.

His hand on your wrist tightens just slightly, and suddenly, his lips are pressing against yours. The world around you vanishes. The heavy desk, the scattered papers of the Lok Sabha speech, the ticking clock, everything disappears, leaving only the sensation of his mouth on yours.

The kiss is warm and surprisingly soft at first, catching you completely off guard. A small, muffled sound escapes your throat as your eyes flutter shut instinctively.

He tastes like the coffee you both drank earlier and something uniquely him warm, masculine, and intoxicating.

As the initial shock wears off, a wave of pure, unadulterated longing washes over you, and you find yourself leaning into him, your hands instinctively reaching up to rest against his broad shoulders. Fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt. You can feel the expensive cotton beneath your fingers.

He groans low in his throat, a sound that vibrates through your entire body, and the kiss deepens instantly. The gentleness is gone, replaced by a sudden, hungry intensity that makes your head spin.

His tongue grazes your bottom lip, a silent question that you answer by parting your mouth for him. The friction of his salt and pepper beard against your skin sends shivers racing down your spine, a delicious contrast to the smoothness of his lips.

His other hand moves from your cheek to the small of your back, pulling you even tighter against him, erasing every last millimeter of space between your bodies.

You can feel the hard muscles of his chest through the thin fabric of his white shirt, and the sensation makes your toes curl in your flats.

He shifts his weight, and before you can even process what's going on, he lifts you with surprising strength. You wonder why you were surprised at all. You had been ogling his arms the entire night. Each flex of his muscles. And now you have the strength.

You let out a soft gasp as he settles you onto the edge of the large, mahogany desk, clearing a space amidst the scattered notes of the speech with one sweeping motion of his arm.

The cool surface of the wood is a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his body as he steps between your thighs, pressing himself firmly against you. Your breath hitches, your fingers tangling in his thick hair as the kiss turns into a desperate exchange of heat and hunger that makes the quiet office feel like it's vibrating.

The shyness that usually defines you begins to melt away, replaced by a sudden, intoxicating confidence born from the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. Your hands, trembling slightly, begin to wander. You trace the line of his collarbone before your fingers find the first button of his white shirt.

Your heart is drumming a frantic rhythm, but you don't stop. You slowly, carefully, begin to undo the buttons, your eyes locked onto his as you feel the warm skin of his chest beneath your fingertips. He lets out a ragged breath, his eyes darkening with heavy desire, his hands gripping your waist so tightly it almost hurts.

Just a little more, you think, your pulse racing as you reach the second button, the fabric parting to reveal the toned, athletic build of his chest. The air in the room feels heavy with the tension of what's about to happen

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

The sharp vibration of a phone on the desk breaks the spell. You both freeze, the sudden sound feeling like a bucket of cold water.

Rahul groans, a low, frustrated sound against your neck, and tries to ignore it, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder to kiss the skin there. But the phone doesn't stop. It vibrates again, and then again, the screen lighting up the darkened room with a persistent glow.

Suddenly, the voicemail that the persistent caller left begins to play of its own accord. “Rahul, itna late hogaya hai, where are you?? Your speech is in the morning, and you don't even have a final draft! Come home now so we can deal with this.” The voice on the other end of the line is unmistakable. It’s Sonia Gandhi. You feel your entire body go rigid. Oh my god, it's THE Sonia Gandhi. You feel your eyes widening in pure panic.

Rahul pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours as he lets out a long, weary sigh. He ignores the voicemail, hoping the persistence will fade, but a second later, the phone begins to chime with a flurry of incoming messages, the light blinking incessantly.

He realizes there is no escaping it. With a heavy heart and a look of pure, unadulterated frustration, he reluctantly pulls away from you.

The sudden loss of his warmth makes you feel cold and strangely empty. He reaches for the phone, glancing at the screen to see a string of missed calls and messages from his mother.

"Ab toh jaana hi padega," he mutters to you, his voice husky and strained, his eyes still burning with the desire he's trying so hard to suppress. So he continues speaking, “Jab Mata Shri ka phone ata hai mai..ek grown man…thodi na ignore karsakta hun?” he mutters. You can't help it; a laugh bubbles out of your chest, your hands coming up to cover your mouth.

That laugh of yours radiates through his body. He can feel it in every nerve ending. He can see how your previously lust-hazed eyes were beginning to clear. They now held a twinkling excitement despite the exhaustion of the late hour. And my god, it doesn't help the lust swirling through him right now.

He helps you slide off the desk, his hands lingering on your hips for a moment longer than necessary to steady you. The professional mask is trying to slide back into place, but his hair is messy, and his lips are swollen from your kiss, making the lie of 'business as usual' impossible to maintain. He takes your hand in his, his thumb stroking the back of your palm in a slow, soothing motion. He leans in, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to the back of your hand, his eyes searching yours one last time.

He walks you toward the door, the silence of the office now feeling heavy with the weight of what was left unfinished. Just as you reach the door, he pauses, looking back at you with a small, private smile that makes your knees weak. " I hope to find you right here.. after the Lok Sabha session tomorrow is over, here I would like to continue this session," he promises, his voice a low murmur that promises much more than just a debriefing.

The walk from the office to the elevator is agonizing. The silence between you is heavy, thick with the realisation of what just happened and the frustration of it being cut short.

You can feel the heat still radiating from your skin, your lips still tingling from the pressure of his mouth. Every step feels clumsy, as if you’re walking through water. When the elevator doors slide shut, the small, enclosed space feels like a ticking time bomb. The air is tight, and you’re acutely aware of his presence just inches away.

You want to say something, anything to break the tension or maybe to acknowledge the chaos, but your throat feels tight. You keep your eyes fixed on the floor, watching the numbers on the display change, while you can practically feel his gaze burning into the side of your head.

When the doors finally open on the ground floor, the cool air of the lobby hits you, but it does nothing to dampen the fire in your veins. You walk toward the exit, your heart still thumping a frantic rhythm.

Just before you reach the heavy glass doors, you can't help it, you turn your head back to look at him one last time. But he’s already looking straight ahead, his expression unreadable, his jaw set tight. A small pang of something disappointment? embarrassment? hits your chest.

A second later, he begins to turn his head toward you, his eyes searching for yours, but you’ve already pivoted and started walking away, your heels clicking rapidly against the marble floor. You don't look back again. You can't.

The moment you reach your car and slam the door shut, you let out a breath you feel like you’ve been holding since the office. You lean your head back against the seat and just stare at the ceiling, your mind a whirlwind of images: his hands on your waist, the way his salt and pepper beard felt against your skin, the sheer weight of him pressing you into the desk.

"Holy shiiiiiitttt," you groan, slapping a hand against your forehead, your voice echoing in the small space. The driver jumps slightly in his seat. His eyes flicked to you through the rearview mirror. You don't sense it, you continue, "What the hell just happened?" Your face is still burning, and your body feels restless, like you're still vibrating from his touch.

A few yards away, Rahul climbs into the back of his heavy, armored Tata Safari. His security detail is already inside, the driver waiting silently, but for the first time in a long time, Rahul doesn't care about the politics or the schedule.

He leans his head back against the leather seat and runs a hand roughly across his face, his eyes closing tight. He can still feel the ghost of your hands on his chest, the way you had started to undo his buttons. The image of you sitting on the desk, looking up at him with those wide, beautiful eyes, is burned into his mind. He lets out a long, heavy sigh, feeling the sudden, sharp ache of wanting you.

_______________________________________________

@qalamband @whyishekinda @euphorkive @roses-and-iron @rosesandpeoniesthings @tojisloft @y0uneversawmehere @ishq-e-rehman @iamadelusionalwriter @peonies7002 @poniepinkie @akshayekhannamerehai @ashnotashkechum @shadylovedhurandhar @sparksfromhell @sanpiece @draculauras-stuff @goodnightkatherine @jacqueline-17 @daydreaming-in-moonlight @kisswithknife @kamalkafool @kriti-ki-dulhania @layinglowkey @ch3rrycok3s @carbonaramarinara @vakalatnelagadiye @nevereversaygoodbye @maidenofmelancholy @mandaakiniii @mrgrungusthefrog

pairing: hamza ali mazari x reader

disclaimer: this is completely fictional, not in line with real life events/movies or romanticise the real individuals, one shot, none spy au.

cw: nsfw, swearing, age gap, obsessed reader x possessive hamza, basically pure smut and a little plot xx

word count: 7.7k+

part two

୨୧ ────────── ♡ ────────── ୨୧

As Rehman Baloch’s only daughter you’ve grown up sheltered, hidden and protected from the threats and danger of belonging to Rehman Baloch. after your brother Naieems death, you were still young enough to not fully comprehend your fathers world and how to cope with the grief of your brother. Rehman had made the message clear to the streets of Lyari that both his daughter and son were off limits to anyone regardless of their intentions and no one’s been stupid enough to try and risk their life which never bothered you much, as your mind was occupied with thoughts about him…

the one ‘forbidden’, he came into your life when you were least expecting it. you were young and surrounded by grief when you first saw him, that day being a blur and a rush of emotions as all stages of grief had hit at once when walking into the hospital with your mother, you were trying to understand what had happened and what was about to change in your life. that was until you learnt the name of the man who had saved your younger brother but in return cost you your own peace of mind. “hamza ali mazari” he had said, his voice low and deep, you could still hear it echo in your mind whenever you shut your eyes fantasising about him.

over time hamza gradually became apart of your family maybe it was the loss of Naieem that your parents needed a hole to fill from the loss of their eldest son and the fact that hamza was respectable, loyal and honest. he had all the qualities your parents appreciated and admired about him meant they began to treat him like their own. Uzair your uncle, had immediately adopted him and treated him like a brother after hamza had refused payment for saving Naieem and had said he would’ve done that for any child, and he respected your dad as a fellow baloch. as he became a member of the gang he was the one who had spoken up and said to take revenge whilst others kept quiet and his plan had worked.

as time passed you noticed he had become even more respected by people close to you until when ISI had tried to make a deal with rehman, hamza was the one to make him realise what a mistake he was doing. how could he give weapons to use against his own community? the same ISI that had blood of baloch children and countless other innocent lives. when rehman had swore repeatedly giving a weak excuse to convince himself and hamza that the community had cost him his son which they both knew wasn’t good enough, uzair stepped in referring to hamza as a bacha even though their could only be a few years between them max. that night rehmans conscious couldn’t let him rest and asked his loving wife for her opinion and she had told him she didn’t want any mother to go through what they were going through and for him to have innocent blood on his hands.

from that day your parents had seen him as family, his opinion became even more valued and heard. you were kept out of your fathers work but when you heard details in brief passing you knew the only other person who’s opinion mattered to your dad enough to make him feel guilty apart from your uncle was hamza. over the years the relationship only grew stronger as he repeatedly proved his loyalty and capability wether it was against ISI retaliating after the cancelled deal or the pathan gang. even though he would be over often but always remained annoyingly respectful and polite with you giving you nothing you could openly say was flirting but you knew he felt the same through the way his eyes stayed on yours longer than anyone else’s and how careful he was as if you were a delicate doll he didn’t want to break, not yet. he had even saved your dads life from SP Chaudhary Aslam when it had seemed impossible sealing him as family for good. you were grateful for him and the bond he had formed with your family but selfishly you wanted him for yourself as yours, not your fathers right hand.

you knew that the loss of Naieem would change what your life used to look like but you never expected it to be this strict. your parents grew more protective which you never thought was possible. it’s been years since the loss and yet your parents rules haven’t budged. having security outside your university classes makes you stick out and not in a good way, your peers hesitate to talk to you, if a man in your class even as much as looks too long in your direction security are staring them down which perhaps you should’ve already been accustomed to as it had always been like that even before the constant security, when people realised who’s daughter you were but it doesn’t change that fact that it’s suffocating being watched 24/7.

you can’t even make friends normally and have given up after multiple tries. you even tried with daughters of your fathers allies daughters like Yalina Jamali but after she got married to some burger bacha she’s been occupied with marriage life making you realise that marrying some spoilt, boring man your parents pick out for you is the furthest thing you want for your future. even after constant annoying and begging they didn’t change their minds, their rules stayed. no leaving the house without security ever, location shared with your mother at all times, no leaving the house without permission from either parent and when you try makeup excuses to leave whatever you need is brought straight to you, you understand why they’re so protective but God is it draining.

you know that your father’s always wanted to shelter you from the dangers of being Rehman Dakait’s daughter, and especially from the type of dirty work he’s involved in. they didn’t deserve to be anywhere near his precious innocent daughter or even allow their dirty eyes to have a glance at her. he knew what men like those thought and he’d kill and has done if anyone as much as mentions your name or looks too long who has no reason to. what he didn’t consider is protecting you from his chosen most trusted man, hamza ali mazari. especially when you just aren’t that naive daughter he thinks you are, not around hamza anyway.

