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In the dusty streets of Lyari, she had been playing a game of hopscotch with her neighbourhood friend, laughing and hopping around, re-establishing the lines on the sand whenever they got smudged out and arguing with her friend Amina about who's turn it was next.
After 5 minutes of animated arguing, both of them had burst into laughter for no particular reason and decided they were going to attempt the hurdle together. They had held each other's hands and jumped on the first square together. A slight falter in balance and a twist in the ankle later, she was sat in the middle of the grid, clutching her leg and crying hot, heavy tears.
Amina, smaller than her in size, knew she could not help her up alone. Her eyes had fallen on a boy passing by, and without thinking, she had grabbed him by his dark blue kurta and asked for his help. He had begrudgingly hoisted her up on his back– thanks to Amina's incessant begging– rolling his eyes every time she winced.
He had carried her on his back despite his young age and the cruel heat of Lyari, and had dropped her on the threshold of her house. A river of sweat ran down his temple and his breathing was a little uneven but he had been as composed and stoic as a statue.
She had thanked him profusely- like a broken recorder playing on loop, to which he just stared at her, wondering if the pain in her ankle had travelled up to her head and made her lose her mind.
He had turned to leave when she abruptly asked his name.
"Rehman", he had answered with a skeptic look.
"Rehman, tum rehte kahan ho?", she asked with a bright smile.
If he had any doubts about her mental state earlier, he was definitely thrashing them with a hammer double the size of her head.
"Kyu?", he asked with genuine confusion.
"Batao na, pleaaaaaseeeeee", she dragged out the last syllable in a childlike manner, pouting her lips.
Rehman's eyes widened in shock. Yeah, she was definitely mental.
Still, he answered– giving a strange, mentally weird girl his address.
He had expected her to tell him the reason behind asking where he lived, however, she just thanked him once again, turned around and limped inside her house, crying out for her ammi.
For the next two days, Rehman couldn't shake the feeling of regret and dread after giving the crazy girl his home address. Curiosity had gotten the best of him but he should have known that curiosity also killed the cat, and that cat might just be Rehman.
Until, she had shown up at his house, dashing a floral sundress with a jar of shahi tukda in her hands, which she had been begging her mother to make for the boy who saved her life– as she liked to mention it to anyone in passing.
She had extended the glass jar to him and he had looked at her with such an apprehension- as if she had just asked him for his life.
"Ye kya hain?", he had eyed the container with a scowl on his face, a complete contradiction to her twinkling eyes and wide grin with a missing tooth.
"Shahi tukda. Meri jaan bachaane ke liye.", she replied shyly, smiling at the ground.
Rehman's brows had furrowed beyond repair and he had opened his mouth to correct her; to tell her he did not save her life but eventually decided against it, convinced that there's no way he was going to win an argument against a crazy person.
"Ismein zeher toh nahin hain?", he had looked at her suspiciously.
Her smile had faltered slightly. How could he think that she would try to poison him after he was the reason she was still alive? Had he thought so little of her?
Her extended hand had recoiled back to her body and she looked at the ground again, voice so timid he barely heard her over the blowing wind.
"Nahin, tumhein zeher kyu dungi?"
He sighed audibly.
'Kitna drama karti hain ye', he had thought before snatching the jar from her hands.
Her face had returned to its excited state and she stood there, waiting. Rehman had been once again, confused out of his mind.
"Ab kya chahiyein? Kuch aur bhi dena hain ya ab seedha meri jaan leke maanogi?", he had said almost irritably. Almost.
She ignored his remark, too preoccupied by content.
"Chakh ke batao na kaisa bana hain? Meri ammi ne banaya hain! Unke haath ka shahi tukda duniya ka sabse lazeez hota hain!!", she had declared proudly.
Rehman had stared at her for about a minute, expecting she would tell him any second that she had been joking. But all she had done was look at him expectantly. He groaned.
"Agar main ye khau toh tum chali jaogi?"
"Haan, pakka.", she promised with a toothy grin.
He had opened the container with hesitant hands, still not trusting her completely. The sweet smell of cardamom and saffron flooded his nostrils and he would've been lying if he'd said that it hadn't made his mouth water a little.
It had been so long since he last had a nice homecooked meal. Feeding her child with a good meal was the last thing on his absent and toxic mother's mind.
He broke a little piece, staining his hand with the warm milk and brought the bread to his lips. He took one look at the anticipation on her face and rolled his eyes, finally eating it.
The moment the rich taste of the caramelized bread and the creamy, thick rabri had hit his tongue, his eyes had softened.
She had watched it happen in real time. The closing of his eyelids, the soft sigh that escaped his lips and the look of nostalgia and satisfaction coating his face with a heavy blanket.
"Hoo-ba-hoo meri naani jaan ki tarah.", the soft admission had slipped out in a vulnerable moment.
Realisation had dawned and gone was the gentle look that had made him look so humane.
"Shukriya", was all he said before turning around and disappearing through the entry gate of his house.
After that, she had visited him every week with two pieces of shahi tukda and his reluctance and scowls had turned into small, almost invisible smiles and welcoming eyes.
He would accompany her to her hopscotch spot, and she would accompany him to his football games, and he would always get her an orange ice cream stick from whatever he had saved after helping his chachu-chachi around the house.
A/N: have u ever seen such a small(literally) prologue in ur life?? no right?? anyway I FOUND THE PICTURE OF THE KIDS ON PINTEREST AND DIDN'T WANNA USE BECAUSE IT HAS THEIR FACES BUT COME ON IT'S TOO FUCKING ACCURATE FOR REHMAN AND SAIRA AND THIS WHOLE SCENARIO. THE BLACK KURTA, THE HEIGHT DIFFERENCE, SAIRA TRYING TO CHOKE REHMAN TO DEATH, REHMAN BEING ANNOYED PLEASE SOMEONE APPRECIATE THE PICTURE.
also pls lmk if you want eng translations
Summary - Rehman hasn't been home properly for four days so when he doesn't come home even on the fifth night, you go to the factory.
[ Disclaimer - This is a fanfiction based on the Indian movie franchise - 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 this movie. ]
Warnings - smut
Based on this request
masterlist
The glass door to Rehman's office groaned when you kicked it open, the sound echoed through the empty factory.
Rehman looked up as you stood at the doorway with your hands on your hips.
Your brows were knitted and lips drawn in a thin line.
You looked very disappointed.
“Jaan?” He said, crossing the distance between you in quick strides.
He tried to cup your cheek but you just swatted his hand away.
“Kya hua?” He asked.
Your frown deepened.
“Kya hua? Chaar din se ghar ki yaad nahi aayi tumhe? Ab pooch rahe ho ki kya hua?” You said, punctuating each word with a light smack on his chest.
“Itna boora kya kiya maine? Ki tumne ghar aana hi band kiya? Haa? Bolo?” You yelled.
He caught a hold of your wrists, stopping you from hitting him.
He gently held them together. Tugging you closer and then pulled you into his chest.
You protested against it but he simply held you there, eventually his warmth subsided your anger.
“Meri jaan…” he whispered into your hair.
“Maaf kar dena…aaj kal kaam bohut ho gaya. Sorry jaan.”
“I missed you so much. Aap call bhi nahi utha rahe the. Mujhe laga maine kuch galat kar diya…mujhe laga aap mujhse naraaz hai.” You said.
He pulled away a little to look at your face and placed his hand on your cheek, brushing away the stray strand from your face.
“Kabhi nahi, main tum se kabhi naraaz nahi ho sakta.”
Then he placed a gentle kiss on your lips.
It was slow and soft, he let out a quiet sigh when you responded. Your lips moving with his.
He wrapped one arm around your waist and pulled you even closer if that was possible. You placed your hands on his chest over the smooth expanse of his kurta. He removed the dupatta from your shoulders, it fell onto the floor.
Then the kiss turned deep with a quiet desperation. The quiet of the factory enveloped them.
Then, the shrill ring of the phone made you pull apart.
Your hands fell to your sides, he let out a groan before he took the phone out of his pocket and threw it across the room.
The phone stopped ringing and the silence took over again.
He turned towards you and bent down a little, his gaze locked onto yours, before wrapping a powerful arm behind the bend of your knees. His other hand slid behind your shoulders. With a fluid, effortless motion he lifted you.
Your hands instinctively gripped his shoulders to support yourself. His face was just inches away from yours.
Without stumbling he walked towards his takht with you in his arms.
He sat down placing you in his lap. You placed your legs on either side, your chest pressed tight against his.
You slid your hands around his neck, his mouth found yours again. Hungrier now, his hands slid down to your hips gathering the fabric of your suit in his fists.
His hands found the hem of your suit and pulled it up, slowly, breaking the kiss just enough to pull it over your head and tossed it somewhere behind.
He pressed his hand flat against your stomach, sliding up, his fingers brushed your nipples through the fabric of your bra. His eyes moved from your breasts to the curve of your waist. He unclasped your bra, his palm squeezed the flesh of your mound. He pinched your nipples making you moan out his name.
You dragged your hands over the hard planes of his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart. You could feel him hard and demanding pressing against your clothed cunt.
You slid down onto your knees, between his legs.
He unbuckled his belt and pulled the pants down, his thick cock sprang out.
You wrapped your hand around the shaft and moved it along the length, you deliberately brushed your fingers on the tip of his cock making him hiss.
You wet your lips before he grabbed your jaw and pushed himself into your mouth. You almost choked at the sudden intrusion but took him in nonetheless. You move your head, your cheeks hollowed out as you sucked him deeper.
His grip tightened on the armrest and his breath came out uneven. When he looked at you he groaned at the sight with you on your knees. He closed his eyes as your teeth accidentally grazed a vein along his shaft.
His hands moved to your hair and gripped it in a makeshift ponytail. He tugged on it to make you bob faster, your saliva dripped down his shaft.
Just as you felt him twitch in your mouth, you gasped as he pulled away suddenly and spilled his cum all over your chest.
His eyes darkened as the fluid painted your boobs.
He removed his kurta before he pulled you to stand along with him, moving towards the table and with one clean sweep of his hand he cleared the table before pushing you towards it.
You laid back on the table.
He untied the drawstrings of your salwar and pulled it down your legs.
Your skin was set on fire when his large hand was placed on your thigh, pushing your legs apart until you felt the cool breeze on your panties.
Rehman pulled back to watch as his knuckle grazed over your centre, teasing the ache. Your pussy clenched around nothing but air. He moved his fingers gently over the fabric, finding your entrance and circling it perfectly.
“Rehman…please…”
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and pulled it swiftly down your legs. Leaving you completely bare.
He swore under his breath before moving to kiss you again as his fingers moved through your folds, finding your clit. Your moans are swallowed by him as he circled your clit. Your hips jerk up when he moves his fingers along your folds whilst rubbing your clit with his thumb.
Suddenly—
He plunged two fingers into your cunt.