୨ৎ

it was almost as if you’d forgotten everything before him, you couldnt remember what life used to feel like when your thoughts belonged to just you, not a man old enough to be your father. it felt like your brain had finally found the missing thing it had been searching for, latching onto whatever little pieces of him you could keep into your thoughts, close to you, where no one else would notice, these small glances, the polite greetings and small talk laced with lingering touches when your were lucky enough to have his fingers brush yours. your fathers protection was practically useless, you never cared about anyone else’s eyes on you, how could you? whenever his eyes met yours you felt it burn your skin, making you feel warmer than normal and your stomach to flip. even after his eyes left you would still felt the mark of his gaze on you causing your cunt to flutter every so often as if he controls your body, it’s his decision to make.

hamza became the root cause for each and every desire you’ve thought, from imagining cute domestic scenarios together and the night ending with soft love making but in reality you know it’s off limits, your family have blind trust in him and love him like one of their own. he’s 40 whilst your 19 now, yet it feels as if your life has barely started, you’re inexperienced just waiting for the moment he gives in to claim you as his, you’ve never travelled alone, the only places your father lets you breathe without security is your own home or his warehouse when he, uzair or hamza are present, but which normal sane girl wants to hang at a warehouse filled with guns?

having hamza in the same room makes your thoughts fill regardless if your father or uncle are next to you. the last time you were at the warehouse hamza was opposite smoking as you tried to be subtle whilst sneaking not so discreet glances at him, but as your mind rushed with thoughts of him, you imagined how big he actually was after accidentally making direct eye contact with his print the image burned into your mind before he could catch you staring, you should’ve known hamza notices everything.

however you remained blissfully unaware of how thin hamzas restraint was becoming whilst your mind was full of him and the image of his print, with the confirmation of knowing you wouldn’t be able to walk straight if he fucked you. you wondered what he’d sound like whilst in you, bending you over whilst fucking you over your fathers throne which was only a few feet away empty, calling out for you both to just submit to your desires already. until those beautiful eyes of his locked onto yours as if you he knew exactly what you were thinking without you saying any of them outright, not wanting it to show further on your face you had looked away trying to act unbothered ignoring the fact that seeing the outline of his length would haunt the rest of your nights until he’d allow you to experience him, whilst he left you to deal with how wet you were at just the sight of him.

you couldn’t tell if you loved or hated the way he’s been teasing you for years, making it seem like you don’t just keep your thoughts about him to yourself but almost as if you say them out loud without either of you admitting a word of it to one another. if your father found out you were even thinking these thoughts for someone he’d have them publicly killed as a message. but if he found out that it’s someone he’s grown to trust and treats like family would ruin not only him but your uncle and they’d make sure you wouldn’t think of his man like that let alone anyone having thoughts about you longer than necessary, even if it’s the hamza they deeply respect and trust.

at the end of the day, your both off limits to each other you don’t need your father to say that but in your eyes neither of you are your fathers toys in which he can decide that you both belong to him. you’ve been playing the innocent daughter act for long enough you deserve to experience a normal teenage girls life, go out without security breathing down your neck, experience girlhood, have a man touch you and the only one your body aches for is his. to you the only man you belong to is hamza, your firsts are his to take, you can’t control the pull you feel between you both even though you’ve tried to ignore it and make excuses but it remains, growing stronger making it a risk for both of you.

it was silly he hadn’t even touched you provocatively ever, he’d just stand there like he belongs in every room he walks in, sit with your family, smoke frequently but yet he has this effect and it’s like he’s aware of it but doesn’t do anything about it and you don’t want him to hold back any longer. you’ve tried to reason with yourself with reasons why like maybe he prefers men, it would explain him and your uncles close bond and why he isn’t married yet. but the way his eyes always linger on yours more than anyone else’s whilst he takes everything about you in those few seconds, almost as if he’s allowing himself a small not so harmless glance to admire all the little details from the delicate necklace around your neck, though you’ve always thought those hands of his would look prettier, to the outfit you may or may not have worn for him to see before he forces himself to look away as if it physically hurts him to do so. but only you’re able to notice the difference after years of fantasising and not so subtlety watching him.

୨ৎ

you didn’t care if everything between you both was stupid and reckless, you’ve been craving him for too long to start caring now especially when any form of attention makes you have a reaction that no one else can ever have on you. you’ve been waiting long enough you need more, so over the month you slowly started teasing him waiting for him to react. nothing anyone else would have been able to notice, just private between the two of you, fingers brushing when it’s unnecessary, frequent lingering touches, when he was at your house you knew the time he’d often go for a cigarette so conveniently you just happened to be in your sexiest lingerie, your door open just enough for him to see clearly whilst you pretended to not notice him walking past your room as your hear his steps behind you falter slightly leaving you satisfied having caused a little reaction. when you had come to greet him and the others you noticed his eyes were on yours for more intensely as if he knew it was done on purpose and his discipline is being tested. good, you thought, it was what he deserved after leaving you hanging for years and so you played into the innocent daughter pretending you didn’t know why he was affected. this time you hadn’t planned anything the opportunity just happened and you couldn’t say no to the chance.

so you bent over in front of him with your ass practically in his face whilst your parents were briefly distracted, as you turned around he was still sat on the sofa, his chai remained full but his eyes had darkened slightly as if his composure was being tested. “oh.. maaf karna, mujhe aap nazar nahi aaye” trying to keep your expression from giving away too much but he’d already noticed the glint of excitement in your eyes and the tease in your voice, “is that so?”. it wasn’t fair the things his voice could do to you, you had wondered countless times what he’d sound like talking you through it in that low tone he does when he’s noticed everything, but you’ve had enough of the teasing if he’s so bothered about his restraint slipping he can deal with it himself. besides your not exactly doing anything he can call out without giving himself away for noticing too much. “haan” you replied pulling yourself out of your thoughts, looking at him with the fuck me eyes you’ve been hiding for too long, his fingers gripping on his cup tighter but before he can reply your mother interrupts “arre, usay tang mat karo, bechare ko chai to peene do” as she snaps you both out of it.

you go along pretending you haven’t been eye fucking your fathers trusted man whilst your parents were sat a few feet away, you were sure it was practically written on your forehead ‘fuck me now hamza’, even the air felt thicker but before you could leave, your parents back in discussion over inviting some guest which you droned out whilst he sipped his chai now gone half cold, barely tasting it, eyes not leaving yours as you turned to face him fully before you left “khuda fiz” “khuda fiz” but as you were about leave “don’t start what you can’t finish y/n” he said in a low tone only for your ears to hear before your father fully turned back towards him mumbling something so you carried on walking towards the door before turning back a final time meeting his eyes again a light smirk on your lips before leaving.

୨ৎ

you were at one of those boring dinners that dragged on for far too long hosted by one of your fathers allies. the haveli full of familiar aunties and uncles everywhere, kids running, you were going through the mandatory suffering of small talk with aunties, “mashallah so beautiful” “arre, kitni khoobsurat aur bari ho gayi ho mashallah” “university mein kya parh rahi ho beta?” as if you’re not about to go into your second year and have told them multiple times but they love to repeat and ask the same questions until they move onto the next victim. leaving you a few moments to breathe and zone out whilst pretending your not imagining being on your knees for the man across the room. your mother next to you gossiping with an aunty, faisal with his friends in a corner looking suspicious, whilst your father and uncle were stuck in boring political talk a few feet away whilst hamza was sat directly opposite you but was included in conversation with your father and his allies, but his eyes were already set on you. his black kurta fitted him perfectly, pushed up to show his veiny, strong forearms, you never knew before him forearms could have such an effect on you. but your mind and body are completely his, you can’t control how intensely he makes you need him to fill the ache inside you that’s been building for years.

you could only handle so much of his gaze at once without becoming too aware of everything and the voice in your head urging you to just tell him to fuck you already getting louder, as he leans back against the seat his eyes not leaving yours, the rest of the room droned out as he spreads his legs comfortably, one of his arms across the back of the sofa, the other holding a glass of water he had barely drunk, a hint of amusement in his eyes as he watched you like he knew exactly what seeing him like that would have on you. stupid old man, you thought, he knows what he’s doing, he’s going to leave you a wet mess for him again without helping you, you can feel the faint heartbeat in your cunt beginning to throb and your arousal making your lingerie damp resisting the urge to sit in his empty lap. you try to relieve the tension by clenching your legs together, as he watches you try to bring your breathing back to normal and your face composed as one of his eyebrows raises. another response to the teasing you’ve been carrying out over the past couple of weeks.

as the night continued, you could only act normal for so long so used an excuse of touching your lipgloss to get a chance to breathe without feeling the presence of him watching your every move. it had only been a few moments and as you were coming down the last few steps of the stairs he had appeared out of nowhere whilst you were in deep thought replaying the look you both had shared earlier, only to find him in front causing you to misjudge the step letting out a small gasp, your foot slipping on the edge but before you could slip completely his arm reached out bringing you into his arms with a hand on your waist and wrist.

the heat from both of you filled the heavy air thick with years of painfully slow, built up restrained, unspoken sexual tension spiralling faster over the past few weeks from the teasing you started as a silent challenge which now seemed like a string that was on its last thin thread waiting for the most inconvenient time to break completely, you were close enough to notice every little detail from the exact shade of his dark green eyes to a faint, tiny, scar cutting through the arch of his right eyebrow, the faint smell of smoke mixed with his oud and your perfume should’ve made you realise how close you were to him but instead your eyes were pulled down to his lips, they were the closest they’ve ever been to yours.

before you could get further lost in thought you were rudely interrupted as his lips started moving instead of meeting your own. “sambhal ke, tumhein chot lag sakti thi” you could smell the mix of tobacco and mint from his breath, having to control yourself to not fill the small gap between you to taste him. “mujhe zara si chot ka dar nahi, tumhe hai?” the dual meaning making his jaw tighten, you were making it even harder for him on purpose, but before he could reply his name was being called, your hands leaving his chest and his hand leaving your waist slowly as he stepped away to let you pass first. “theek hai.. dekh lenghe” he said to you as he turned the opposite way before they could call for him again.

the rest of the night went by agonisingly slow, the private moment you had felt earlier should’ve been a blessing for you both but after knowing how it feels to be in his arms, your body fitting his perfectly as if it was made for him and the warmth of his touch against ur waist, had ruined you both completely and utterly. you had gotten your hopes up thinking you’d finally snapped the last remaining thread of restraint but you didn’t see him for the rest of the dinner only glimpses of his back or his voice drifting from somewhere. his words replaying on your mind throughout the drive home, pretending to not be distracted whilst your parents and faisal took turns to complain which you just hummed at in response zoning out for most of the usual remarks about how the food was, aunties, politics. whilst you were beginning to feel irritated, he said ‘we’ll see’ but basically disappeared for the rest of the night either he had changed his mind or had the communication skills of a grandad, praying it was the latter.