“Aaaah—” your moan is cut short when he bit your lower lip.
He pumped his fingers in and out of you. He pulled away from the kiss and moved to your chest.
He swirled his tongue around your nipple while curling his fingers at the same time. A cry ripped from your throat, the coil in your stomach grew tighter.
A soft moan tumbled out, pressure snapped like a thread and you came apart around his fingers. He pushed himself up while you struggle to catch your breath.
He settled between your legs and your hands find his arms as they brace himself on either side of your head.
He pulled you flush against himself with just enough space to rock his hips with slow movements.
His cock slid through your folds and coated himself in your dripping arousal. You bite down hard on your lip when it rolls over your clit.
And in a moment of tenderness, he intertwines his hands with yours and brings it over your head.
Then he pushed in.
You gasp.
You're stretched out right away and he's only halfway in.
He grits his teeth and focuses on your face as you adjust to him.
Then he slammed inside completely. You squirm under him, rolling your hips to double the pleasure.
You pussy pulsed around him as he started moving his hips, his hand tightened around yours.
“Oh…” you whimper when he thrusts harder.
He picked up the speed, cock dragging against your walls. The wet slick of your bodies meeting echoed through the cabin and your eyes roll back as you picture his cock drenched in you.
Your body jolted and moved with every thrust, his cock throbbed while he pounded into you. Your back arched as he hit your sweet spot.
His thrusts got impossibly hard as he held you down, determined to find the sweet spot again and again and again.
You whimper as your stomach tightened again and your muscles began to lock in as his hips pummelled into you.
Your orgasm crashed into you with more ferocity than the previous one. Your pussy fluttering around his cock.
His pace slowed down but there was barely enough time before he slipped out of you and turned you onto your stomach. You whined as he pulled your hips up and placed a smack on your ass.
He thrusted in again, pushing back into your pussy. His cock felt different in this position, it’s longer and heavier. It made your stomach bulge. He grinds into you, reaching deeper.
His hips jerked suddenly. You can’t think of anything as his cock stretches your entrance in a new angle.
Rehman came almost as soon as your pussy clenched around him again,he groaned and with a couple of quick thrusts he buried himself deeper as ropes of cum shot into you.
You sigh as you feel him relax behind you.
A slow kiss is pressed to your shoulder as he pulls out.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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T.W:MDNI, THIS IS STRAIGHT P*RN 😭🙏🙏, Also Shauryaman isn't married in this AU, also guys please this is just a one night thing so there is not commitment.
The bass of the house music thumps through the floorboards of the club, vibrating up through your heels and settling somewhere deep in your chest. The air is a hazy cocktail of expensive perfume, sweat, and citrusy vodka, but tonight, you don't mind. Tonight feels different. The promotion finally landed no more grinding through endless spreadsheets and corporate bullshit. Tonight, you are celebrating, and the champagne in your hand tastes sweeter because you actually earned it.
"Arre, come on na! Drink up!" your friend Ananya shouts over the music, bumping her shoulder against yours.
You both dissolve into giggles as she tries to drag you toward the dance floor. The club is packed with the usual SoBo crowd people who look like they stepped straight out of a Vogue shoot, all designer labels and effortless confidence. You feel good. You feel alive. For once, the stress of the corporate ladder feels miles away as you spin around, letting the neon lights streak across your vision.
You retreat to the bar for a moment to catch your breath, leaning against the cold marble surface. The bartender slides a fresh drink your way before you even have to ask, and you take a long sip, letting the alcohol burn pleasantly down your throat.
"Finally, some peace," you mutter to yourself, scanning the room.
You pull your phone from your clutch, the screen's brightness stinging your eyes for a second in the dim club lighting. You quickly type out a message to your roommate:
'Hey babe, don't wait up. Tonight is going to be insane, going to be home super late. Sleep tight! Xo.'
You toss the phone onto the bar counter, letting out a satisfied sigh as you prepare to take another sip of your drink, but the sudden shift in the air beside you makes you pause.
You're about to take another sip of your drink when you feel the stool beside you shift. Someone has taken the seat right next to you, not with any particular politeness, but with the casual entitlement of someone who owns the space they occupy. The leather of his jacket creaks softly as he settles in, a sound that cuts through the muffled bass of the club.
"One more shot, same as before," he says to the bartender, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that carries effortlessly despite the noise.
He doesn't even look at the menu, he just knows what he wants. As the bartender slides the glass toward him, you can't help but glance sideways. He looks... different from the usual crowd here. He's older, with that dangerous edge of someone who has seen too much and stopped caring about any of it. A single strand of dark hair falls across his forehead, completely out of place against his otherwise immaculate look.
Then, he turns his head. It isn't a hesitant glance or a shy look, it's deliberate. His eyes lock onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch audibly in your throat. There's something terrifyingly sharp about his gaze, the kind of look that feels like he's already read your entire life story just by studying your expression. A slow, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth a smirk that says he knows exactly what you're thinking.
He drains the shot in one smooth motion, the muscles in his throat working as he swallows. He doesn't look away immediately. Instead, he lingers, letting the silence between you stretch for three seconds too long, making the space between your bodies feel charged with static.
"Nice dress, by the way," he says suddenly.
The unexpected compliment catches you completely off guard. You instinctively duck your head, your gaze dropping to the hem of your dress as a heat that has nothing to do with the alcohol spreads rapidly across your cheeks.
You try to play it cool, to pretend you're unaffected, but you can feel the blush burning hot beneath your skin. Your fingers fidget nervously with the stem of your glass, suddenly feeling very conscious of how exposed you are in this dimly lit space.
From the corner of your eye, you catch the subtle shift in his expression. He saw it. That sharp, observant mind of his didn't miss the way your pulse jumped at your throat or how your cheeks flushed crimson.
That slow, devilish smirk widens just a fraction, revealing a flash of teeth. He doesn't look amused in a mocking way; it's more like he's amused by his own power to fluster you. He finds your reaction entertaining, like a cat watching something interesting skitter across the floor.
"What? Ab itna sharma kyun rahi ho?" he asks, his voice dripping with that effortless cockiness.
His voice comes out smooth as silk, laced with a casual arrogance that suggests he's used to getting exactly what he wants. He leans in just a little closer, close enough that you catch the faint, expensive scent of sandalwood and aged whiskey clinging to his leather jacket.
"I was being genuine," he continues, his tone dropping lower, becoming more intimate as he invades your personal space without permission.
For a heartbeat, you consider pulling away, retreating into the safety of the girls who are somewhere across the club. But the sting of your promotion the reminder that you are no longer the timid intern who stammers through meetings flares up in your chest. You aren't some scared kid anymore, you're a woman who just earned her place in the world. You take a slow, deliberate sip of your drink, letting the cool liquid steady your nerves before you finally meet his gaze again.
A slow smile curves your lips as you lean forward, closing half the distance he created between you.
"Oh, please. I'm not shy, not at all," you say, your voice surprisingly steady despite the underlying tremor of excitement.
You let your eyes travel slowly down his leather jacket and back up to those piercing eyes, deliberate and unhurried.
"Actually, I'm quite delighted at the eye candy~" You add with a playful lilt, vaguely gesturing toward him with your free hand before bringing your drink to your lips.
The corner of your mouth quirks upward as you add one more parting shot, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carries just enough flirtatious heat.
"Though I have to wonder... is the view this good everywhere you go, or did I just get lucky tonight?" The challenge hangs between you in the air, thick and charged, like the moment right before lightning strikes.
Shauryaman's smirk widened, he was thoroughly impressed. He leans back against the bar, one arm stretching out behind him, claiming the space around you as his own territory.
"Lucky?" he echoes, the word rolling off his tongue like he's tasting it.
"Sweetheart, luck has nothing to do with it. This is just how I operate."
He studies you for a long moment, his gaze lingering on your lips before returning to your eyes.
"But I like the confidence. Kaafi interesting ho tum."
The way he says it makes it sound like he's just discovered something rare and valuable in the middle of a crowded room.
"So," you start, swirling the ice in your glass as you try to maintain that newfound confidence.
"Since we're already being so... genuine... what's your name?" The question comes out smoother than you expected, almost casual, as if you're not sitting next to a man who radiates enough danger to set off alarms.
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he studies you with that infuriatingly sharp gaze, as if deciding whether you're worthy of knowing. When he finally speaks, it's slow and deliberate.
"Shauryaman Gaur."
"But you can call me whatever you want."
"Shauryaman," you repeat, rolling the syllables off your tongue.
The name feels heavy and expensive perfectly suited for the man sitting beside you in his leather jacket and sharp smirk.
"It suits you. Sounds like someone who's used to getting his way." You catch yourself before you can sound too impressed, immediately taking a long, slow sip of your drink to create a barrier of casual indifference.
"And I'm Y/N," you add, finally offering him a piece of yourself.
You set your glass down on the marble bar with a soft clink and turn your body fully toward him, crossing one leg over the other. You meet his intense stare head on, refusing to let him regain all the power in this exchange.
"Now, Shauryaman... since you're clearly enjoying yourself so much, why don't you tell me about yourself? What does a man like you do when he's not busy collecting compliments at bars?"
A genuine laugh escapes him then not a polite chuckle, but something low and rough that vibrates through the space between you.
"Tell you about myself?" he echoes, leaning closer until you can feel the heat rolling off his body.
"That's a dangerous question, sweetheart. Puri kahani sunoge toh bore ho jaoge."
His smirk turns conspiratorial as he taps his fingers against his shot glass.
"Let's just say I've spent enough time in courtrooms to know when someone is lying, and enough time in places like this to know when someone is looking for trouble."
His eyes drop to your lips again, dark and hungry.
"Which one are you?"
A slow, knowing grin spreads across your face as you lean in closer, deliberately invading his space. You can feel the tension between you crackling like static electricity in the humid night air.
"I think we both know the answer to that, Shauryaman," you murmur, your voice dropping to a sultry register that makes the words feel like a secret shared between just the two of you.
"Trouble implies something you want to avoid," you continue, your eyes locked onto his with unapologetic boldness.
"And right now, I don't feel like avoiding anything at all." You let the implication hang there, thick and heavy as the expensive cologne clinging to his skin.
Underneath the bar, you shift your position. With deliberate slowness, you extend your leg, letting the pointed tip of your stiletto graze the fabric of his dark trousers. You begin to stroke the sole of your heel up and down the solid muscle of his calf, the movement rhythmic and teasing. You watch his reaction intently, curious to see if this brazen move will shatter his composed, untouchable facade.
The effect is immediate. His pupils dilate slightly, darkening his irises until they almost swallow the color entirely. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly as your heel traces the line of his leg, but he doesn't pull away. If anything, he seems to lean into the contact, his body responding to your provocation with a primal hunger that mirrors your own.
"Bahut badmaash ho tum, hmm?" he growls, his voice dropping an octave, turning rougher, more dangerous.