୨ৎ

you were in your room now wearing a soft, thin, white camisole with a delicate lace trim along your neckline with small matching shorts barely covering your ass. it was long past midnight, your floor of the haveli quiet all the rooms here belonged to you after you had demanded it seeing as you would be living like you were on house arrest. normally the quiet would bring you peace, no one to disturb you at night after the staff left, no hamza or your uncle in their usual smoking spot a little away from your room, family sleeping and sometimes on nights like these when you were thinking about him and the glances you had shared you’d touch yourself wishing it was his fingers. today was looking like one of those, blame it on ovulation, you needed a relief especially from earlier.

that was until you heard a noise coming from your terrace, making you even more frustrated delaying you from pleasure you desperately needed. you walked over annoyed it was probably nothing. stepping out looking at the right side first, nothing, as you were about to turn to the other a hand from behind clamped over your mouth and a arm around your waist bringing you back inside. before you could fully panic your body recognising his touch began melting into it after the initial resistance. your back was pressed against his chest, the familiar smell of his oud mixed with smoke filling the thick air, “tum kahan ja rahe, ab tum bhaag nahi sakte” his voice in that low, deep tone that makes your knees weak, his hand leaving your mouth, his hand on your waist turning you around to face him, pulling you closer into him, as you look up at him the realisation kicking in on how dangerous it’d be for both of you if anyone saw and actually how did he even get past security. “pagal ho kya? yahan kaise aa gaye tum” his free hand cupping your cheek, his thumb near your lips, “kya tum bhool gayi ho? tumhein yahi chahiye tha, ab woh sawaal mat poochho jinke jawab ki zarurat nahi” if this was any other day you’ve would’ve challenged him and been irritated at him for dodging the question but he interrupted you so he owes it to you to help right? and there’s no way your letting him leave now that he’s here and it’s just the two of you, alone. he’s denied you of your pleasure long enough.

your eyes leave his and lock onto his lips as his thumb brushes your cheek reminding you he’s chosen you, he actually came here just for you, you couldn’t think of what to say you just wanted to reach up and kiss him. “tum kya chahti ho y/n?” your eyes left his lips as the words left his mouth back up to those eyes you’ve been dreaming of. “mujhe tum chahiye… mujhe farq nahi padta mere abbu kya sochte hain, tumhari umar kya hai, ya tum kya kaam karte ho, yeh sab mere liye koi ahmiyat nahi rakhta” he pulled you even closer his grip around your waist tightening slightly, “main dobara nahi kahunga, agar tum ‘na’ keh do, main khamoshi se chala jaunga aur phir kabhi tumhein pareshan nahi karunga, lekin agar ‘haan’ kaho, to samajh lena tum kis cheez ke liye haan keh rahi ho, phir tum sirf meri hogi, apne baap ki ‘masoom’ beti nahi”. you meant every word you had said.

you love your father but he’s been overbearingly protective and you needed to make a decision for yourself regardless of the consequences and hamza was still giving you a choice but you didn’t need it, the answer has always been yes, all you’ve wanted was to belong to him. looking into his eyes and being in his arms felt more than right, like you belonged and were made to be in them. “haan, main sab samajhti hoon… lekin ab tumhein mujhe dikhana hoga ke tumhari hone ka ehsaas kaisa hota hai”. you had no idea what you had started. he shouldn’t be this close or touching you but you had tested him enough. you wanted to act like a grown woman so he’ll treat you like one. his thumb brushed over your bottom lip when you finished speaking before he closed the distance and finally kissed you. you had imagined kissing him countless of times but nothing could’ve warned you for how good his lips felt against your own, they were softer than they looked. his tongue met your own the taste of him was something you don’t think you could ever get bored of. you needed more, your hands trying to unbutton his shirt, your lips feeling his light smirk against your mouth. as the kiss became more passionate and deeper, a soft sound slipped from your lips as both of his hands were on your waist one touching your bare skin byslipping through the pretty little camisole you wore.

his shirt now on the floor but before you could pull away to admire him, he moved you effortlessly whilst pinning your arms against the wall roughly as your lips stayed connected with his. he devoured you, desperately needing you to to feel what he felt through his lips and tongue. he left you breathless, aching for more, the faint taste of cool mint and tobacco still lingered on your lips as he pulled away allowing you to take in his huge muscular arms and his abs, it wasn’t fair that he was this handsome, you couldn’t get enough of him. he was openly amused as excitement filled you as you looked up at him with those big doe eyes, you had wanted this desperately for years. you needed him to fuck you and take your virginity that you had spent so long, too long of waiting in fact, for him to rightfully take it and you were both begging for some sort of release that could only be relieved by each other.

his lustful, dark green eyes set on yours and without warning he immediately hoisted you up onto his waist, a gasp reluctantly leaving your lips, arms wrapping around his neck. you stopped caring about the reasons on why this shouldn’t be happening a long time ago and focused on how good it felt to finally submit to your desires. he placed light kisses on your neck and as you tilted in response allowing more room for him to claim you as his own. he began to suck and lightly bite, a pink mark forming. you needed him inside you, willing to do anything for him to fill this ache only he could stop.

“hamza... please” you whispered breathlessly as he scoffed at your pathetic state, Rehman Baloch’s daughter begging his worker to use her, the sight of you like this for him was almost poetic. no matter how hard your parents tried to protect you and your innocence they had missed the very thing you were a desperate slut for. you were already a mess for him and he hadn’t even started, “look me in the eyes and beg for me to touch you” your stomach flipped a little at hearing those words from his voice. “please” you began “i want you to touch me like i’m yours” you whine “i need you to use me” with that he spun you and placed you on the bed underneath him all laid out a gorgeous sight, only for his eyes to see. as he rips your camisole off you, your breasts spilling free as an angry pout appears on your face realising that was a cute outfit, “i’d buy you the whole shop for you jaan, forget about that focus on me” he says a small laugh leaving his mouth, you had wanted this for years and were irritated at him for ripping a top. your irritation didn’t last long as he gets between your legs beginning to press kisses up your thighs, gently pulling your shorts off, you weren’t wearing the lingerie you normally wore whenever he was around, your bare cunt just inches away from his face. his demeanour infatuated with years of built up lust for you, he’s going to devour each and every inch of you. one of his hands reaches up to kneed your breast then his fingers lightly flicking your nipple whilst his lips get closer to your dripping cunt, his hair brushing your thighs as he rips his eyes away from your cunt up to meet your eyes, your cunt throbbing at the sight of him between your legs, his breath fanning over your pussy.

“sit on my face” he demands causing your eyes to widen, this was all new to you, you just had your first kiss not that you were complaining, you want this but sitting on him felt too bold even for you, “hamza” you let out a small gasp, as he began to pry your thighs open, “i’ve not..” an eyebrow raised in response “do i need to repeat myself?” he commands before you could finish your sentence, you hadn’t done anything like this before. as he effortlessly moves you like a toy, his very own plaything, your knees pressed against the mattress, your pretty little pussy on full display, slightly hovering above his lips, you can feel his every breath as his hands grip ur thighs and pulls you in closer spreading your knees apart, letting him have his way with you he places the rest of your legs to rest on his broad shoulders.

“itni khabsoorat ho tum, sirf mere liye se,” his voice low and wrecked from the view he’s been holding back from exploring for too long. he showed no mercy, his face gladly buried into your cunt as his tongue indulges into your soaking wet pussy, slick and shiny with his saliva, as his nose is pressed against your clit, your juices drenching his beard whilst a sequence of moans leave your lips clashing with the sound of his own groans and tongue slurping and sucking your clit. your hands gripping the headboard infront as your toes curl in pleasure a small tear of shame slips out as the pleasure becomes to much for your fragile body to handle.

he couldn’t get enough of diving into your pussy, making you his drug. he ate you like he was starving, you tasted too good, he doesn’t even want to breath anymore, he just wants to be smothered with your drenched pussy, he could feel everything, every squirm, every shudder, every throb, you were close he could feel it in every nerve of his body.

“put that pretty mouth to use” as he ushered you to use your words wanting to hear and feel you beg for your release, trails of praise leaving your lips blessing his ears he couldn’t get enough of hearing his name leave your lips, as your thighs clenched and shook from pleasure, his rough, veiny hands smooth and pry over your thighs to devour you, drooling all over your clit as you cream all over him leaving his beard covered in your wet mess.

he couldn’t get enough of you, he needs to be in your pretty tight cunt, he’s waited long enough, “tum sirf mere liye hi bani ho” he tells you, voice thick almost strained because hamza knows he has to be gentle with you he can’t promise that he will but he’ll try for now. you’re extra sensitive and he’s about to claim another one of your firsts, “kitni masoom ho tum… mere liye intezaar kar rahe the hmm” not exactly asking just acknowledging that you had waited for him which turns him on even more. he was going to take his sweet time with you, you deserved it even more by saving yourself for him after all he had left you waiting. he can see the way your cunt is glistening, slick with his saliva and your arousal. he can practically smell how wet you are for him. giving you barely enough time to recover from your orgasm, your legs tremble, your cunt still sensitive from him. ignoring the dull ache in your thighs your watching him take his trousers off leaving him in his boxers his buldge calling your name as you try to regain sense as he comes closer to you, his fingers skimming up and down your clit, playing with your pussy as tears begin to prick from over stimulation.

“yeh manzar sirf mere dekhne ke liye hai, samajh aayi” “haan” you said softly, you loved the feeling of him finally claiming you as his lips met yours to seal the moment. as he takes his boxers off his thick, shaft in front waiting for you, it was bigger than the print you had once seen now he’s fully erect, 7 inches easily, girthy, a prominent angry vein along one side, your mouth salivating at seeing it so close. “hamza please” he brushes your clit with his cock the sensation making you shut your eyes in pleasure. you wanted this for so long. “look at me jaan” you obey, you’re too cock starved to tease “condom” you mutter without thinking, remembering your not on any birth control and you don’t have any condoms obviously and the shops would be closed, your mind spiralling, this can’t be happening you thought. “i’m not fucking you with a rubber on jaan”. amusement clearly showing through his voice at your mini panic at the idea of him not fucking you but also the fact you genuinely thought hamza would fuck you with a condom. silly girl he had thought. he was going to feel every inch of you raw, he doesn’t need a barrier on, you and your cunt are his, he’s the only one who gets to touch you like this so why should he use anything that would prevent him from marking you.

his green gaze hardened as he was watching you realise he truly meant every word he had said. the size difference between you only makes you more turned on the way his body completely covers yours as he hovers over you. you can feel how close his cock is from the heat radiating off your cunt, one of your hands interlocked with his now near your face waiting for him as he pushes his tip inside. he lets your cunt get used to the feeling, his cock throbbing for more, he’s barely in you yet but you can feel the pain as he’s about to break your cherry. “more hamza.. i need you” he slowly, thrusts himself until his cock is buried inside as you let out a small moan from the pain of him stretching you at, his head further away from yours now tilted back slightly as he sighs in pleasure “tum kis ke ho?” he thrusts into you slow and hard waiting for you to answer.

you moan louder into the sheets as a response, you couldn’t get any words out, but he needed to hear you use your words “bolo tum par kis ka haq hai” another deep thrust, “mujhe jawab do pyaari” he pauses inside you waiting “sirf tumhari hamza” you barely manage to answer the words coming out shakily, as he slowly thrusts back into you letting out a soft moan, his lips graze your ear as your fingers twisting in the sheets needing him to continue fucking you. he peppers a few small kisses around your cheeks and lips before he picks up the pace his cock hitting that spot inside you repeatedly, “you like that don’t you jaan?” making your thighs shake. he’s so deep it feels like he’s in your stomach, stretching you wide and full in a way no one else ever has or ever will, your nails leaving fresh red scratches as you marked his tan, muscular back with your own decoration.

“your so fucking perfect, such a good girl” he laughed, as his hips thrust hard against you at a set rhythmic pace, pulling almost all the way out before ruthlessly drilling back into you, his low groans and the sight of his face almost looking as if he’s in pain with the overwhelming feeling of pleasure from your cunt, his cock is huge filling you entirely and would probably be very painful if it wasn’t for your dripping arousal creating your very own lube and his fat cock hitting the right spot with every thrust. hes practically splitting you in half with his huge cock, you realise your gonna need a good excuse for why your unable to walk straight for a week after this.

your lips agape in pleasure, hamza takes this opportunity to shove two thick, fingers down your mouth making your pussy clench around him and gag on his fingers, regaining your breath you begin to suck and hum against him letting him know how much your enjoying this. you want to feel him stretch you out completely, sensing the change in your need for him to fuck you deeper, he pulls out without warning, flipping you over so your on all fours, your cunt facing him as he rams his huge cock back into you, you made him feral balls slapping your skin as a single tear slips out when you begin to shake, struggling to keep yourself up because every thrust has your body sensitive all over, it was too much you could feel your orgasm beginning to building again. you tried to move but his fingers dig in your hip just enough to remind you who’s in control how easily he could hold you in place as he clicks his tongue softly “where do you think you’re going hm.. you chose this remember?” you’re dripping arousal coating his thick shaft and running down your thighs every time he pulls back and pushes in deeper hitting your cervix, the wet sound of you both becoming one fill the room.

your fingers grip the mattress as he yanked your hair and turned your face to the side to meet his, your now empty mouth tried to meet his own for a sloppy kiss but instead felt his spit land on your tongue, smiling in delight at the surprise you indulge in the taste. he chuckles lightly at the blessing sight of you becoming his very own slut. “you’re not rehmans innocent daughter anymore are you?.. you wanted his right hand to ruin you didn’t you jaan” mewling his name, he relentlessly continues to harshly fuck you just like you had been yearning for, slapping your ass cheek every so often, making you let out a yelp in surprise. you swear you can feel him in your stomach, his shaft balls deep and nestled in your velvet walls as you bring him closer to finishing. “i fucking love your cunt so tight and wet” he teases as you whimper as your pussy flutters in response to his praise and the familiar feeling slowly building up in your stomach.