The cocky smirk is still there, but it's strained now, edged with a genuine desire that makes your pulse skyrocket.
"Badmaash toh hona padta hai, varna boring ho jayega, right?" you retort, tilting your chin up.
You don't stop the motion of your foot, instead, you press the heel slightly firmer against him, feeling the heat of his body through the expensive fabric.
_______________________________________________
Shauryaman leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear as he speaks, forcing you to tilt your head to catch his words.
"This place is getting a little too loud, don't you think?" he murmurs, his voice rough and laced with an obvious implication.
"I can barely hear myself think, let alone hear you." His gaze drops to your lips before flicking back to your eyes, the challenge laid bare between you.
You don't hesitate. The adrenaline from your promotion and the intoxicating pull of this dangerous man have fused into a single, reckless impulse.
"Is your place nearby?" you ask, your voice low but clear, deliberately making it known that you understand exactly what he's suggesting.
The reaction is instantaneous. That slow, knowing smirk returns to his face, but this time it's brighter, more triumphant. It's the grin of a man who has just won a game he knew was rigged in his favor from the start.
"Smart girl," he purrs, his eyes alight with something predatory and pleased.
He doesn't need to confirm it, the way his entire body language shifts tells you everything you need to know.
Without breaking eye contact, he extends his hand across the marble bar toward you. His palm is broad, his fingers long and elegant the hand of someone who has never had to work for anything in his life, yet carries the strength of someone who could easily take what he wants.
"Chalo fir," he says, his tone shifting from teasing to commanding.
Without hesitation, you slide your hand into his. His palm is warm, rough against your skin, and his grip is firm and possessive as he closes his fingers around yours. The contact sends a fresh jolt of electricity through your body, making your breath hitch. As you stand, he doesn't just let go, he uses his strength to help you up, his body pressing briefly against yours in a way that feels both protective and utterly claiming.
Instead of letting go once you're on your feet
you find yourself naturally seeking his heat, wrapping your arm around his thick, solid bicep. The leather of his jacket feels cool beneath your palm, but the muscle beneath it is warm and unyielding. The proximity makes your head swim slightly the scent of him, the weight of his arm as he guides you through the crowd, the way other people instinctively part to make way for his intimidating presence.
He lets out a low, throaty chuckle at your boldness, the vibration rumbling through his arm and directly into your own body.
"Itni clingy?" (So clingy?) he teases, but his grip tightens possessively around your waist as he navigates you through the sea of bodies.
"I didn't know you were this impatient, sweetheart."
The humid Mumbai night air hits you like a physical wave as you step out of the club's entrance, but the heat of his body beside you makes the breeze feel insignificant. Through the neon haze of the streetlights, you spot it, a sleek, midnight black Audi idling at the curb, its polished surface gleaming like obsidian under the city lights. It looks exactly like him expensive, dangerous, and utterly commanding.
He unlocks the car with a flick of his wrist, the lights flashing twice as if acknowledging its master.
"Get in," he murmurs, his tone shifting from playful to something more focused, more urgent.
You slide into the passenger seat, the leather cool against your skin, but the interior of the Audi feels charged with an almost unbearable tension. As Shauryaman pulls away from the curb with smooth, effortless precision, you turn your head toward the window, watching the glowing lights of South Mumbai blur into streaks of gold and crimson. You try to steady your breathing, trying to convince yourself that you're still in control, but you can feel his presence beside you like a physical weight.
Then, you feel it. Without warning, his hand leaves the gear shift and begins to creep upward. His fingers, warm and impossibly steady, find the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The touch is deliberate, slow, and utterly unhurried.
You gasp softly, a flush spreading across your cheeks that has nothing to do with the alcohol. You glance sideways at him, expecting some sign of hesitation or even a glance to gauge your reaction, but there is none.
He remains completely unfazed. His gaze is fixed forward on the road, his profile sharp and composed against the passing streetlights. He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other claiming you with a casual ownership that makes your heart hammer against your ribs. You find yourself staring at his hand instead of the road at the way the veins stand out along the back of his knuckles as he grips the steering wheel.
"Shauryaman..." you whisper, your voice cracking slightly, but he doesn't answer.
He doesn't even acknowledge the sound. Occasionally, he has to withdraw his hand to shift gears as the city traffic demands it, the brief absence of his touch leaving you feeling cold and desperate for contact. But as soon as the gear clicks into place, his hand finds its way back to your thigh, higher this time, his palm pressing firmly against your skin.
The sensation sends a lightning bolt of arousal straight to your core. You find yourself biting your lower lip hard to keep from making an undignified sound.
Every time his fingers shift, every time his thumb traces a small, maddening circle against your inner thigh, your body betrays you, arching instinctively toward his touch. The contrast between his calm, focused driving and the filthy, possessive exploration happening beneath the dashboard is intoxicating.
"Relax, sweetheart," he murmurs suddenly, his voice cutting through your haze without him ever breaking his focus on the road.
"Itni tense kyun ho rahi ho? Just enjoy the ride." His smirk is audible in his tone, that same cocky, knowing grin you saw at the bar.
He knows exactly what he's doing to you, and he's enjoying every second of your unraveling.
______________________________________________
Your breathing has become shallow, your chest rising and falling rapidly as the heat between your thighs builds to an almost unbearable crescendo. The friction of his palm against your sensitive skin feels like fire, and the way he continues to drive cool, collected, and completely in control is driving you to the brink of madness. You can't think about the destination anymore, you can only think about the desperate need to feel him closer.
"Shauryaman," you gasp out, your voice thick with need. You turn toward him fully, your fingers gripping the leather upholstery of the passenger seat so hard your knuckles turn white.
"How far is your place? Kitna der lagega?" The question comes out more like a plea than an inquiry. The ache inside you is sharp, pulsing in time with the bass of your own heartbeat.
Before he can even answer, the desperation overrides your usual restraint.
"Actually... can you just pull over? Now." You lean closer to him, your free hand finding his arm, feeling the solid heat of him.
"I can't wait. Main aur wait nahi kar sakti." Your eyes lock onto his profile, searching for any crack in that composed facade, any sign that he's as affected as you are.
The corner of Shauryaman's mouth quirks upward, a flash of something dark and triumphant crossing his features. Your plea feeds him. He thrives on this the power he holds over you, the way your composure crumbles at his mere touch. His ego swells visibly in the way he straightens his shoulders, the cocky satisfaction of a man who has just been completely disarmed by his own allure.
"Jaisa tum kaho, meri jaan," he purrs, the endearment rolling off his tongue with a dangerous sweetness.
The way he says it makes your stomach flip, the words feeling like both a promise and a threat. There is no hesitation in his voice, no concern for the traffic or the time, there is only the immediate gratification of your desire and his own.
Without breaking his stride, he jerks the steering wheel to the right, swerving the Audi off the main road. The tires screech softly as he guides the sleek black car into a narrow, deserted alleyway between two towering buildings. The shadows swallow the car almost immediately, plunging you into a private cocoon of darkness where the only light comes from the dim glow of the dashboard.
The engine cuts out with a final, throaty growl, leaving only the sound of your own ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city. The silence in the car is sudden and heavy, charged with an intensity that makes the air feel thick. Shauryaman doesn't move to unbuckle his seatbelt immediately, instead, he turns his head to face you, his eyes dark and hungry in the shadows.
"So impatient," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper that vibrates through the small space.
"You really couldn't wait five more minutes?" Despite the teasing words, there is nothing playful about the way he's looking at you. His hand leaves your thigh, but only to reach for your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip where you've been biting it so hard.
The proximity is overwhelming. You can smell the whiskey on his breath and feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Don't test me, sweetheart," he warns softly, his thumb pressing down against your lip, forcing it open.
"Ab tumne shuru kiya hai, toh ab main peeche nahi hatunga."
The click of his seatbelt unbuckling echoes in the confined space of the Audi. Shauryaman moves with the fluid, predatory grace of someone who has never known rejection, all in one seamless motion.
His left hand remains cupping your cheek, his thumb still possessively tracing your bottom lip, while his right arm stretches across the center console. The leather of his jacket creaks as he invades your space completely, looming over you until you're pressed back against the passenger door.
"You asked for this," he breathes against your skin, his breath hot and intoxicating.
Then, he closes the distance. His lips crash against yours with an urgency that matches your own desperation, but there's something distinctly Shauryaman about the kiss it's demanding, possessive, and tastes faintly of expensive whiskey.
Your hands fly up instinctively, fingers tangling deep into the thick strands of his hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as if you could somehow fuse your bodies together through the barrier of your clothes. You arch your back against the seat, seeking more of him, more of the heat that has been tormenting you since he first touched your thigh.
But you don't wait for him to take control. In a rare moment of defiance against his usual dominance, you break the tentative seal of your lips and thrust your tongue against his. It's a bold, hungry invasion an invitation and a challenge wrapped into one. You taste the sharp bite of whiskey and the salt of his skin as you explore the slick heat of his mouth, your tongue seeking out his with an uncharacteristic fierceness.
For a split second, Shauryaman stiffens. You catch the surprised hitch in his breath, a rare moment where the cocky, untouchable man is caught off guard. But the surprise lasts only an instant before it transforms into something far more primal. A low, guttural growl rumbles deep in his chest as he responds, his kiss shifting from demanding to downright ravenous. He meets your tongue with equal hunger, his mouth opening wider to accommodate you.
His hand on your cheek slides down to grip your jaw, tilting your head back to give him better access as his other arm wraps around your waist like a vice, hauling you across the console until there's no space left between you. The leather of his jacket presses against your breasts, the cool material a stark contrast to the scorching fever burning between your bodies.
"Fuck, sweetheart," he pants against your lips when you momentarily break for air.
His eyes are blown wide, dark with a mix of shock and intense arousal. The cocky smirk has been replaced by something raw and unguarded.
"Tum toh kaafi aggressive ho." The way he says it sounds less like a question and more like an admission of defeat.
The air in the Audi has become stiflingly hot, thick with the sound of your combined ragged breathing and the wet, desperate sounds of your mouths working together.
Your lips part from his, leaving a glistening trail of saliva between you as you gasp for air. Your chest is heaving, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The cramped confines of the front seats suddenly feel like a cage, preventing you from getting the full contact your body is screaming for. The friction of the center console between your hips is maddening, a constant reminder of the distance still separating you from his heat.
"The backseat," you pant, your voice cracking, raw with a need that borders on pain.
You grip his hair tighter, your nails digging slightly into his scalp to emphasize your demand.
"Shauryaman... piche chalo. Get in the backseat. Now." You meet his blown out pupils with an intensity that dares him to refuse, your fingers sliding down from his hair to clutch at the collar of his leather jacket.
Shauryaman pulls back just enough to look at you, his breathing just as wrecked as yours. A dark, dangerous light flickers in his eyes as he processes your command. He isn't used to being told what to do, but the way you're looking at him hungry, desperate, and completely undone makes the surrender sweeter than any victory. The smirk returns, but it's stripped of its usual casual arrogance; it's now something far more predatory.
"Zidd kar rahi ho?" he murmurs, though there's no real reproach in his tone.
"Fine. If that's what you want." His grip on your waist tightens one last time before he reluctantly withdraws, the sudden loss of his body heat leaving you feeling exposed and shivering despite the heat of the car.
You watch through half lidded eyes as he moves. He unbuckles his belt, swings his legs out of the driver's side, and rounds the front of the Audi. The streetlights catch the sharp angles of his face as he opens the rear door, stepping into the shadows of the backseat. The car rocks slightly as he settles himself in, creating an inviting space of darkness and leather.
"Well?" he calls out, his voice dropping to that gravelly, commanding register as he leans back against the seat, spreading his legs to make room for you. His eyes track your every movement as you fumble with your seatbelt.
"Don't keep me waiting, sweetheart. Aao yahan."
You don't need to be told twice. The urgency burning through your veins makes every second spent fumbling with your seatbelt feel like an eternity.
With shaky fingers, you release the buckle, the click sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet confines of the car. You practically throw yourself across the gap between the front seats, your movements clumsy and desperate as you scramble into the backseat to join him.
As soon as you cross the threshold into the rear of the Audi, Shauryaman's arms are already there, encircling you like iron bands. He hauls you forward until you land squarely across his lap, your thighs straddling his hips. The sudden contact sends a shockwave through your system, the feeling of your body pressed against the solid heat of his makes your head roll back as you let out a soft, broken moan.
"That's better," he growls against the column of your throat.
His hands slide down from your waist to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh with possessive force, anchoring you to him.
"Much better." The leather of the seats creaks under your combined weight, the small space now feeling impossibly intimate, charged with the scent of leather, cologne, and raw arousal.
The darkness of the alleyway outside presses against the tinted windows, sealing you both off from the rest of Mumbai.
Here, in this private cocoon, the only world that exists is the one defined by the friction of your bodies and the sound of your synchronized breathing. You feel his teeth graze your earlobe before his lips find the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving hot, demanding kisses in their wake.
"Ab bolo," he murmurs against your skin, his voice vibrating through your entire frame.
His hands begin to roam with renewed purpose, sliding upward beneath the hem of your top, his palms warm and rough as they explore the bare skin of your stomach.
"What exactly do you want me to do to you?"
You crash your lips against his again, but there is nothing gentle about this kiss. It is desperate, messy, and utterly uninhibited. Your tongue pushes past his lips with shameless hunger, seeking to claim every inch of his mouth as you kiss him sloppily, your breathing coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The sound of your wet, slick kisses fills the confined space of the backseat, punctuated by the soft growls escaping his throat.
Your fingers work with feverish impatience, clawing at the fabric of his shirt before finding the lapels of his leather jacket.
You push at the heavy material, trying to force it off his shoulders, desperate to remove every possible barrier between your skin and his. You want to feel the raw texture of his muscles against you without the interference of leather or cotton.
Shauryaman responds to your aggression with equal ferocity. As you struggle with his jacket, his hands slide higher up your back, his nails digging slightly into your skin through your clothes, pulling you flush against him. The leather creaks and groans as you jostle against him, the sound echoing the primal tension building between your bodies. He tilts his head, deepening the kiss until it becomes something almost painful in its intensity.
"Fuck, sweetheart," he pants against your mouth, breaking away just long enough to swallow your next moan.
His chest heaves beneath your hands as he fights for control of his own restraint. “Tum toh bohot horny ho rahi ho- You're going to tear my clothes apart." Despite his words, he makes no move to stop you, instead, he arches his chest into your palms, offering himself to your touch.
His hands shift from your back to your waist, squeezing your hips hard enough to leave marks, guiding your movements as you continue to fight with his jacket.
The darkness of the Audi feels like it's shrinking around you both, the space growing hotter and more suffocating with every desperate stroke of your hands and every wet thrust of your tongue.
Just as you think you might lose yourself completely in the heat of his mouth, you feel something new something deliberate and terrifyingly precise. His fingers have abandoned your waist, sliding downward to find the cold metal of the zipper running down the back of your dress.
A sharp gasp escapes your lips as you feel the teeth of the zipper begin to part.
The movement is slow, excruciatingly deliberate, as if he wants to savor every millimeter of skin he uncovers. The cool air of the car's interior kisses your exposed spine, but it does nothing to dampen the fire spreading through your veins. His touch is confident, the steady hand of a man who knows exactly how much power he wields over you.
But beneath the fabric of your dress, pressed against the core of your arousal, you feel something else entirely. As you grind against his lap in your desperation, you become acutely aware of the rigid length of his erection beneath his trousers.
It is solid, hot, and pulsing against your inner thigh, a physical testament to how thoroughly you have dismantled his composure. The realization sends a fresh wave of heat crashing over you, making your vision swim.
"You have no idea what you're doing to me," Shauryaman growls against your throat, his voice breaking on the words.
His breath comes in harsh, ragged bursts, and you can feel the tremor in his hands as he works the zipper further down.
"Tumhe andaza bhi nahi hai..."
His free hand slides up to grip your hip, his fingers bruising as he holds you firmly against that growing hardness. Every time you shift, every time your hips roll involuntarily against him, you feel the unmistakable evidence of his need. The contact is maddening, a promise of what is to come that makes your entire body ache with a desperate, hollow longing.
The zipper finally reaches its limit, and the dress loosens around your curves. Shauryaman pauses for one heartbeat, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as he fights to maintain some semblance of control. But when he lifts his head, his eyes are blazing with a hunger that is almost frightening.
"Now," he whispers, his thumb brushing against the newly exposed skin of your back.
"Let's see just how far you want to take this."
Desperation overrides any sense of propriety as you grab the loosened fabric of your dress. With a frustrated whimper, you shrug your shoulders, tugging the dress down past your hips. The silk slides off your body in a single motion, pooling around your waist in a heap of fabric until you're left shivering in nothing but your bra and panties. The sudden exposure to the cool air of the car makes your nipples harden instantly, but the heat blooming between your thighs is far more powerful.
You don't wait for his approval, you take what you want. Sliding off his lap, you maneuver yourself onto the cramped floorboard of the Audi.
The space is tight, the leather of the seats pressing against your shoulders as you kneel between his spread legs. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you look up at him, your eyes dark with hunger, seeing the way his jaw has clenched tight in anticipation.
Your fingers find the button of his trousers, your movements quick and practiced despite your shaking hands. You work the button free and then grip the zipper, the metallic sound echoing unnaturally loud in the silent alleyway.
As you pull the zipper down, the fabric parts to reveal the thick, impressive length of him, already straining against the confines of his underwear. The sight of him makes your mouth water, your pulse spiking at the sheer physicality of his arousal.
Without breaking eye contact, you reach inside his boxers, freeing him completely. He fills your vision hot, rigid, and pulsing with life. A low, appreciative groan rumbles from deep in Shauryaman's chest as he leans his head back against the seat, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment.
"Fuck, sweetheart... you really don't know how to play nice, do you?" he rasps, his fingers tangling in your hair as if already anticipating what you're about to do.
You lean forward, your breath hot against his sensitive skin before you finally take him into your mouth. The sensation is overwhelming the salt of his skin, the overwhelming heat, and the velvet texture of him. You wrap your lips around the crown of his cock, your tongue swirling around the tip as you begin to suckle hungrily. You use your tongue to explore every ridge, each deliberate stroke designed to draw more of those guttural sounds from his throat.
Shauryaman's hips jerk involuntarily upward when your mouth closes around him. His hands find your hair again, not pulling away, but guiding you, his grip tightening as you deepen your stroke.
"Oh god..." he gasps, his hips rolling forward to meet your mouth.
When you finally pull away from him, a thin strand of saliva connecting your lips to his glistening cock, you leave him gasping, his head thunking back against the leather seat.
His breathing is wrecked, his chest heaving as he struggles to regain some semblance of control after the onslaught of pleasure you just delivered. The raw, unbridled hunger in his eyes as he watches you is almost enough to make you whimper.
You don't give him a moment to recover. Climbing back up his body, you straddle his lap once more, your knees digging into the soft leather of the Audi's seat. You can feel the heat of his cock pressing against your bare stomach, the tip already seeking contact with your slick folds. The friction alone sends sparks through your nerves, making your hips roll forward instinctively.
With one hand braced against his solid chest for balance, you reach down to the waistband of your panties. Your fingers hook into the delicate lace, and you slide them down your legs in one smooth, deliberate motion. You kick them aside, tossing them somewhere into the footwell, leaving nothing between you and him but the thin barrier of your bra and the electric charge building between your bodies.
"Fuck, you're killing me," Shauryaman growls, his voice dropping to a dangerous, gravelly register.
His hands immediately find your bare hips, his fingers digging into your skin as if to claim you permanently.
"Do you have any idea what you're doing to me right now? The way you're looking at me..." His thumb traces the line where your thigh meets your pelvis, sending fresh waves of arousal through you.
You lean forward until your breasts press against his shirt, the friction of the fabric against your sensitive nipples making you gasp. You grind your hips down against his erection, feeling the full length of him through his trousers, the hardness of his cock promising exactly what your body is screaming for. You can feel your own wetness slicking your inner thighs, the evidence of your arousal undeniable.
"Ab aur control nahi ho payega...." you whisper against his lips, your voice thick with need.
"I need you inside me. Right now, Shauryaman." You arch your back, offering yourself to him completely, your eyes locked onto his dark, blown out pupils as you wait for him to take what you've so brazenly offered.
Your hands grip his broad shoulders for leverage, your knuckles white as you position yourself over him. With a desperate moan, you guide the broad, heated head of his cock to your entrance. The moment you lower yourself down, taking all of him in one smooth, agonizingly perfect thrust, your head falls back and a broken cry escapes your throat.
"Oh fuck... Shauryaman..." you gasp, your eyes rolling back as your body stretches to accommodate his impressive thickness.
The sensation of being filled so completely is overwhelming, sending lightning bolts of pleasure straight to your core. You begin to move, your hips lifting and dropping in a steady, rhythmic bounce that makes the Audi rock on its suspension. Each downward stroke sends you deeper, grinding your slick folds against him until you feel like you might shatter.
Shauryaman's hands fly to your waist, his fingers digging painfully into your hips to help control the pace.
"Yes... Bas aise hi, sweetheart. Bilkul aise hi." His voice is a wrecked growl, his hips bucking upward to meet every downward plunge of your body.
The sound of your bodies colliding the wet, slapping noise of skin on skin fills the cramped backseat, mixing with your ragged breathing.
You pick up the pace, your movements becoming more frantic as the pleasure builds toward something unbearable. Your breasts bounce wildly beneath your bra, your nipples scraping against his shirt with every movement. The friction is maddening, the internal pressure building behind your clit until you're seeing stars.