“look at me whilst i cum in you jaan” he says whilst pulling out causing you to let out a frustrated whimper from feeling the empty feeling rather than him inside you. it’s nearly impossible for hamza to pull out when your cunt is fluttering around him and clinging onto him desperately, “i know baby” his voice sounding rougher and raw, as he helps you turn around his huge muscled arms braced on either side of your head now as his cock finds your aching cunt and thrusts roughly back into where he belongs. sweat beginning to slick his chest and roll down his temple, his long, dark hair sticking slightly to his forehead, the sight of him like this made your cunt throb, until you realise how close he is and his words hit you fully feeling his pace slow to savour the moment. “wait i’m not on birth control” the words spilling as you try to think with your brain but you can’t especially when he’s still fucking you dumb. “i know jaan.. that’s good na.. i’m not exactly getting any younger am i?”…“hamza” you breathed out after a few long seconds, you couldn’t think straight. forgetting that your ovulating and that you were both off limits to eachother, the only thing that was in your head was him.

your body had a mind of its own, submitting before you could keep up, it knows that you need to be bred by him. “gonna fill that tight cunt of yours with my babies” “haan” “fuck..shit” his voice nothing more than a rasp, his lips hovering above yours, as he paints your walls by pumping his thick warm cum into you, thick spurts one after another until his cock twitches deep inside you. your close, you can feel the wave of another orgasm causing your legs to shake, his eyes remain set on watching how your body reacts to his, enjoying the sight of your face twisted in pleasure, with the help of his huge hands gripping your bruised hips, manhandling you, you cum again all over his fat cock, his release stemming your own, now that he’s fucked you senseless he can be as selfish as he wants. your name leaving his lips as he continues to fuck his cum into your cunt, breeding you. his pace is slower but he slams into you hard and deep. until he’s thrusting into you for a last time, making sure each drop of his cum remains inside you filling you up to the brim with his load.

as he pulls out slowly, you let out a faint whimper at the loss of him inside you, until his eyes lock onto the cum leaking from your cunt and he’s not letting the mix of both fluids go to waste and before you can move, ur cunt still barely recovering from him ruining you forever, he uses his fingers to gather the small amount of cum that tried to escape, tracing from your entrance to your clit and the sensation of his thick, rough fingers pinching your clit for a last time making you let out a little yell from the overstimulation on your already sensitive cunt, before he brings his fingers glistening with a mix of your juices and his cum up to ur lips, his thumb pressing lightly on your bottom lip “khulo jaan” as you open your mouth a little in response, his two fingers replace his thumb leaving your bottom lip as he pushes them in slowly your mouth opening wider for him whilst he allows you to savour the taste of both yours liquids.

he pushes them further filling your mouth, the perfect mix of your sweet and his salty cum taste off his calloused fingers making ur cunt throb again. as you look up into those dark green eyes of his, already admiring the state of you collapsed onto the bed sucking both juices off his fingers and looking at him with those doe eyes and the slight pout that appears when his fingers leave your mouth causing a little smirk on his face to appear. his hand still hovering near until his thumb wipes the remaining glisten of saliva and cum from ur lips and brings it to his own mouth sucking it off, his eyes not leaving yours. your half snuggling into the mattress now worn out and feeling a little shy after the overwhelming feeling of ecstacy, losing whatever innocence you had to the man who was to blame for your obsession over him and the eye contact almost undoing you all over again. hamza lays next to you bringing you with him cradling you into his chest. “get some rest meri jaan.. but we aren’t done yet, not until i’ve marked you in every single way possible”. his words causing your face to flush, nuzzling closer to him as you both rest your eyes without a thought of the possible consequences to come…

୨ৎ

pt two

a/n: i’ve not written a fic in years ive only done it once before n i can’t write any other language but english fluently so i can only add a few dialogues that ik in urdu/punjabi so bare w me. also i accidentally deleted a paragraph from somewhere so if it doesn’t make sense ignore it i cba fixing it 🌚

That's my Girl!

Pairing: CollegeBoyfriend!Jaskirat × Girlfriend!Reader

Content: Jassi being a cutie, mentions of sex, fluff

Author's note: It's been so long since I wrote and honestly, I wrote this just to try and get rid of my writer's block. The current happenings of what's around us has dulled my mind greatly and I was struggling to manage uni and writing. So I thought, why not write something on theme? This is very short but I hope y'all like it ;) This is for all the people who are still here despite everything <3

(oneshot)

Jaskirat Singh Rangi x Y/N (f!reader)

Summary - Jaskirat takes Y/n, his fellow Army officer and girlfriend home to Pathankot. A phulkari duppata, mustard fields and a windy afternoon make it a day to remember.

[ Disclaimer - This is a fanfiction on based on the Indian movie - Dhurandhar. Characters in this fic are based on the fictional versions depicted in the movie and not their real life counterparts. All the characters (except Y/n), belong to the makers of the movie. ]

Words - 1.7k

masterlist

Note: this is a work of fiction. It has no connection with real life. It does not promote any violence or support the real life actions of the people mentioned. All characters rightly belong to Aditya Dhar except my oc. Plagiarism is strictly prohibited. Hamza is not a spy here I've used em dash for the very first time, AI mat bolna please

Pairing: Hamza Ali Mazari x Maira Sherani

5 times Hamza's wife did not realise his feelings and one time she did

1-

Maira had been born to the youngest son of Sherani and his wife. Her father had died before her birth-fighting for their kom's freedom, whereas her mother had left her some time after birth, that left her to be raised by her grandfather and other women in their community.

Maira had been a pampered child-much like her name suggests. She had completed her education from some of the finest institutes in Pakistan and now at the age of 22, her grand father had taken it upon himself to get her married.

Hamza saw Maira for the first time during his visit to Balochistan, he had been immediately mesmerized by her. Hamza was someone who had a tough childhood and could never believe in love at first sight but seeing her made him forget his beliefs.

"Kon hai woh?" he asks the nearest person standing beside him, his eyes not leaving her figure.

"Sherani sahab ki poti, Maira"

He hadn't asked anything more. He didn't need to. By the time he left Balochistan a week later, he had already decided — with the same quiet finality he decided everything — that he would marry her.

Maira, for her part, had noticed the stranger only in passing. A tall man with sharp eyes who spoke little and watched much, standing slightly apart from her grandfather's other guests. She thought nothing of it.

Men came and went from her grandfather's all the time, discussing things she had no interest in. She never once caught him looking. She never once knew that somewhere behind that composed, unreadable face, a man had just fallen quietly and irreversibly in love.

After Rehman's death, Uzair had left for Dubai with the family, choosing to stay away from violence and Hamza was declared as Sher-e-Baloch.

When Hamza asked Sherani for Maira's hand in marriage, the elder man immediately agreed.

2- this one was requested by @avasif

Maira was impressed when she first met Hamza, she had not expected her grandfather to find such a hot man for marriage. The wedding was a grand celebration that took place smoothly, much to Sherani's relief.

It's been a month since the wedding and Maira still felt overwhelmed sometimes at the attention she would receive due to her title as Hamza's wife.

It was a lazy afternoon when Maira had wandered into the room which Hamza was using as his study.

He'd stepped out briefly, and his gun lay on the table beside a stack of papers, forgotten in his hurry. Maira, ever curious, picked it up carefully, turning it over in her hands, trying to remember which lever her cousin had once shown her did what.

"You shouldn't handle a loaded weapon like that."

She startled, nearly dropping it. Hamza stood in the doorway, arms crossed, an amused glint in his eyes that she'd learned to associate with him being in a particularly good mood.

"It's not loaded," she said, lifting her chin. "I checked."

"Did you, now." He crossed the room unhurried, the way he did everything, and took the gun gently from her hands — checking it himself, more out of habit than doubt. "You're right. It's not."

"See."

"Do you want to actually learn?" he asked. "Properly. Not just holding it and hoping you look intimidating."

Her eyes lit up in a way that made something in his chest go warm and stupid. "Yes."

What followed was, by any honest account, entirely unnecessary. Hamza had taught dozens of recruits how to hold a firearm in half the time it took him to explain it to Maira — except with them, he hadn't needed to stand quite so close, hadn't needed to adjust her grip finger by finger, hadn't needed to bracket her shoulders with his arms to "correct her stance," his chest a solid line against her back, his breath unmistakably close to her ear as he murmured instructions she was fairly certain she could have followed from three feet away.

"Elbows in," he said, low.

"They are in." she defended

"Not enough." His hands settled over hers on the grip, warm and sure. "Like this."

Maira, focused entirely on not embarrassing herself in front of the target across the courtyard, noticed none of it — not the way his voice had dropped, not the fact that he'd found four separate reasons in ten minutes to adjust something that had already been correct, not the small, private smile he wore whenever she wasn't looking.

She only noticed that her aim had gotten remarkably better by the end of the lesson, and said as much, cheerfully oblivious, while Hamza exhaled something that was equal parts fond and exasperated and went to go stand somewhere he could think straight.

3-

Maira's eyes felt droopy when she sat beside Hamza on the backseat. They had an event to attend, some minister's party, Maira had forgotten the plot long back and just stayed for appearances. Her face hurt from smiling all night and her feet were killing her.

Hamza had seemed to notice her discomfort and arranged the pillows behind her back.

Maira smiled at him and laid against those pillows, she kept her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

Hamza froze for a minute as the car moved in silence, he gulped, unsure of what to do with the sudden weight of her trust settling so easily against him. He didn't move for a long while, half-scared that shifting even an inch would wake her, half-scared of how much he liked her there.

He finally allowed himself to relax, one arm coming up carefully to keep her steady against the turns in the road, when his phone lit up in his pocket. Rizwan. He answered it low, careful not to disturb Maira.

"Bol."

"Bhai, ek gaadi peeche se follow kar rahi hai, teesri lane mein — do baar lane change ki hai humare peeche peeche." Rizwan's voice was tight, alert, the same tone he used only when something was wrong. "Lagta hai-"

The line cut off mid-sentence as the first shot shattered the rear windshield.

"Neeche jhuko!" His voice tore through the sleep-fogged quiet, one hand already shoving Maira down below the seat, his body curving over hers before conscious thought had even caught up.

"Hamza-" Maira whispered, her voice thick with panic as her mind tried to register the activities in her sorroundings.

"Sar neeche rakho" Hamza commands, his voice was steady even as his arm tightened around her, shielding her from the window, from the glass, from anything that might reach her.

With his free hand he'd already drawn his own weapon, angling himself so he could return fire through the shattered window without exposing an inch of her.

Behind them, the two security cars flanking their route had closed in, Rizwan's voice barking orders over the gunfire, his men matching bullet for bullet until the attackers' car began to slow, then stall, then stop altogether — riddled but not silent, the men inside groaning as Rizwan pulled them out, wounded, disarmed, alive.

It felt like hours before the gunfire actually stopped, before the silence in the car became something other than terrifying, though it had only been minutes.

Maira sat up slowly, shaking, checking herself instinctively for injuries before her eyes landed on Hamza — and the dark stain spreading across his sleeve.