"Shauryaman i can't control myself..." you whimper, your voice cracking as you lose all control.
"Then cum for me,love.." he commands, his voice dropping to a possessive murmur.
His grip on your hips tightens further as he drives himself upward, meeting your rhythm with increasing ferocity.
The intensity of his gaze as he watches you unravel is almost as overwhelming as the physical sensation, his dark eyes tracking every twitch of your muscles.
You're close now, the orgasm building like a tidal wave. Your inner muscles clench around him in desperate spasms, milking him with every bounce.
"Shauryaman, please " you cry out, your hips moving in increasingly small, rapid circles as you reach the precipice.
The world narrows down to just this, the heat, the friction, and the man beneath you who owns every inch of your pleasure.
The dam finally breaks. Your entire body stiffens as the first wave of climax crashes through you, violent and all consuming. Your inner muscles clamp down on him in desperate, involuntary spasms, milking his cock with terrifying intensity. A high, keening moan tears from your throat as your vision whites out, every nerve ending in your body screaming in pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
"That's it... give it all to me," Shauryaman roars against your ear.
The sound of your orgasm seems to shatter his own restraint completely. His hips stop meeting your rhythm and instead begin to drive upward with punishing force, his movements raw and uncontrolled as he chases his own release. His fingers dig so deeply into your hips that you know you'll have bruises tomorrow, but you can't bring yourself to care.
The pleasure builds to an unbearable crescendo, a white hot pressure that makes your back arch painfully. You collapse forward against his chest, your forehead resting against his shoulder as you writhe around him, unable to stop the tremors wracking your frame. Your breathing comes in ragged, sobbing gasps as the aftershocks of your orgasm continue to ripple through your sensitive flesh.
Shauryaman's breathing becomes a series of harsh, guttural sounds. His body tenses beneath you, his muscles coiling like springs before he finally releases.
With one last, powerful thrust that buries him to the hilt inside you, he groans your name a sound that is half prayer, half growl as he pours himself into you. You feel the hot pulses of his cum filling you, each stroke sending fresh waves of pleasure through your already oversensitive body.
For several long minutes, the only sounds in the darkened Audi are your shared, wrecked breathing and the distant hum of the city beyond the alley walls. The car rocks gently as you both slowly come down from the peak, your bodies still fused together in the aftermath. Shauryaman holds you against him with surprising tenderness, his arms wrapped around you as if afraid you might vanish if he lets go.
"Shh... main hoon yahan," he murmurs against your hair, his voice rough but soothing.
His heart is still hammering against your chest, a frantic rhythm that gradually slows to match yours. He kisses your temple, his breath warm against your sweat slicked skin.
Dawgs im not in India rn, But can someone PLEASE give me an unbiased opinion on the entire CJP thing
DM ME MY DAWGS OR COMMENT LEMME KNOW WTF IS GOING ON IN THE COUNTRY AND I NEED OPINIONS FROM NEUTRALS NOT LEFT OR RIGHT WINGERS, I have enough of that.
𝓖𝓾𝓵𝓪𝓫𝓲 𝓐𝓪𝓷𝓴𝓱𝓮𝓷 (YS!Mycroft x female Desi!Reader) pt. 1
summary: You work at Candlin College as an assistant professor, and Mycroft gets his younger brother a job as a scout at the same college. But one day you both brush paths, and lets just say the eyes chico, they never lie.
length: little over 3k words!
warnings: none! (if there are anything that you see feel free to reach out and let me know!)
authors note! I have tried my very best to keep this reader as neutral as possible given that she is a South Asian/Desi reader, and I would like to note that there are times where India is mentioned however it is not to erase the South Asian and Desi identity but rather for historical purposes! (given that this is taking place in 1871!)
this is my first ever fic! i'd love to hear y'alls thoughts <3
shoutout to my friends (@sunnysyou) and bsf who'll remain anonymous for proof-reading + beta-reading! you're the best <3
The sun shone brightly through the window, illuminating your eyes as you sat at your desk, nose deep into a book. Papers were scattered all over the desk, peacefully coexisting amongst the various pens and pencils you had collected over the years. Towards the edge of the desk sat a carved wooden elephant adorned with delicate designs all over its body.
You sighed out loudly. How boring this book is... Working as an assistant professor was quite tedious and time consuming, but it was worth the while. Back home, most of your time was spent reading from your father’s library or in the bedroom either painting, dawdling, or again reading. One fine day, your father who taught at the city university, was invited to teach at Candlin College, Oxford as a professor of literature for Her Majesty’s government. To this day, the argument between your parents still rings in your ears, about leaving the family home to live in the very country of the colonists.
“We would be crazy to move to the country of the angrez! Our whole family is here; our culture is here! How can we just abandon all this and leave?” your mother brought up.
“Arrey, all these thoughts have come into my mind. I would not have accepted this position if it weren’t a good thing. Just imagine the opportunities that our daughters would have. There’s only so much we can provide for them na?” your father replied.
“Ufff,” she sighed out as she sat next to her husband on their bed, leaning her head on her husband’s shoulder. “I know baba, I know. It’s just… it’s a big change for everyone. And I too only want what’s best for our daughters. I don’t want them to be pressured the same way we were.”
And so, the family had sailed the journey to England almost 15 years ago. It certainly wasn’t very easy moving to the place home to those who did terrible things in your home country. It took years to finally make friends with people who were genuine and kind. People who saw beyond your looks and towards the person you really were. Compared to back home, you were able to get more than a thorough education in Oxford. Your family was well off, and so education was something that was highly encouraged, leading to you and your sister to pursue a higher education. Deep inside, your parents knew their daughters were meant for great things, and given the opportunity, why not take it?
And so, this is how you ended up with an assistant professor position at the very same school your father taught at: Candlin College. He was an esteemed faculty member at the school, inviting you to teach there as well. They claimed it was to “provide opportunities for the needy of the empire” or somewhat along those lines. Whatever the reason, it certainly wasn’t something to give up, right? Almost like “Steal from the rich, feed the poor,” you thought. You were quite nervous on your first day, the nerves running from head to toe. Waiting outside the dean’s office, surely your heart was going to escape from your chest and run back to your home.
Yet, it was not as terrible as once thought. You were shown the classroom you would eventually teach in, your room of residence, and most importantly, the library. Filled to the top with books, it seems as if the shelves were never ending. Every author and philosopher you could ever imagine was available in the library. Well, almost everything. There was a noticeable absence of any desi authors. Luckily, you could refer to your personal collection.
Snapping out of your state of nostalgia, you heard a knock on the door.
“Come in,” you beckoned.
The door creaked as it slowly opened, with a young scout walking in holding a large crate.
“Good afternoon, ma’am, I was told to bring this crate to your room,” he huffed, out of breath
Chuckling, you replied, “Of course, of course, you can place it wherever, if you can find space in this mess.”
“Between you and me, I’ve seen worse,” The man whispered.
A smile appeared on your face. “Thank you for bringing this up. I imagine it wasn’t very light.”
The young man replied, “All a part of my job Miss,” in a language only a few spokes in Oxford.
You were shocked to say the least. “You speak my language?”
He grinned slightly. “Truth be told, I needed something to do with all the free time I had the past six months, and I decided why not learn a new language. On the bright side, it annoys my older brother quite a bit.”
“I know a thing or two about younger siblings myself,” You let out a hearty laugh. “My sister loves to play with my patience when I return home to the country.”
“If I’m not mistaken, you’re from India, professor.” The scout noticed the perplexed look on your face, and continued, “It was the postage of the crate that gave it away. Similar coloring to what is found here in England; however, the text was different. In addition to the portrait of Queen Victoria, the text read, ‘East India Company, Twelve Annas.”
“You're quite the detective, young man. I am from India. Nevertheless, when I meant country, I meant the countryside. You see, my family now lives towards the Lake District.”
The young man stood across from you, with an expression of realization. “Oh. My mistake?” he sheepishly replied.
“All is well, no harm done,” you said with a smile. “Your brother must be tired of your ‘detective’ deductions.”
“To be frank, I do enjoy riling him up. It is my duty as the younger brother. Well, I must be off, for there is more work to be done for a scout. Good day.”
“Good day to you as well!”
As the young man began to exit the room, you went toward the wooden crate and placed it atop your bed. Taking the lid off of the crate, you were greeted with a variety of smells and aromas. Right towards the top was a letter, sent from your extended family back home. All the pleasant smells came from the pouches of spices and aromatics that were packed, the delicately wrapped bundles of sandalwood incense sticks, and the pouches of loose-leaf masala chai. English tea wasn’t terrible, yet nothing compared to the flavors of chai. Coffee came close to second, but chai was chai, wasn’t it?
Beneath the pouches and bundles were a pile of shiny fabrics and a small wooden box with a metal clip in the front. You grabbed the fabrics, unfolding them to reveal the intricately woven sarees that were sent for you. Very rarely does the opportunity present itself for a saree, yet you insisted on having some just in case of an emergency. Sometimes you go to the tailor to have a dress made from the fabric of the saree. A simple and appropriate way for you to represent your heritage. The sarees that your family had sent this time were various shades of deep turquoise, magenta, and violet. Each saree had a simple golden border, with delicate golden motifs on the main body. You then opened the wooden box to find small gold jhumkhas with tiny pearls and a variety of nose pins: both for everyday wear and for special occasions.
You felt incredibly spoiled. It was difficult for you to send a parcel back to your parents, let alone across the continent.
You returned back to the desk. Leaning back against your chair, you felt the sunlight hit your eyelashes again, and a smile spread across your face. You always loved receiving your “care packages” from your family in India. You always had a piece of home with you.
-----
He hadn’t heard anything about his brother in days. To anyone else, it was a sign of worry. But to Mycroft, it was a sign of relief. Usually, his younger brother Sherlock was always getting into trouble, and god knows what. With much persuasion with the Dean, Mycroft was able to get Sherlock a job at Candlin College even after the fact that he was in prison for six months, although it was the job of a scout. Was Mycroft the happiest about this decision? No. He was not. As much as his younger brother tested his patience, Sherlock was still his dear brother. He might put up a facade of being dark and brooding, but deep inside, he was a sweetheart who was afraid of losing yet another sibling. Not like last time, he always reminded himself every day. With his father away for so many years, Mycroft took it upon himself to be the man of the family. The person who took care of his mother, the person who made sure his brother went on the right path.
He was an overprotective older brother.
And for this very reason, this is why Mycroft was sneaking into the college.
Should he be sneaking in? In simple terms, probably not. He just needed the assurance that his brother was doing well.
“I’ll return in an hour,” Mycroft instructed the carriage driver as he got down. Putting his navy-blue bowler cap on, he poked his cane into the gravel streets of the campus. He took a deep breath, taking in the warmth of the sunny spring day.
His plan was simple. Find Sherlock and follow him around. If he notices him, hide in the nearest room until he can safely return to his carriage. Simple. Easy. Right?
Mumbling to himself, “Come on Mycroft, don’t be a coward…”
He started to walk around the grounds, trying to seem as inconspicuous as he could. He was just a stranger admiring the beauty of buildings and the greenery. Making his way towards the corridors, Mycroft slightly peeked his head into any open door he came across. He secretly hoped his dear brother would just happen to be in one of the rooms, and having the visual confirmation of his presence would calm him down. It would give him peace of mind that Sherlock had finally not caused any trouble. Having spent 20 minutes walking around every corridor and hallway, Mycroft wondered if Sherlock was around at all. Maybe he was in his room? Maybe he was taking the day off? Or maybe Sherlock was back to his mischievous ways… Mycroft shook his head. He mustn’t just jump to conclusions and expect the worst of his brother.
As he walked away from the classrooms and towards the lawn, he heard a voice call out his name.
“Mycroft? Is that you?” the voice called out.
On hearing his name, he turned around instinctively towards the voice, only to see Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “Oh dear,” Mycroft let out softly. He did not anticipate getting caught in his escapades. What to do? Where to go? Sherlock’s shouts gradually became louder, indicating that Mycroft needed to act fast. In a panic, he scurried around the corridor of the lawn in a mannerly fashion. After all, he was a gentleman. Spotting a pair of large and furnished doors, Mycroft hurriedly entered the library. Leaning against the door, he let out a deep sigh of relief. He felt as if his heart were to pop out of his chest and run away. He should probably stay in the library for the time being, Mycroft thought. Sherlock would eventually stop looking for him and inevitably would figure out what his brother was doing in the college. That was an issue for another time.
The library was quiet yet inviting. With everything going on with Sherlock, his mother, Sir Buccephalus, and the job in his Majesty’s foreign office, Mycroft hadn’t had even a minute to pause and breathe. This was refreshing.
He walked along the rows of bookcases filling the area, with his cane rhythmically clanking on the floor. The cases towered over him, giving the room an air of privacy. He could get lost in the midst of the shelves and for once have an hour to himself. An hour where no one needs him, free of responsibility. He paused in front of a shelf, eyeing the book right across from him. At eye level, Mycroft slightly tilted his head to the right, reading the spine. He had heard quite good things about this book, especially praise about the author. Maybe this is when Mycroft starts making time for himself.
That was what he was going to do. Read.
Decidedly, he grabbed the book off the shelf only to be met with the most beautiful eyes. He was entirely entranced by the warmth that the kohl-lined eyes offered him. Yet past the warmth, there was an underlying intensity within the depths of her eyes. They looked at him through the gap left by the book, studying him with a sort of curiosity, almost as if they were trying to figure out what Mycroft was doing here. He found it improper to stare at someone for so long, yet he couldn’t look away. There was something to these eyes which drew him in deeper and deeper.
“You are aware that it is quite rude to stare?” the voice whispered through the shelves.
Mycroft was gently startled.
“M-M–” he cleared his throat. “My apologies, Miss. It was not my intention to make you feel uncomfortable.” He looked down at his shoes, breaking eye contact as he responded. Finally opening the book, he read the first few lines until his sudden “interest” in the book was broken when the young woman again broke the silence.
“I do not want to come off as forthcoming, but I do not think I have seen you here before.”
“Ah, yes. You see, I’m just… visiting.”
“I take it that you know a student here?” the voice asked with genuine curiosity.
He left out a hearty chuckle. “Not exactly. Though I think my dear brother would somehow still find a way to learn here.”
From the gap, Mycroft could see her eyebrows furrow in confusion.
“It is a rather long story, I’m afraid, and unfortunately one that would bore you to pieces.”
“No story is boring; it all relies on how the story is told.”
“Ah, if that’s the case, then I am no storyteller.”
Her gentle laughter echoed through the silence of the library.
“What brings yourself to this library?” Mycroft asks her.
But before she could answer his question, the loud ringing of the bell went off across the college campus, startling both Mycroft and the stranger. The woman began muttering under her breath, remarking that she was late for class. He heard the book across the bookshelf close in a slam, and the clicking of heels as the woman quickly gathered her papers before speeding towards the door.
“Good day to you sir!” the voice beckoned behind her as she exited the doors.
Mycroft remained very still in the very position he was in before, almost in a trance. Actually, the better word would be entranced. Whatever it may be, Mycroft too headed towards the giant doors of the library, making his way back to his carriage with his cane once again clinking against the gravel.
As he approached his carriage, the driver questioned, “Back so soon sir?”
Mycroft, caught aback, replied, “Y-Yes. It seemed that the meeting did not go as long as expected. Please take my back to my flat Charles.”
“Very good sir. Heeyah!” the driver shouted at the horses.
Mycroft softened a little bit in his seat, knowing that his troublesome younger brother was doing well for once. Alas, maybe perhaps I can finally rest from all his shenanigans… As he leaned back, Mycroft relaxed, the tenseness sprawled all across his back, and his jaw finally disappeared. As he closed his eyes just for a moment, all he could see were the warm eyes that he was met with in the library. He felt an eventual warmth hit his cheeks, the sensation unknown to him. Mycroft tried to shake the feeling away, yet he could feel that the apples of his cheeks were still a little warm. How peculiar…
------
THUMP! went the papers and notebooks which you dumped on the desk. What a long day… It never felt like it was going to end. Having finally finished up with two back-to-back classes and four total classes in the day, you were exhausted beyond your wits. None of the other professors ever had as many classes as you had and it almost seemed as if there was an expected understanding that you had to prove yourself twice as much as your colleagues, however that was a conversation for another time… One that would startle many feathers at Oxford for they believed they were fair and just to everyone, something that you could very much disagree on. There was somehow always a blind eye towards how much work you were assigned while your English counterparts were not…
The sun was slowly dying down bathing the room with a deep glorious shade of orange, the warmth in the room filling you with some relief. Teaching was not one of the easiest professions yet at the same time it felt so soothing to the soul. You were constantly riveted by the intense academic conversation happening around. There was always something to keep the mind awake. Walking towards the edge of your bed, the mattress slightly dimpled as you sat yourself down on the soft cloudlike material whilst undoing the unnecessarily lengthy laces of your shoes. Shoes and beds do not go together.
Ahhhhhhhh…. Finally, some well-deserved rest.
Exhaustion had finally creeped itself upon you, immediately claiming your consciousness as you soon entered the land of dreams.
And it just so happened to be that a mysterious figure soon appeared in your dream, gently caressing your hands, glancing at you with the most affectionate eyes. The face was a blur and unfamiliar, and yet the eyes were a striking shade of blue, ones that you could not shake off so easily. But the question still remains, just who was the owner of these blue orbs?
this is my first ever fic! i'd love to hear y'alls thoughts <3
photo credits!!! (from Pinterest)
@poudulivre
@BaruLuv
@Vivian
@Ansikaaaa
@Shaheen
Dividers made by yours truly!
THIS FIC WAS WRITTEN COMPLETELY BY A HUMAN! I HATE AI! NO AI WAS EVER USED!
GUYS IM SOO SORRY FOR BEING SO INACTIVE WITH MY POSTS.
i still do comment duhh gotta keep the fandom alive but i just don't get time to write fics and I'll be travelling next week, And i will start writing fics again from 18th July but dw in this week I will maybe post something? (Maybe the Baba Bhandari Oneshot or the Tarun x Dev X Reader wala chapter 3)
AND YES AFTER I RETURN ON 18TH I BETTER SEE SHAURYAMAN GAUR FIC REQS I will watch the movie on the 18th
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Hi um can you write for alamgir like it's eid night and he has called few dancers for a program oky and ofc he's a king women who have been working in that field would love to dance for alamgir and in his haveli. and and he's not zada old here remember that scene where he's shown as thoda young (AAAHHHHH) so yeah keep that photo only and he's in his jawani so obv uska khoon khaul rha h sharirik sambandhon ke liye so yeah he calls few dancers and he also puts asharfiyan into one of the dancer's blouse and then kisses his own hand , which is a move for the kings that he wants that women to yk satisfy him. Now, their program is over and reader was busy smwhr idk but instead of reader the other dancer goes in aurang's room and he has been waiting chillum foonkte hue ab he's horny and he immediately starts getting aggressive and starts kissing her near her cleavage but then he sees her face and realise that she is the other dancer and not the one he wanted so yeah then respectfully (kissing her cleavage last time and giving it a lick) tells her to go and while all this reader was Waiting at his room's door and when the other one was gone aurang called her (pls do write dialogues in zordar urdu and hindi) and reader is obv very shy (and virgin) so aurang himself goes to her and by holding her waist walking side by side he lets her sit in his big ahh bed and then yk smut
THE EMPEROR'S FAVOURITE?
Pairing: Younger! Aurangzeb x Reader
T.W: GUYS TAKE A CHILL PILL THIS IS VERYY INDULGENT AND NOT HISTORICALLY ACCURATE THIS DEPICTS AKSHAYE KHANNA. ALSO SMUT SO MDNI
The courtyard of the haveli is a sea of flickering oil lamps and swirling shadows. The scent of burning camphor and heavy oud hangs in the air, thick enough to taste. Aurangzeb sits on his low, silk covered bolster, his legs spread slightly, a picture of imperial dominance. He is young, his skin glowing in the lamplight, but his eyes are dark and restless. He isn't interested in the politics of the court tonight, he is a man driven by a simmering, physical hunger that the Eid festivities have only made worse.
The music begins with a slow, hypnotic beat of the tabla, a rhythmic thumping that feels like a heartbeat. The dancers emerge from the shadows, their movements fluid and serpentine. You are among them, your heart racing against your ribs. You feel the weight of the Emperor's gaze even before you see him, a heavy pressure that makes the fine silk of your Lehenga cling to your skin.
As the dancers begin to spin, the lyrics of the song drift through the courtyard, luring everyone into a trance:
Tune parda uthaya kya baat ho gayi... Haye ye mulaqat vardaat ho gayi...
The dancers move in a synchronized swirl of color, their heavy skirts flaring out like blooming flowers. Every time they turn, the golden bells around their ankles the ghungroos create a shimmering metallic rain of sound. You follow the rhythm, your body swaying, trying to keep your eyes downcast as you were taught, but the heat of the night and the intensity of the music make it hard to stay composed.
Nain milaye humne ek duje se yoon... Raat hui phir din phir se raat ho gayi...
The dancers' movements become more intricate, their hands tracing elegant patterns in the air, their hips snapping to the beat. You feel the sweat beginning to bead on your forehead, the warmth of the fire pits adding to the feverish energy of the night. You catch a glimpse of Aurangzeb, he hasn't moved an inch, but his eyes are locked onto you, tracking every curve of your body as you move.
Kacchi kali sadda masoom chehra... Niyat noorani sadda dil hai sunehra...