"hamza aapka khoon"

"Kuch nahi hua" He was already reaching for her face, checking her over with the same urgency, ignoring his own arm entirely. "Tumhe chot lagi hai? Maira meri taraf dekho! Tumhe kahi chot lagi hai?"

"Mein theek hu, par aap-"

"Kuch nahi hua meri jaan" He cupped her face for a moment, steadying her, steadying himself, before pressing a slow kiss to her forehead. Maira's shoulders dropped and she relaxed under his touch.

"Mujhe abhi factory jana padega. Tum driver ke saath ghar jao. I'll be right behind you, okay?"

"Hamza, I'm not just going to leave you here—"

"Maira." His voice was gentle but final, the same tone he used when there was no room left to argue. "Please. Ghar jao. I'll be there soon, I promise."

She didn't believe he was as fine as he claimed, but the set of his jaw told her arguing wouldn't get her anywhere.

What she didn't understand — wouldn't understand for a while yet — was that he'd angled his entire body toward the door she sat furthest from the moment the first shot rang out, without thinking, without deciding to.

Some decisions his body simply made before his mind caught up, and all of them, every single time, had her name written into them.

+1

Maira had given up on sitting still somewhere around the fortieth minute.

She'd tried the sofa first, then the window, then finally ended up in Hamza's study, pacing the length of it over and over, her arms wrapped around herself, replaying the sound of gunfire on a loop she couldn't switch off. Every car that passed on the road outside sent her rushing to the window. None of them were his.

He said he'd be right behind me. He said —

When the doorbell finally rang, she didn't remember crossing the house to reach it. She just remembered yanking the door open and seeing him standing there, tired and rumpled and alive, and throwing herself at him before he'd even said a word.

"You're here — you're actually here—" She held onto him tight, face buried in his chest, and it was only when her hand slid to his side that she felt him tense and realised that she had just touched the area where he was hurt. "You're hurt. Aapne doctor ko kyu nahi dikhaya-"

"Mein theek hu, tum bewajah fikar mat karo, meine dikh diya hai doctor ko"

Maira's lower lip trembled and she just wrapped her arms around him again.

"Mein bohot daar gayi thi" she mummers. Hamza tightened his hold on her and kissed her forehead.

"Aap ko kis ne kaha tha ke mera khayal rakhne ke chakkar mein apna khayal na rakhein?"

"Jis se mohabbat karta hoon, usi ka khayal rakhunga na, meri jaan."

The words landed somewhere Maira wasn't braced for. She had heard him say a hundred soft, careless things to her before — teasing things, fond things, things she'd laughed off without a second thought. This one didn't slide past her the way the others had.

She went still in his arms, her face still pressed to his chest, and for a moment she simply listened to his heartbeat, steady despite everything the night had put him through, and let the sentence settle in properly. Jis se mohabbat karta hoon.

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, and found him watching her already, none of his usual composure in place, only quiet and open and a little uncertain, as if he hadn't quite meant for it to come out that way and wasn't sure what she'd do with it now that it had.

Maira didn't say anything back — not in words. She just tightened her arms around him, careful of his wound this time, and pressed her face into his shoulder, and let herself finally understand what everyone around her, apparently, had already known for months.

2.3k words! Sorry if this is bad I feel a little rusty!😪

Based on this request

Fandom: Dhurandhar. Word count: 6,500+ Trigger warnings: Gun play. Size difference. Virginity loss (both). Ship: Hamza Ali Mazari / Reader (F). Rating: Explicit. Status: Complete One-Shot.

Tags: comment to be tagged or removed.

@rishwatkhor @afortoru @torumii @bittermiseryy @legendmoonstone @bway43 @dhoodhsoda @precioussophia @astrellapyxis @anxiousbeeing @youngloreninja @gulaabjamun08 @noor-archive @heartsforyouworld @harrystyleskiwi9 @angelicyuna @willowsgoldenhour

Chapter 2: Nargis urf Noor

Summary: The dreams had started feeling less like memories and more like warnings. Hamza can no longer pretend that whatever ties him to this Noor is distant or harmless. It’s changed now, turned into something heavier and harder to ignore. While he tries to push it down, to focus on the life he has to build and the role he has to play, somewhere else, Nargis continues on like nothing is wrong, caught up in small, ordinary moments, in the warmth and noise of a life she’s always known.

Wapasi | Hamza's Masterlist | Dhurandhar Masterlist | Main Masterlist

THIS STORY IS COPYRIGHTED. I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO ANYONE TO POST MY FICS ANYWHERE IF YOU FIND THEM ON ANY ACCOUNT/MEDIA PLEASE REPORT IT, IT HAS BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY CONSENT.

This dream is wrong from the beginning.

He knows it the way you know things in dreams, like a feeling that sits low in the stomach, that particular dread that arrives before the mind has caught up with what the eyes are seeing. The wheat is the same wheat, gold and tall and swaying in a wind he cannot feel on his skin, but there is something underneath the gold that isn't right, something dark working up through the stalks from the roots, and the sky above is the colour of a sky that has already decided what it is going to do and is simply waiting for the right moment.

She is there. Of course, she is there. She is always there, in this field, in all of his dreams. Usually, her dupatta is the one bright thing, her laugh is the one sound that makes the world narrow to just itself. But she is not laughing now, and her usually bright dupatta is caked with mud. She is standing very still in the middle of the wheat, her back to him, and he is moving toward her urgently, yet he's getting nowhere near. The distance between them stayed exactly the same, no matter how fast he walked.

Noor, he called out, or tried to. But it was as if his head was under water... He could hear no sound.

But she must've heard him. Because she turned around. The sight of her made him stop, and the breath was sucked out of him.

Her hands were red.

Both of them, red to the wrist, and the wheat around her feet was red now too, the gold swallowed up and gone, the stalks bending as if they were shrivelling up, as if they were under the weight of something they were never meant to carry. She looked at her hands the way you look at something you don't understand, like they belonged to someone else and she is simply the one holding them.

And then she looks up at him. And her expressions were always the same. That one look where she looks at him like she is trying to hold him in her eyes long enough, that same terrible careful intensity. Yet now, it is full of something worse than fear, something that sounds, when it finally leaves her throat, like his name.

He looks down at his own hands.

Red. Both of them. Red to the wrist. And she screamed.

JASSI—

~~~~

Hamza woke up.

He was upright before he was fully conscious, one hand braced against the wall, breathing in the controlled way Sanyal's people had taught him for exactly this, for the moments when the body forgot where it was and needed something external to anchor it back. Stone wall. Rough plaster. Real. Karachi, not Amritsar. 2002, not whenever that field belonged to.

Her scream was still ringing somewhere behind his ears, in the place sounds go when they're too loud to process all at once. He sat with it, didn't try to make it stop, because fighting it only ever made it louder. He had learned this the way he had learned most things in the last two years, from the particular curriculum of trying something and finding out it didn't work.

The dreams had been getting worse. He had not told anyone. There was no one to tell. Or rather, no one it would have been safe or useful to tell, which amounted to the same thing. The dreams had been a background thing for years before Lyari, steady and strange and entirely outside any framework he had for explaining them. He had carried them the way you carry a stone in a pocket, always aware of the weight, never finding the right moment to set it down.

But since coming to Lyari a year ago, things had... Changed. The dreams had started arriving with blood in them, and the girl in the field had started screaming, and Jaskirat— No, Hamza was running out of ways to file that under not now.

He got up. Washed his face. Looked at himself in the cracked mirror above the basin. Hamza's face, not Jaskirat's, Hamza's, the one he had been wearing long enough that he sometimes had to look for the seam between the two faces, and said quietly to the Jassi, not now. The way you say it to someone you know will come back regardless, but at least you've said your piece.

He had a job to do. He had always had a job to do.

Not now.

~~~~~~

Nargis was losing an argument with a dupatta.

It was not, technically, a difficult dupatta. It was pale yellow, which she had selected specifically because this specific pale yellow was particularly flattering with the shade of her baby blue salwar kameez. It was a fairly cooperative dupatta. And yet somehow, in the hundred and twenty seconds since she had put it on, it had managed to slip off her left shoulder twice, catch on the doorframe once, and develop an interest in tangling up with her braid.

"Yaar," she said to the dupatta, in the tone of a woman extending one final diplomatic courtesy before escalating.

From the other room, Ulfat said, without looking up from whatever she was doing, "Sahi jodi banayi hai Khuda ne. Woh dupatta tumhari nahi sunta, aur tum kisi ki nahi."

"Bhabijaan."

"Hm."

"Woh baby pink wala humein nahi pehna. Aap janti hai na—"

"Haa haa, maine kuch kaha? Tumhe humari advice nahi leni thi na, toh karo ab kusti us wale ke saath," said Ulfat, entirely pleasantly, giggling as she watched her little sister untangle her braid from the dupatta.

Nargis eventually gave up on the dupatta and pinned it in place with three different pins, and declared herself ready for the day. This was, more or less, how most of her mornings went, slightly sideways, resolved by force of will rather than by anything or situation actually cooperating with her.

And that's who she was really, someone who thought good enough was good enough and had no regrets. She was not, by any accounts, a person who moved through the world quietly. She was the kind of person who was always noticed whenever she entered a room. She never demanded it, yet she always got the attention. She was too quick, too loud, too convinced that whatever was happening could be improved by her involvement in it.

Her bhaijaan called it exhausting. He said it at least twice a week, in the tone of a man who was exhausted and also would not have changed a single thing, which Nargis understood perfectly and chose not to point out because some things were better left as his private contradiction.

She adored him. This was simply a fact about her, as straightforward and foundational as any other. She adored Rehman Baloch the way the haveli adored its oldest walls, completely and without particularly examining why, because it had never occurred to her to live any other way. He had been her bhai since before she even knew what the word meant. He was the fixed point around which her whole life had organised itself. She loved him with the easy totality of someone who has never had reason to do otherwise. He was overprotective and occasionally impossible. But he was absolutely hers, and she accepted all of these things as a package deal.

She was arranging everyone's breakfast with the help of Akhlakh when she heard him coming down the corridor. She had memorised it at this point. He had that specific walk, unhurried and certain. The walk of a man who understood that the world would wait for him and had made his peace with its willingness to do so.

She didn't look up because she didn't need to. She knew, he would walk in, walk over, place a kiss on her forehead and then sit down for breakfast. And as predicted, he did, he kissed her forehead before sitting down next to where she was standing.

"Bhaijaan," she said, "Dekho, aaj chai humne banayi hai."

"Nargis, tumhe kitne baar kaha hai, yeh sab Akhlakh pe chod do. Agar tumhare kuch ho jaata toh?"

"Chai banate waqt kya ho sakta?"

"Ab tumhe list dein yaa—"

"Arre, bas bhi kijiye ab. Yeh lein."

She put the chai in front of him. He wrapped both hands around it and made an appreciative hum, which was his version of thank you, and she sat beside him and had her own. It was quiet this morning, with Naieem going out to get a gift for his friend's walima that evening and Ulfat going to drop Faisal off at school. Uzair was also not home, off on a two-day trip. Something about a shipment to some place. Rehman and Uzair always kept her out of it, even though she insisted that they let her handle the accounts at least.

This was the texture of them, mostly. The clashes happened almost daily. She had opinions, and she expressed them, and Rehman had a long-established tradition of being wrong about things (Nargis was always right, and no, she's not arguing on it) and not appreciating being told so, and occasionally these two facts arrived at the same time and caused significant noise. But underneath the noise was this: chai in the morning, her beside him, and a quietness that didn't need filling.

He looked tired today. She noticed it and said nothing about it because she knew him well enough to know that asking would only make him sit up straighter and say main bilkul theek hoon in the tone of a man who was clearly not and was going to maintain this position until it became true through sheer stubbornness. She filed it away instead, the way she filed the things about him she wasn't supposed to notice. Maybe she would make his favourite kheer for dessert today.

Later, after the haveli had settled into its afternoon rhythm and Rehman had gone to the factory, Nargis sat in her room with the window open, a book in her hand and the warm Lyari air coming in, and Faizal, who had just come back from school, asleep across her lap like a deadweight, which he was, the child slept like someone had switched him off, sudden and total, no warning, just gone. She had one hand resting on his back, feeling him breathe, and her other hand, the one with the book, had a thread around it.