The music takes a turn, becoming more seductive, more teasing. The dancers move closer to the royal dais, their movements becoming more suggestive, a playful dance of shadows and light.
You feel a flush creeping up your neck. You are trying to be the kacchi kali, the innocent bud but the way the Emperor looks at you makes you feel like you are being stripped bare right there in front of the whole court.
Parde de pichhe ki hai kisnu pata... Parde de pichhe ki hai kisnu pata...
The dancers spin faster and faster, a whirlwind of silk and gold. The air is filled with the sound of jingling bells and the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the performers. You feel a sense of vertigo, the world blurring into a haze of light and music. Just as the song reaches its hook point, the music suddenly drops to a low, pulsing hum, leaving a silence so heavy it feels like a physical weight.
In that sudden, breathless silence, Aurangzeb stands. He doesn't just rises. He walks into the center of the performance circle, his heavy silk jama rustling softly. The dancers part for him like the Red Sea, their eyes wide with awe and fear.
He stops inches away from you. The heat radiating from his large, powerful body is overwhelming. You can smell the sandalwood on his skin and the faint, sharp scent of the chillum he was smoking.
He reaches out, his hand large and calloused from years of training with the sword. His fingers are slow, deliberate, as they slide into the neckline of your blouse. You gasp softly, your breath hitching in your throat as his warm knuckles graze the sensitive skin of your chest. He doesn't look away from your eyes. He pulls his hand back slowly, a heavy gold asharfia glinting in his grip, and presses his fingers to his lips while his gaze burns into yours.
"Is jashn-e-eid ki asli raunaq takht par nahi, tumhare kadmon mein hai,"* he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous growl that sends shivers down your spine.
"Aaj shab, humari khalwat mein tumhara intezar rahega. Kisi aur ko humari bargah mein aane ki ijaazat nahi."
_________________________________________________
The heavy, gilded doors of the khwabgah have finally closed, sealing Aurangzeb away from the loud celebrations. The room is vast and dimly lit, the amber glow of the lamps making the silk hangings shimmer like liquid gold. The air is thick with the scent of sandalwood and the sweet, herbal smoke of his chillum.
He sits on the edge of his massive bed, leaning back against a pile of velvet cushions. He takes a long, slow drag from the pipe, the ember glowing bright in the dimness
The heat of the night and the adrenaline from the courtyard have left him in a state of high tension, his blood humming with a dark, predatory anticipation.
As he exhales a cloud of smoke, his mind keeps drifting back to the moment he stood before you. He can still feel the phantom sensation of your skin beneath his knuckles when he tucked that gold asharfia into your blouse. The memory makes his jaw tighten with a sudden, sharp surge of lust.
He finds himself thinking of Hirabai, but not with the heavy grief of a man mourning. Instead, it’s a flicker of a memory a reminder of a beauty that once captivated him. You reminded him of her, yes, but you weren't a ghost. You were real, breathing, and standing right there in the moonlight. The resemblance was a spark that had turned his quiet interest into a roaring fire.
"Uski aankhein... bilkul waisi hi hain," he murmurs to himself, a small, dark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
It isn't a sad thought, it's a provocative one. The way you looked at him, so wide eyed and startled, had stirred a desire in him to see just how much of that innocence he could break.
He sets the chillum aside on a silver tray, his movements impatient. He is tired of waiting. The memory of your soft, trembling presence is driving him mad. He doesn't want to think about the past anymore, he wants to possess the present. He wants to see if your skin is as soft as it looked under the lamps, and if your voice sounds as sweet when you whisper his name in the dark.
He settles back, his eyes fixed on the heavy doors, waiting for them to creak open. His gaze is no longer that of a contemplative Emperor, but of a man who has decided exactly what he wants to do once his prize arrives. He is ready to claim you, to drown out the memories of the past with the intense, overwhelming reality of you.
The heavy doors creak open, a sliver of light from the hallway cutting through the darkness. Aurangzeb doesn't move; he simply watches as a figure slips into the room, moving with a practiced, swaying grace. In his state of heightened arousal, his senses are clouded by the smoke and the desperate need to feel skin against skin.
He doesn't wait for her to approach, he reaches out, his large hand catching her waist with a sudden, commanding force that pulls her flush against him.
He is aggressive, his movements driven by a raw, unbridled lust. He doesn't offer a greeting or a soft word, he simply turns her, his mouth crashing against the curve of her neck and then descending toward her cleavage. He is hungry, his kisses hot and demanding, his tongue tracing the line of her skin with a primal intensity. He wants to lose himself in the sensation, to drown out the world in the heat of this encounter.
But as he presses his face into the soft valley of her chest, his lips brushing against her skin, he realizes something is wrong. The scent is different not the soft, innocent fragrance of jasmine and rose that belongs to you, but a heavy, muskier perfume. The skin feels different under his touch, less delicate. He pulls back abruptly, his eyes snapping open, the imperial fire in them turning into a sharp, cold flash of realization.
The lamplight catches her face, revealing the features of the other dancer a woman who is beautiful, certainly, but she lacks the luminous, soul stirring quality of your gaze. She is not the dancer he has been dreaming of. She is just a body, a distraction. The frustration hits him like a physical blow, a sudden, sharp irritation at his own momentary lapse in judgment.
He lets out a low, guttural sound of annoyance, his grip loosening. He doesn't cast her out with a shout, he is still a King, even in his lust. He leans in one last time, giving her a final, lingering lick to her cleavage a parting mark of his temporary, redirected interest before his voice turns to ice.
"Jao. Tum woh nahi ho jiska humein intezar hai," he commands, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The dancer, sensing the sudden shift from passion to cold dismissal, hurriedly gathers her silks and retreats, her face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and confusion. As the doors click shut behind her, the room falls into a silence that feels even heavier than before. Aurangzeb sits there for a moment, his chest heaving slightly, his eyes fixed on the door. The mistake has only served to sharpen his hunger. Now, he is truly, dangerously ready.
Just as he is about to reach for the chillum again, he hears a much softer sound. It isn't the confident stride of a dancer, but a hesitant, trembling footfall. He looks up, and there you are, standing at the threshold of the massive doors, looking small and breathtakingly beautiful in the dim light, your eyes wide with a mixture of awe and pure, delicious terror.
He looks up, and his breath catches. There you are, framed by the doorway, looking so small and fragile against the immense grandeur of the imperial chamber. The dim light of the oil lamps catches the soft curve of your face and the wide, luminous quality of your eyes eyes that hold none of the practiced boldness of the woman who just left, but only a pure, trembling innocence. You stand there, frozen, your fingers twisting nervously in the fine silk of your dupatta, looking as though you might bolt back into the shadows at any moment.
"Aao..." his voice breaks the silence, a low, commanding rumble that vibrates through the very air of the room.
It isn't a loud command, but it carries the absolute weight of his authority.
"Humari sabr ka imtehaan mat lo." His gaze is intense, tracking the way your shoulders quiver under his stare, his dark eyes drinking in the sight of your shy, beautiful form.
But you don't move. You remain rooted to the spot, your gaze fixed somewhere near his feet, your face flushed a deep, beautiful crimson. You are overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the room, the intimidating power of the man sitting before you, and the terrifying realization that you are finally alone with the Emperor. Your heart is drumming a frantic rhythm against your ribs, and your breath comes in short, shallow gasps.
Seeing your hesitation, Aurangzeb doesn't wait for you to find your courage. He rises from the bed, his movements slow and predatory, yet possessing a strange, magnetic grace. He doesn't walk like a man in a hurry, but like a King who knows that his prize is already won. As he approaches, the soft rustle of his heavy silk jama sounds like a warning in the quiet room. The sheer physical presence of him grows larger and more imposing with every step he takes toward you.
He reaches you before you can even think to move, his shadow completely engulfing your smaller frame. The scent of him sandalwood, expensive musk, and a hint of warm skin wraps around you like a heavy cloak. Without a word, he reaches out, his large, warm hand sliding firmly around your waist.
The contact is electri; his palm is broad and hot, even through the layers of your clothing, and the strength in his grip is undeniable.
He doesn't pull you roughly, but he guides you with a dominant, effortless ease. He turns you so that you are walking side by side with him, his arm a solid, unyielding weight around your waist, pulling your hip flush against his.
You can feel the hard muscle of his thigh brushing against yours with every step. He leads you toward the center of the room, toward the massive, silk draped bed that looks like an altar of indulgence.
"Itna khauf kyun?" he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, intimate vibration near your ear, sending a fresh wave of shivers down your spine.
"Tumhari ye thartharahat bata rahi hai ki tumne abhi tak Alamgir ka jalaal nahi dekha. Humare dabdabe se darna laazmi hai, magar humari nawazish ko radd karna namumkin hai."
He leads you to the edge of the massive, silk draped bed, the fabric feeling unnaturally soft beneath your trembling knees as he guides you to sit. The room feels smaller now, the air thicker, charged with the heavy, intoxicating tension of his proximity.
Aurangzeb doesn't sit beside you instead, he stands between your parted knees, looming over you like a god descended from the heavens. His shadow falls over you, a dark, protective, and terrifying canopy.
His eyes roam over your face, tracing the line of your trembling lips and the way your eyelashes flutter against your flushed cheeks. A slow, possessive smirk curls his lips.
He reaches out, his large hand cupping your chin, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip with a pressure that is both tender and demanding. He is looking at you not just as a dancer, but as a woman he intends to mark as his own.
"Tumhari aankhon mein woh chamak hai jo humein sukoon deti hai,", he murmurs, his voice dropping to a velvet rasp.
"Magar aaj, hum chahte hain ki tum sirf sukoon hi nahi, balki humari shaan ka bhi hissa bano."
He turns slightly, reaching for the heavy, jewel encrusted ornaments laid out on a nearby silver tray. You expect him to reach for a necklace or perhaps a pair of earrings standard gifts for a favored woman.
But his hand bypasses the delicate gold chains and the pearl strands. Instead, his fingers wrap around the base of his own magnificent, embellished turban, the one that holds the weight of the Mughal Empire itself.
Your breath hitches in your throat, your eyes widening in pure, unadulterated shock. You freeze, your heart hammering so hard against your ribs it feels as though it might burst.
He is reaching for his royal aigrette and the very crown of his head. This is not mere jewelry, this is the symbol of his divine right to rule. No servant, no queen, no even his most trusted generals are permitted to touch the regalia that rests upon his brow. To touch it is to touch the Emperor himself.
"Huzoor..." you gasp, the word escaping your lips in a tiny, breathless whisper of disbelief.
You want to reach out and stop him, to warn him of the sacrilege, but your body is paralyzed by the sheer audacity of his movement. You watch, mesmerized and terrified, as he slowly, deliberately takes off the heavy, silk wrapped turban from his head.