She needed to change it soon. The colour had long faded, gone from something between red and rust to a loose, boring beige, worn smooth at the knot. She didn't know where it had come from, just knew she'd always worn one. She had a memory, inexact and early, of it already being there, already tied around her wrist, and of someone, a woman with soft hands and a face she couldn't reconstruct, who had made sure the knot was secure. She had never taken it off. For years, she had worn it under her sleeve without thinking about why, chaning it when it faded, and then at some point, the not-thinking-about-why had become the habit, which was simpler.

Her thumb moved over the knot once. Just once, slow and automatic, the way your tongue finds a sore tooth, like she was locating something that was already there.

Then she moved her sleeve down. Smoothed it. Looked back at the window, at the afternoon light coming through it, at the perfectly ordinary Lyari afternoon going about its business outside. Somewhere down the hall, Ulfat was calling out to Faizal, telling him to get ready fast if he wanted to accompany his brother to the walima.

Nargis did not think about the thread again as she woke her nephew up. She was very practised at this, at the looking and the stilling and the moving on, at the way you could acknowledge the presence of something without letting it become a question. She had been doing it long enough that it sat in her body as reflex rather than effort, which was, she supposed, what happened to things you carried long enough.

She looked back at Faizal as he rushed to get ready. She thought about whether she'd taken the lamb out to defrost for tonight. She thought about whether Naieem needed new shoes because she was fairly sure he'd outgrown the current ones, and Rehman would absolutely not notice this himself until the situation was critical. She thought about small, manageable things, and the afternoon went on, and the thread sat under her sleeve where it had always sat, keeping its own counsel.

The message came at half past nine.

Ulfat bhabi's phone would not stop ringing. Nargis heard the sound from the other room and then the silence that followed it. It wasn't the peaceful type, but something that spread when a person was standing very still while they processed something. Something was wrong. She was in the corridor before she had consciously decided to be.

Ulfat appeared in the doorway. Her face was arranged in a way when the person wearing them is trying very hard to be the one who says the thing calmly and correctly.

"Bhabijaan..." Nargis said it the way she said Rehman's name sometimes, when she needed him to skip to the part that mattered. "Sab Khairiyat toh hai na? Rehman Bhai theek toh hai—"

"Uzair ka call tha, Hospital se call kar raha tha." Ulfat's voice was steady, in the way it was when she was trying to not explode with anger or cry. "Naieem—"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I think I will update this series every Sunday now. Anyways, what do we think of this chapter? And Nargis?

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Dher Sara Pyaar,

part-1 < part-2 >part-3

• summary:- ​She spent her whole life trying to shrink into the background. Hamza would rather tear the world apart than let her hide from him. (Non-Spy AU)

• warnings:- Stalking, invasion of privacy, intense anxiety.

Author's note: Delayed? Yes, my bad! But I finally finished this chapter. It’s a certified slow burn, so ..... If you like the vibes, please leave a comment and reblog!

​P.S. I accidentally missed a few babies on the taglist this time, I'm so sorry! Drop a comment below if you got left off or want to be added. ❤️

Ever since that day at the rally, you started seeing him everywhere.

​It wasn't like you went out often anyway. Public spaces had always been a minefield—too loud, too many eyes, too many heavy reminders of the past you’d rather forget. You only braved the streets when you absolutely had to. When a craving got bad enough to override the panic and drag you out to Bohri Bazaar against your better judgment.

​And the second you stepped outside, the dupatta came up first. You pulled it close, arranging the fabric like armor because public spaces had eyes and eyes had opinions and you had spent enough years on the receiving end of both to stop pretending otherwise.

​That was how you first saw him up close. On one of those rare, forced trips. In some cramped gali, you turned a corner and his eyes hit yours the exact millisecond you stepped into view.

​Coincidence. It had to be. Lyari’s a small world, and you’d simply happened to be in the same place at the same time. That heavy, breathless stillness you swore you felt from him wasn't actually directed attention; it was just a man pausing between one thing and the next.

​You’d invented the rest of it. You were always terrifyingly good at doing that to yourself.

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🪞་༘࿐

𓊆ྀི Hamza Ali Mazari x OC𓊇ྀི

Disclaimer : This story is not based on actual people, in no shape or form do i support the real people involved in terrorism, gang wars or any form of violence. This story is loosely based on the characters of the Dhurandhar franchise and all credits lies with Aditya Dhar, except of course my OC. As this is not a canon story, Hamza Ali Mazari is neither a spy nor are Baloch brothers involved in any form of terrorism against India or are ally with anyone doing the same.

A 35 year old Uzair remembered it all just as clearly as 14 year old Uzair had seen it. He remembered the pungent metallic smell of blood mixed with sewage water, the petrichor scent of sky crying along with him as he found his parents floating in sewage, as if his mother hadn’t promised to make his favourite korma that night, as if his father hadn’t promised to return back with his favour candy, for him and Noori. As if they hadn’t been alive few hours ago.

He remembers so vividly, so graphically as if he could still hear Waseem chacha banging on his door to call him out, only for him to be met with that scene that has remain etched forever in his nightmares. He remembered how Noori was asleep when he went out, so oblivious and so blissful.

He remembered how a 25 year old Rehman had walked in without knocking and had helped him pack whatever he and Noori had left, and took them to his adobe, in a means to provide solace to two orphans.

Ulfat too remembered how Rehman had brought in his cousins, a teenage Uzair who clung to a sleepy two year old Noori, his chest trembling, and breathing uneven as didn’t protest when she took Noori from his arms, taking his responsibility from his, holding the chubby little one as if a mother were to hold her first newborn, the same way she caressed Uzair’s cheek before feeding him korma and naan from her own hands.

︶⊹୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

Noori remembered nothing, all that she remembered was the feeling of clinging to a trembling surface and then being passed to warm soft arms. Ever since she has gained consciousness all she knew was Ulfat, Uzair, and Rehman.

Noori had always been a curious child and hence one of her prominent question was why her name was her name Noorjahan, when everyone called her Noori? A name she loved and told proudly. And Uzair would tell her, in soft whispers about how their mother loved listening to Madam Nurjahan on radio, knitting a sweater for him in her rocking chair as her pregnant belly swelled, while she hummed to her favourite Sanu Neher Wale Pul Te.

As Noori would grow older, she would thank her mother for not naming her after Begum Akhtar or Farida Khanum, with all due respect to her mother’s other favourite singers.

︶⊹୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

Noori had always known love, she was easy to love, made to love. Her chubby cheeks squished as she was passed around like a hot potato, silver anklets jingling in her tiny ankles, Rehman had bought them for her, for her third birthday. It wasn’t remembered when the pampering turned into love and love turned into spoiling. Whatever Noori would want, would Noori get.

Uzair had left the way of ink for the way of violence, but Rehman and Uzair made sure the same didn’t happen with Noori. It was ensured that Noori must live a normal life, as she remained an only piece of innocence in the haveli whose floors were soaked with blood. She was the only peace remaining in the lives of those affected with revenge and vengeance.

Noori would babble for hours to Ulfat, telling her about her day in nursery, or sit in Uzair’s lap at dinner and complain about how cruel teachers were making a four year old do mathematics. Or complain to Rehman about how Uzair had teased her by calling her a wobalt , a creature he had seen in national geographical. Noori was truly offended when she got older and aware about its skills.

︶⊹୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

Noori knew what she wanted to be from a very young age. She was used to being referred as heroine from those that knew her antics, a delusional girl would she be called now. Even from a very young age she would be meticulous about how Ulfat would tie her luscious waves into braids or stand infront of the mirror reciting a dialogue she had heard in a movie.

She would sit in front of TV and watch movies with mouth open, in awe and trance. She would watch likes of Kareena Kapoor in kabhi khushi kabhi gham or Amrita Rao in Main Hoon Na and knew what she wanted to be like. A diva.

She would spend hours in front of Ulfat’s vanity, trying everything and anything, poor Ulfat wouldn’t have the power to stop her when she turned those gazelle like eyes towards her, wide and pleading. And frankly, it’s not like Ulfat mind it even a slightest, she always wanted a daughter to doll up and pamper, and with Noori she had her chance. Ulfat would beckon the best tailor in Lyari and make her fix the seams that would have made Noori cry from discomfort, making sure she wore the best frocks in the town.

Noori loved many things; getting ready, writing down, reading, acting, dancing, listening to music, all things feminine and taking snapshots of every special moment of her life.

For her fourteenth birthday, Noori had demanded a Nikon camera specifically in pink colour from Rehman, and Rehman had especially gotten it from Dubai through a partner.

The first picture in that camera was of Rehman and Ulfat in hospital with the latter cradling a newborn Naieem, the second picture was of Uzair in the jeep Rehman had gifted him, the third picture was of Donga and Siyahi with moustaches from lassi on their upper lips, fourth picture was of her pet rabbit whose name name was ‘bunny’, fifth was of her and her best friend Sajal in their new grade.

︶⊹୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

Haveli didn’t realise when Noorjahan grew up, when the waves that ended at her shoulder blade started falling down to her hips, or when did she start occupying full space on the wooden swing in the courtyard, when the tailor was replaced by seamstress.

Now, Noori would spend her day jotting down ghazals in her vintage leather diary, laying down on her stomach in her bed, the sheer white canopy falling around its four posts. Or she would sit in front of large vanity of her own and puff her body with pink dusting powder or tightline her honey eyed eyes using kohl.

And if she was doing none of that she would lay on the chaise lounge in her room, with diy mask on and listen to mehndi hassan or nusrat fateh ali khan, there was no in between for her. She seemed like a protagonist of one of the falguni pathak’s music video at this point.

Soon, she started filling the forms for a fashion designing school in Karachi, she knew where her passion lied. Once the forms were filled and sent through post was when she told Rehman, Uzair and Ulfat about it.

Expectantly, they weren’t in favour of sending her to Karachi, they knew what kind of risk their business brought upon her and how her being a vulnerability was a known fact to all who shared animosity with them.

However, as we know, ‘what Noori wants, Noori gets.’ It wasn’t easy to convince her brothers, or sister in law, but Noori was a master manipulator and even better of an actor who knew where to shed tears.

︶⊹୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

So now, Noori was on the verge of completing her four years bachelor’s degree in Indus Valley School of Art and Architecture, Karachi. Karachi was everything Lyari wasn’t, it was like a whole new world for naive Noori.

Karachi taught Noori that she captured attention more easily than one should, everywhere she went she grabbed attention and turned heads. It was hard not to notice her with her model-esque height, glowing ivory skin, flushed cheeks and honeyed eyes. She was used to having people glance at her first, look at her twice and stare at thrice.

Noori here was different than what she was in Lyari, a small town girl what was she didn’t want to be. She had joined a Pilates class, an acting club, went to a nearby cafe for her studies and tried to do everything that she knew she couldn’t lover wannabe influencer lifestyle once she was back in Lyari.

It was Karachi where she had gone to clubbing for first time, where she had her transformation from modest suits to short dress and tight jeans, where she had learnt to a little free. Sajal had accompanied her too, much to Noori’s mirth. But now it was time to go back.

︶⊹୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

Back in Lyari, a lot had happened. An attack on Naieem had happened which had rattled the family however a guy who worked at a doodh soda shop, Hamza Ali Mazari, had save him, adding him instantly to the inner circle of Baloch gang.

An attack that happened in Lyari rippled upto Karachi and Noori had to return back as soon as her degree was completed, Uzair and Hamza had went to bring her back with her belongings.

Noori was not surprised on finding Uzair outside her hostel, that wasn’t new but a new guy!? a guy who looked like he walked straight out Bollywood movies with majestic long mane like hair, a chest that almost competed hers, biceps bigger than her face which made her want to take a bit off of them and a look so non chalant it made her want to scoff not even looking twice at her, ‘kon hai yeh jisne dobara mud kar noori ko nahi dekha?’ but hey, atleast Lyari will be fun now.

︶⊹୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶

author’s note : this is absolutely shit, the actual draft was really very good, i promise!!! i wrote this in an hour after losing my actual good draft, it just wants to make me cry. i edited the gifs myself btw.

taglist : @gehra-hua @cloudmast @between-smoke-and-roses @roses-and-iron @mainyahaankyunhoon @laal-pari @ppinkitten @iamadelusionalwriter @twinblueflamee @tere-naal-nachna @pavbhajisupremacist @obsessedwidskincare @blossomedfloweroflove @mrgrungusthefrog @sanpiece @prettyprettypleaseplease

Hamza Ali Mazari x reader *♡°.•

Summary: you hated him with passion, and so did he. But for you both, there is a thin line between hate and want.

A/n: this is written for a request by @roses-and-iron I'm sorry boo it took sooo long😭 I'm sorry if the reconciliation (if you can call it that) is abrupt. Idk how I feel about this😭 I hope you like it (I want my passion and obsession backkk😭) y'all please comment so I can atleast be a bit motivated.

Credits of the picture to @afortoru

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. IT IN NO WAY OR FORM ROMANTICIZES, PROPOGATES OR JUSTIFIES THE ACTS OF CHARACTERS OR ANY REAL LIFE PERSONALITY. IT IS SOLELY WRITTEN IN CONTEXT OF THE CHARACTERS OF THE MOVIE.

Hamza ali mazari, bane of your existence and object of all your murderous desires. You had a little diary to write about things you wanted to talk about but couldn't, now you legally couldn't because it had very detailed and elaborate plans on how to eliminate him from your life.

(N S F W)

VIEWER DISCRETION MDNI?

I have attempted to keep it vague since I myself get extremely shy and nervous, and almost guilty? whenever I write something implying lovemaking, or smut.

And this is also my first EVER remotely spicy fic, itna spice meine gunaah mein bhi ni likha hai abhi tak.

So! Please bear with me, and enjoy my interpretation of our beloved Hamza Ali Mazari.

SORRY if this is not up to the standards!!!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Hamza is an angel. He definitely values his partner and would make them feel so loved. He’d probably focus on cleaning them up before himself, perhaps through a nice relaxing, warm bath for both of you, and whisper sweet praise in their ear afterwards, of how well you did.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Hamza is definitely a sucker for thighs, and the waist area, for some inexplicable reason. I think he’d love watching his wifey wear like a waist chain over that delicate skin.

He’d also love anything that would highlight the size difference between them, perhaps you’re even smaller than his hands.

And perhaps even you love his hands, especially cause they’re so big and thick, and when he would very methodically twirl his gun, with that ease, it would make you wonder what else those hands could do.

As for himself, he is probably most proud of his biceps. My guy is so bulked up that his kurtas threaten to tear at the sleeves, he’s probably really proud of them, and how he’s able to so casually pick up his wifey with them, or smush your face between them, or even let you grip them when they’re having a particularly intense session.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Hamza isint obsessed with cum, atleast not in the immature way most men are.

He won’t find satisfaction in releasing over his partners face and stuff, since that seems too condescending and degrading for him.

He’s definitely into releasing onto their stomach, or even inside them, when they’re planning for a baby.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

I think Hamza secretly likes his partner being in control sometimes, don’t get me wrong, he’s defoooo a gentle dom, but once in a while i think he’d enjoy his partner taking charge, that soft inner jassi in him that craves for attention healing alongside it.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Hamza is definitely not experienced in the sense he has not had previous partners before his wife.

Since Jassi probably never had a girlfriend, but, as we know Hamza is someone who does everything with precision and planning.

He’s very focused and whatever he does, he does it with perfection.

Hence, i believe my guy knows his way around, and the little tips and tricks, plus he’d probably learn the nuances over time.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

I think hamza enjoys making sure that his partner is satisfied too, and lovesss seeing how he’s affecting her, so he’d defo be into missionary.

Spooning is a close second, especially when he craves comfort, cause that way he’s literally in direct contact, with his chest against her back, and he can bury his face in her neck, tease her skin with his beard.

Now whether the spooning be with them lying down, or you on his lap, with your back against his chest. Mm.

When hamza feels particularly spicy or rough though, it would be hips/ass up, face down. Not a regular, but definitely when the mood is particularly hot.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Hamza was not cold or detached,

but deeply focused on your pleasure, on how you responded to every touch.

He doesn’t joke during intimacy, but he definitely teases you with playful filthy praise or just banter (when you’d tease him and call him weak, just to aggravate him). But overall he’s more into intense eye contact, slow kisses between thrusts, and that quiet growls of satisfaction whenever you made sounds for him.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

SKIP!

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

During the moment, Hamza is quiet but deeply romantic in his own way.

No grand declarations, because didn’t need them. Instead, it showed through touch like, he would slowly caress your cheek while making love.

He’d also be the guy to volunteer his hand to grip onto incase it’s too much for you, and wouldn’t complain even once, if you ever used his back like a canvas with your nails.

He’s just pull you into his chest and wrap both arms around you tightly, afterwards.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Hamza is definitely disciplined, so he’s not the reckless type, if you get what i mean.

He didn’t really do it often, not with you around, at least. But when he was alone, perhaps when you’re out shopping, or busy, and he discovered a particularly spicy photo of you, he’d think of you while doing it, imagining your hands on him, in the bathroom during a long shower or late at night after a long day.

He wouldn’t imagine any wild fantasies, he’d just remember how you looked beneath him, the sound of your voice, perhaps an audio clip if we’re talking D2 Hamza, a spicy photograph? that was enough to get him hard.*

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Hamza is into a few things, limited but not zero.

He’d absolutely LOVE overstimulation, if that is a kink, he would loveeeeee making you gasp and squirm under his touch, and he’d keep on going and going until your crying out his name.

Of course he knows your limits and always has safe words, but he’d definitely enjoy teasing.

Which leads me to the second, denial.

He’d be into teasing you endlessly, and

then denying you the release right at the edge, only to hear you whine helplessly.

He’s also into light impact, not that serious, hurtful kind. The gentle, once again, soft way, wherein he’d playfully spank you when you tease, or try to defy him, or do something without his permission, and his gentle dom would take over. (Perhaps closing your legs when the overstim gets too intense, resulting in a soft tap against your backside?)

He’s not a very vocal man, but he’d definitely whisper sweet, filthy praise into your ears. Calling you his, urdu equivalent of “good girl”, in that deep voice, which he knows will affect you.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Hamza values comfort, he’s not one to enjoy something uncomfortable for him and you.

The bed is his trusty partner, considering his size and weight, he’d probably break the chair and shi.

He’d also LOVE a good steamy shower, and then getting all lovey dovey, as it’s his space to unwind and relax.

If he’s feeling really freaky, maybe even the dining table. 👀. It’s totally imaginable, D2 Hamza, in his big ahh home, with his wifey on da table like dessert.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

I’ve read this somewhere before and I’ll repeat it. Hamza LOVES lingerie.

Hear me out, consider his impeccable fashion sense and those swaggy accessories. My guy loves a good visual.

So… seeing his wifey, in a particular set he specifically picked out himself, or if it’s of his favourite color, possibly black lmao. Mmmmm.

I think that silent, teasing look Hamza gives, like the one he gave to Yalina at the club, or the one when he pulled her onto his lap.

When that look is activated, you know Hamza is in the mood.

And it usually is triggered when you’re purposefully teasing him, maybe wearing his clothes, his huge shirts.

Jealousy doesn’t really trigger him as much, but he definitely is protective.

Protective > possessive, but, when he catches you getting way too friendly with a guy (on purpose to tease him), he will give you EXACTLY what you want that night, just enough to remind you that you’re HIS wifey 😡😉

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Much like popular belief, Hamza is NOT into ropes, i think it’s called bondage?

Yes, he is a gentle dom, yes he enjoys control.

But for a second, let’s remember the Jassi underneath the surface, the guy who has been both his sisters be violated in horrible ways.

The way his heart must’ve broken when he saw Jasleen in that room?

I don’t think, after that trauma, he’s ever going to be able to put his partner in ropes and handcuffs and stuff, even if he knows he’s not hurting her.

Also, contrary to popular belief.

Once again i LOVE reading dark hamza fics, i really do, it’s interesting to see people interpret Hamza in that way.

But IMO, Hamza is NOT into degradation.

He is NOT into calling his partner filthy, disgusting slurs. My guy is so respectful, I DO NOT think he will act that way with the person he loves, and neither is it arousing for him.

Cause once again, there’s that disciplined almost fauji jassi inside him, that would never disrespect a woman.

In the movie too, even as Yalina begged Hamza to kill her, Hamza didn’t even let her grab the gun, and lowered himself onto the floor beside her.

THATS A GENTLEMAN RIGHT THERE! Not a guy who’d enjoy calling his wifey “whore” and stuff.

Also If his wifey hesitates even slightly, his hands still immediately. No frustration, no questions, no pushing.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

HAMZA IS THE BIGGEST GIVER.

I mean buddy practically sacrificed his families and his whole life for the nation-

But other than that, he definitely LOVESSSSS giving, and he’d be very, very good at it. I mean we have established he loves drinking milk straight from the bottle so… (factory scene reference, anyone?)

Also, I don’t think Hamza enjoys his wifey being on her knees to give him pleasure. I really don’t think he enjoys positions wherein she feels inferior, even though he enjoys control and dominance, it would be when both of them feel equal.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Hamza is definitely a slow and sensual guy, I mean after a long day of stress and work, he’d want to come home to you.

But once again, I don’t think he’s the type to go all ROUGH on his wifey, just to take out his frustration, because as we know he’s a very disciplined man.

He’d enjoy longgggg, slow, lazy sessions.

He’d rarely enjoy a rough session IMO, maybe after an argument? You know, the angry kind after a fight, the makeup/patchup lovemaking kind?

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Hmm. This is interesting, because I don’t think Hamza is THAT into it, because I mean, when DOES he get the time to be honest.

And when he does, im sure my guy wants to take his time, because he’s never rash or impulsive.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Hamza would defo be open to anything you would want to experiment with, but I don’t really think he’s THAT into risk.

He wouldn’t do anything that would harm his, and your self respect.

(Whether you imagine yourself in a Hamza x SPY AU <like Anu in my book gunaah> or even if as someone like Yalina)

Although one thing on my mind, and that I have seen in other posts is, THE CHAIR.

OH BOY. Hamza would DEFINITELY, atleast once, when the whole warehouse is practically empty, pull you onto his lap, whilst sitting on that throne.

Maybe he’d even place you down, as his unoffical queen of lyari, and well… have his dinner, or dessert.

Cue False God by Taylor Swift

(The altar is my hips 🎶)

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Is this even a question?

It takes one glance at Hamza to know that man can go on until you’re crying, (although he’d never hurt you) and he’d still not be exhausted.

What else he gonna use those biceps for?? ;)

He’d probably hold you up in the shower, your legs wrapped around his waist, and he could be in that position, way longer than you’d be able to, EVEN IF, HES THE ONE holding you.

My guy got stabbed like thrice in that Iqbal-Hamza fight sequence, got violated by Omar, and still he managed to walk.

Like that man’s endurance is crazy, and m sure it would shine in lovemaking too.

3 is the minimum for him, probably.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Hamza does NOT use toys.

That little, tiny possessive flare in him would light up if he finds out you’re pleasuring yourself without his presence, let along with some random plastic toy.

He would want to be the one who makes you feel good, and he’d always be more than happy to do so.

But he’d never, ever like you using toys, he even himself wouldn’t use toys on you cause he believes he’s self sufficient, and frankly you have to agree on that.

You’d probably buy and use them, when he’s away, doing sher e Baloch duties, but the second he catches you using it without him, or his permission. Uhuh. He gon teach you a lesson that night.. and remind you whether he can make you feel better, or a piece of plastic

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

As established, Hamza is a tease, I mean the look buddy gave to Yalina when she pointed the gun at him-

GOODBYE.

I swear Hamza was NOT thinking holy at that specific moment.

He LOVESSSSS teasing, like I said, through both denial as well as overstim. ;)

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Hamza is NOT loud in my opinion.

He rarely speaks I mean, and when he does it’s so low and gruff, and that’s already so attractive.

He’d probably reassure his partner by like I said, praise, whispered into the ear.

Maybe one time you’d be worried you’re doing something wrong when he’s not making any noise, and he’d reassure you with his words, calling you his “perfect angel” as he’d convince you to go on.

That’s how quiet he is.

BUT BUT BUT, he DEFINITELY groans.

Growls (when he’s feeling feisty, similar to the one in that factory scene when he activates his inner batman), Groans (1000000%), those deep HMMMMMMMS.

He would NOT straight up moan or go like FUHHHHHHHHHKKKKK BABEEEEEEEEE 😭

He’d probably be like, oh fk….

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

IDK MAN M TOO SHY TO WRITE SMUTTTTTT AAAAA

BUT ONE IDEA THAT WILL COME UP IN GUNAAH SOON, you’ll find out.

Hamza giving his wifey a Payal, an anklet, so that whenever she walks around in the house he knows exactly where she is, and also so that it jingles when they-

OKAY. Bye.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

I mean.

I don’t want to be disgusting since the character is portrayed by a real life human, and the rest of the things were entirely fictional based, on the basis of my assessment for Hamza.

And I really admire and respect ranveer singh.

Hence I’d skip this.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

My guy LOVES his wifey, but he’s not horny all the time. He’s not ADDICTED, but I think he’d enjoy it every once in a while, it’s what keeps him human throughout all that work I mean. Realistically speaking :(

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Oh he’d defo make sure you’re comfortable, clean and cozy, and when you’ve fallen asleep, then only he’d probably let himself succumb to sleep too, holding you tighttt and close.

Also I think Hamza would be a totally baby while sleeping, like his lips pouty probably, his eyebrows furrowed in stress that managed to not escape him even in his sleep haha.

TAGLIST!!!

@precioussophia @browniemilkies @pn28 @avasif @st4rmiist @mainyahaankyunhoon @anxiousbeeing @batata04 @gulaabjamun08 @mylifesalreadyfucked

@lavenderwinkle @granddynamonovajbvgjjj

@roses-and-iron

@cloudyparadoxqueen

@kriti-ki-dulhania

@lavenderwinkle

@manjari08 @evemystjade

@scentedwolfdragon @chocolate-and-trouble @bway43 @royaldreamermonsoon @vaari-javaan

@moon-inked @skiicoreee @itstiaofficial

@opheliasreblog @laal-pari

Jaskirat Singh Rangi x Reader *♡°.•

Summary: You were pining but he was already in love. Based on this request.

A/n: I AM SO SO SORRY IF I BUTCHERED PUNJABI 😭😭😭( please dm mein aa kar gali do aur agar koi correction hai toh batao🙏🙏🙏🙏). Yalina was not honeytrapped by our babyboi, she is out there slaying and is not going to marry a burger baccha, giving her father bp problems like she was supposed to💅. The reader is gujarati but y'all can ignore that I guess. I struggled with writing flirting? Idk, maybe my rizz is limited to making people piss themselves laughing 🤷. Sorry for butchered grammar and spelling mistakes if any. LOOK AT THE FINE ASS COLLAGE I MADE, EVERYONE CLAP FOR ME COMEON!

Also why is this almost 6k😭 why can I not stop🙏🙏

To the anon who requested - you're allowed to shoot me if it's a hot mess or frankly dog shit. Thank you for being disappointed and still not telling me to fuck off, off this site(as of now).

And as always thank you too this diva @obsessedwidskincare for the last line🥺 that was literally what she said in DMs and I've put it as it is, and for also suggesting MANY scenes in this fic. You're the love of my life after Tom Hiddleston of course.

Thank you to my babygirl @twinblueflamee for suggesting the cute ass nickname! Maano means kitten!

Also meethi toor dal ko koi kuch nahi bolega🔪🔪🔪 varna samaj jao. Meethi toor dal with a little sticky rice is my comfort food😭😋

Also the epilogue look is the same one from Kabul 🥵🥵🤤.

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. IT IN NO WAY OR FORM ROMANTICIZES, PROPOGATES OR JUSTIFIES THE ACTS OF CHARACTERS OR ANY REAL LIFE PERSONALITY. IT IS SOLELY WRITTEN IN CONTEXT OF THE CHARACTERS OF THE MOVIE.

Y/n: 8 years old

Jaskirat: 10 years old.

Leaving your home had been the most traumatic memory in your eight little years on earth. Your parents had tried to delay telling you as much as possible because they knew how attached you were to the elderly neighbour. Your Baa who took care of you when you played in the West sun, who cut you your favourite kesar keri in the evening in pieces- just the way you liked it, who made you the crispiest bhakhri when your parents were too late for dinner. She was your grandmother in the real sense. Leaving her would break you, your parents knew so they waited.

Note- this is a work of fiction. It is not written with the intention of insulting anyone or misguiding people. My oc belongs to me. Plagiarism is strictly prohibited

Pairing: Ranveer Singh x Dhriti Sharma

Dhriti was having a bad day. The kind that she could feel in her body. Working as a professor was hard, especially when she had seniors who loved to dump their work on her.

She had woken up in the morning with a very happy mood, her boyfriend was in bed with her as he had no shoots, they had breakfast together and they made out for a little while before she left for work.

College, that day, had other ideas about how her morning would go.

She'd barely set her bag down in the staff room when Dr. Wagh, who taught Property Law and had never once, in three years, addressed her by name rather than "Sharma," appeared at her elbow with a stack of answer sheets that was, at a rough glance, at least sixty papers thick.

"Dhriti, I have a small favour. My daughter's exams are this week, I really cannot manage evaluation for the second-years right now. You'll do it, no? You're so quick with these things."

"I have my own third-year submissions due Friday, Dr. Wagh, I'm not sure I—"

"Just this once. You young ones manage everything so well, I don't know how." The stack was already on her desk before she'd finished the sentence, the matter apparently settled by virtue of having been raised at all.

She was still staring at the pile twenty minutes later when Professor Deshmukh from Constitutional Law wandered over with the specific, unhurried curiosity of someone with an entire free period to fill.

"So Dhriti, I heard you are dating some big shot bollywood actor?" the question made Dhriti panic, for her relationship with Ranveer was clearly a secret.

She laughed nervously waving her hand in a dismissive manner, "Just a rumour Professor, you know how these students are"

The Professor, hardly convinced but still nodded, she settled on the chair uninvited "So do you wish to be with someone? I have a nephew-"

And that is how Professor Deshmukh occupied her entire free period talking about potential matches though Dhriti had tried her best to dodge the topic.

It went like that for most of the day — not any single thing that was unbearable on its own, just an accumulation of small intrusions, each one reasonable enough by itself to be hard to object to. Someone else's photocopying she ended up doing because the machine "confused" her more than them, apparently.

A dean's-office meeting that ran forty minutes over because nobody else in the room seemed to feel any urgency about ending it, while her own stack of ungraded work sat waiting exactly where she'd left it.

By the time she got into the car that evening, she felt wrung out in a way that had very little to do with any one event and everything to do with all of it together, on top of a week that had already asked more of her than most weeks did.

And now she sat on the couch in their shared living room, a hand clutching her stomach as she felt

the day finally catch up to her. The front door banged open before she could even process it.

"Dhriti! Dhriti, dekh main kya laya hoon—" Ranveer stopped mid-sentence the moment he saw her on the couch, plastic bags still swinging from his hands. The grin dropped off his face like someone had wiped it clean.

("Dhriti! Dhriti, look what I bought-")

"Hey. Hey, kya hua?" He was crouched in front of her in seconds, bags forgotten on the floor, both her hands caught in his.

("Hey. Hey, what happened?")

"Nothing, just a long day." Her voice came out smaller than she meant it to.

"Long day nahi lag raha, baby, you look like you fought the entire world." He pressed his palm against her forehead, then her cheek, checking for fever the way he always did, like it was a reflex. "Bata na baby, what happened?"

("It doesn't look like you just had a long day, baby. You look like you've been battling the whole world. Tell me baby, what happened?")

Dhriti's eyes watered and as a reflex Ranveer pulled her in his arms. She buried her face in his chest and let a few tears fall "Dr. Wagh dropped all his answer sheets for me to check, baad mein credit khud le jayenge ki dekho beti ki shaadi ki taiyari karte karte bhi meine answer sheets check karli. Uper se woh Professor Deshmukh, she tried to set me up with her nephew! I swear-"

("Dr. Wagh dumped all his answer sheets on me to grade. Later, he'll take all the credit himself—'See? I even managed to grade the answer sheets while preparing for my daughter's wedding.' And on top of that, Professor Deshmukh tried to set me up with her nephew! I swear—")

Ranveer's eyebrows forrowed and he separated from the hug "Hein? Konsa nephew? Kyu bana hai bhai unhe gali ki aunty?"

("Huh? Which nephew? Why has she turned into one of those neighborhood aunties?")

Despite herself Dhriti almost cracked a smile "Veer baby, chodo na usse"

("Veer, baby, just let it go.")

Ranveer shook his head "Esse kesse chord du? Meri girlfriend ki setting karva rahi hai, mein bhi to janu kon banda hai"

("How am I supposed to let it go? She's trying to set my girlfriend up with someone else. I want to know who this guy is too.")

Dhriti smiled at his actions making Ranveer smile too. He kissed her forehead and said "Go and change, I bought chinese, wahi restaurant ka jo tujhe pasand hai"

("I bought chinese from the restaurant which you like")

While she was in the washroom, Ranveer took out the food containers and cracked open two cans of diet coke knowing her obsession with it.

Dhriti walked back to the living room, barefoot and wearing one of his shirts with her shorts. She hugged him from the back and stood on her tip toes, placing a kiss on her neck.

"Thank you" she whispered against his ear resting her head on his back. Ranveer turned around and wrapped his arm around her waist "Dinner kare meri jaan?"

("Let us have dinner my love?")

They ended up propped against the headboard a few minutes later, containers spread across the blanket, the movie already thirty seconds in because Ranveer refused to sit through the studio logos. Dhriti had her plate balanced on her knees, picking through the noodles, when she noticed her portion of vegetables kept disappearing.

"Ranveer."

"Hmm?" He didn't even look up from the screen, chopsticks already diving back into her plate.

"Woh mere vegetables hain."

("Those are my vegetables")

"Tu khaati kahan hai unhe. I'm just helping." He popped a piece of capsicum into his mouth, entirely unbothered, eyes fixed on the TV.

("You never eat them anyway. I'm just helping.")

She rolled her eyes but let it go, mostly because it was true, she would've picked around them anyway, and mostly because he'd said it with that same easy grin that meant he'd already known before she'd even served the plates.

Akshaye came on screen somewhere around the Goa trip, and Dhriti's whole posture shifted, just slightly, just enough. Ranveer smirked and bumped his shoulder with her

"you know? Akshaye bhai is playing Rehman" Dhriti's head snapped towards him as he casually declared that he would be working with her childhood crush.

"Bata doon unhe? That there's a professor in Mumbai who watches this film every month just for him?"

("Should I tell him?")

"Veer—"

"Main serious keh raha hoon, next time milunga toh bologa, 'yeh raha meri girlfriend ka number, she is your biggest fan"

("I'm serious. The next time I see him, I'll say, 'Here's my girlfriend's number—she's your biggest fan.'")

She hit him on the arm, not hard, laughing despite herself. "Chup karo, you're so annoying."

("Keep quiet")

"Teri galti hai, itna obvious crush rakhegi toh main toh chidhaunga hi."

("It's your fault. If you're going to have such an obvious crush, of course I'm going to tease you.")

"I will actually leave this bed."

"No, you won't" he said, far too pleased with himself, and pulled her in against his side anyway, dropping a kiss into her hair like it settled the matter. She let herself be pulled, her protest dying somewhere in the fabric of his t-shirt, and he tugged the blanket higher over them both, one hand still idly stealing carrots off her plate.

Somewhere between Goa and the drive back to Mumbai, her eyes started slipping shut. She fought it for a while, mostly because she didn't want the day to end on anything but this, but eventually she gave up, tilting her face up to press a slow, sleepy kiss to his jaw.

"Goodnight," she mumbled, already half gone.

"Goodnight, jaan." He shifted the plates off to the side without disturbing her, muted the TV halfway, and pulled her in properly, her head tucked under his chin, her breathing already gone even and slow against his chest.

He stayed there a long while after, not sleeping, just watching the muted movie flicker across the room, one hand resting light over hers.