His dark hair spills loosely around his shoulders, making him look less like a distant monarch and more like a primal, dangerous man. He holds the magnificent headpiece in his hands, the rubies and emeralds catching the flickering lamplight and casting dancing red and green shadows across your skin. He leans down, his face inches from yours, his eyes burning with a dark, triumphant intensity.
"Yeh humari pehchaan hai," he whispers, his breath warm against your skin as he begins to lean forward, intending to place the heavy, royal ornament upon your head.
"Aur aaj se, iska ek hissa tumhara hai. Hum chahte hain ki jab hum tumhe dekhein, toh humein apna hi aks nazar aaye."
You sit there, trembling, the crown of the Mughal Empire having just been placed upon your brow a gesture so sacrilegious and intimate that your mind struggles to comprehend the reality of it.
But the most shocking moment is yet to come. Aurangzeb, the man whose word is law from the mountains to the sea, the man who bows to no one but Allah, begins to move. He does not stand over you with his usual imperial dominance. Instead, his powerful frame begins to descend. Your breath hitches, your eyes widening in sheer disbelief as the Emperor of India sinks slowly, deliberately, down from his height.
The silk of his jama rustles softly against the floor as he lowers himself until he is kneeling between your legs. He is at your level, his head bowed, his massive shoulders hunched in a gesture of profound, almost terrifying submission. The sight is enough to make your head spin; you have seen him command armies and execute traitors without a flicker of hesitation, yet here he is, making himself small at your feet.
He reaches out, his large, calloused hands trembling ever so slightly as they wrap around your ankles. His touch is surprisingly gentle, as if he is handling the most fragile porcelain.
He pulls your feet toward him, his eyes never leaving yours until the very last second, when he finally lowers his gaze to the delicate skin of your arches. The vulnerability in his posture is staggering, he has stripped away the Emperor, leaving only the man, raw and hungry for the grace you possess.
Then, he leans forward. You feel the warmth of his breath against your skin before you feel the sensation itself. He presses his lips to the top of your foot in a slow, lingering kiss. A profound act of worship. The heat of his mouth against your skin sends a jolt of pure, electric sensation straight up your spine, making your toes curl and your breath catch in a jagged sob of surprise.
"Tum sirf ek nasha nahi ho..." he murmurs against your skin, his voice muffled and thick with a passion that borders on desperation.
"Tum mera sukoon ho. Humne duniya jeeti hai, magar tumhare kadmon mein jhukne mein jo santosh mil raha hai, woh kisi takht par nahi."
He lifts his head, his dark eyes looking up at you from his kneeling position.
He looks at you as if you are the very sun around which his entire world revolves. The power dynamic has shifted in a way that is both dizzying and intoxicating, he has given you his crown, and now, he offers you his soul.
His hands slide up from your ankles to your calves, his thumbs tracing slow, sensual circles into your skin.
The intensity of his gaze, combined with the lingering heat of his kiss, makes your heart race with a new kind of fever. The air is no longer just heavy with scent, it is heavy with the promise of what is to come. He is no longer just a man who wants to possess you, he is a man who wants to be consumed by you.
As he rises from his knees, the intensity of his gaze shifts from worship to a dark, unyielding hunger. He doesn't let go of your ankles, instead, he uses his strength to guide you backward, pulling you slowly toward the center of the vast, silk draped bed. You sink into the plush velvet, your breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps as he looms over you, his shadow once again engulfing your frame.
His hands, still warm from the worship of your feet, travel upward, tracing the line of your thighs before coming to rest at the waistband of your lehnga. The air in the room feels electric, the scent of sandalwood and your own nervous warmth swirling together in the dim light.
"Daro mat..." he whispers, his voice a low, gravelly command that vibrates in your chest.
"Aaj sirf tum aur hum hain. Is duniya ka koi niyam nahi chalega."
With a slow, steady motion, his fingers find the intricate ties of your heavy, embroidered skirt. He undoes them one by one, his eyes locked onto yours, watching the way your pupils dilate with anticipation and trepidation.
As the heavy fabric of the lehnga begins to slip, pooling around your hips in a heap of shimmering silk and gold thread, you feel a sudden, delicious vulnerability.
The cool air of the room hits your skin, a sharp contrast to the searing heat of his gaze. He watches the fabric slide down your curves with a predatory focus, his jaw tight, his breathing becoming heavier as the expanse of your skin is revealed to him.
He does not stop there. His hands move to the delicate fastenings of your blouse, his touch light yet possessive. He works with the precision of a man who knows exactly how to dismantle a treasure.
Each small knot he unties feels like a heartbeat skipped. You find yourself arching slightly toward him, your body betraying your shyness as the primal need to be touched by him overrides your hesitation.
The silk of the blouse begins to part, revealing the swell of your breasts and the frantic rise and fall of your chest. The sight of you, draped in his royal crown and half unveiled in the amber light, seems to push him to the brink of his legendary self control. His eyes darken until they are almost black, reflecting a lust so deep it feels ancient. He reaches out, his fingertips grazing the very edge of the fabric, teasing the boundary between modesty and total exposure.
"Mashallah...Kya tumhe jannat se bheja he...?," he groans, his voice thick with a hunger that is almost painful to witness.
He leans down, his face hovering just inches from yours, the heat radiating from his body enveloping you.
Slowly, he descends. He begins at the hollow of your throat, his tongue tracing a hot, wet path downward. He licks the sensitive skin of your collarbone, then moves lower, his mouth grazing the swell of your breasts.
Every pass of his tongue is deliberate, a slow and agonizingly sensual exploration that makes your muscles twitch and your hips lift instinctively toward him. You are a storm of sensation, your skin tingling wherever his heat touches you, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
As his mouth wanders lower, tracing the soft dip of your stomach and the delicate line of your hips, the pleasure becomes an overwhelming tide. You can no longer contain the sounds escaping you. Your head tosses back against the silk pillows, and your fingers tangle desperately in his dark hair.
"Huzoor..."* you moan, your voice a broken, breathless plea.
"Jahanpanah... Alamgir..." The sound of his imperial title, spoken with such raw, uninhibited lust on your tongue, hits him like a physical force.
He pauses for a fraction of a second, his breath hitching at the sound. He loves the way your lips shape his name, the way the title of the world conqueror sounds when it is a desperate cry for pleasure.
It is the ultimate tribute, a surrender of your very breath to his glory. He drinks in the sound, his eyes flashing with a dark, triumphant pride. Hearing his title from the mouth of the woman he has just crowned makes his blood boil with a primal, possessive need to claim you completely.
His descent continues, his tongue moving with predatory intent toward the center of your heat. He licks the sensitive folds of your pussy, his mouth hot and demanding, swirling against your clitoris with a rhythmic intensity that sends jolts of electricity through your entire frame.
You are arching wildly now, your thighs trembling as you try to press yourself harder against his face. The sensation is so intense, so sharp, that you feel as though you might shatter into a thousand pieces of pure light.
But the teasing is almost too much to bear. Just as you reach the precipice of a screaming climax, his movements change. He pulls back for a heartbeat, his eyes locking onto yours with a ferocity that is both terrifying and beautiful.
Aurangzeb can no longer endure the agonizing distance between your bodies. With a sudden, primal movement, he rises from between your legs, his eyes burning with a dark, predatory fire. He reaches for the fastenings of his own heavy, embroidered jama, his movements no longer slow or methodical, but driven by a desperate, urgent hunger.
He strips himself of his royal finery with a fierce impatience, the expensive silks falling to the floor in a discarded heap of gold and crimson. The heavy jewelry, the symbols of his immense power, are cast aside as if they were nothing more than shackles holding him back from his true purpose.
As he sheds the last of his clothing, his powerful, muscular physique is revealed in the flickering lamplight a body honed by conquest and command, bronzed and radiating a heat that seems to pulse in time with his heavy breathing.
He settles himself over you, his weight a delicious, grounding pressure against your soft curves. He looms over you, a god of flesh and bone, his dark eyes searching yours for the final sign of surrender.
You reach up, your hands trembling as they roam over the hard planes of his chest and the broad strength of his shoulders, pulling him closer, needing the friction of his skin against yours. The sheer masculinity of him is overwhelming, a force of nature that threatens to consume you entirely.
He reaches down, his large hands gripping your thighs and spreading them wide, exposing your slick, aching center to the cool air and his searing gaze.
He positions himself at your entrance, the broad head of his cock teasing your folds, slick with your own nectar. You gasp, your hips tilting up in an instinctive, desperate plea for him to fill the emptiness that is driving you mad. The anticipation is a physical ache, a tension so tight it feels as though your very soul is vibrating.
With a low, guttural groan that sounds more like a lion's roar than a man's voice, he lunges forward. He plunges into you in one deep, powerful thrust, his entire length burying itself deep within your tight, velvet heat.
The sensation is staggering, you feel as though you are being split open and filled all at once, a massive, overwhelming fullness that forces a high, keening cry from your throat. The sheer scale of him stretches you, claiming every inch of your interior with a divine, territorial force.
He doesn't give you time to adjust he immediately begins to move, his thrusts long, hard, and unrelenting. He is not gentle he fucks you with the same ferocity with which he conquers empires, his hips slamming against yours with a bruising, delicious intensity.
As he drives deeper, hitting the very depths of your womb, the pleasure becomes a language of its own. You can no longer speak in the simple tongues of commoners; your voice rises in a melodic, desperate stream of Urdu, the words dripping with the same honeyed lust that saturates the air.
"Mere Maula..." You moan, the words catching in your throat as he lurches forward.
"Aapke jaisa koi nahi... aap hi mere khuda hain..."
The syllables are soft, breathy, and saturated with a devotion that is as much spiritual as it is carnal.
He groans, a deep, vibrating sound that you feel in your very bones, as your praises act like an intoxicant to his already fevered senses. The sound of your voice, singing his glory in the most intimate of ways, pushes him toward a state of madness.
Then, the breaking point arrives. A sudden, sharp contraction seizes your core, a wave of exquisite agony and ecstasy that starts deep within your womb and radiates outward to your very fingertips. Your back arches violently, your toes curling into the silk sheets as you let out a long, high pitched cry that dissolves into a series of broken, rhythmic moans. Your internal muscles clench around him in a frantic, pulsing grip, milking him with a desperate intensity that pulls a roar of pure, unadulterated triumph from his throat.
The sensation of your climax triggers his own. Aurangzeb stiffens, his entire body vibrating with the force of his release. He lets out a guttural, earth shaking groan, his eyes rolling back as he delivers several final, devastatingly deep thrusts. You feel the hot, pulsing surge of him filling you, a torrential flood of his essence that seems to coat your very soul.
As the waves of the climax begin to recede, leaving you limp and trembling in the aftermath, the frantic energy in the room slowly dissolves into a heavy, peaceful languor.
The only sounds left are the ragged, synchronized gasps of your breathing and the distant, rhythmic crackle of the oil lamps. The air is thick with the scent of sex, musk, and the fading sweetness of jasmine, a heavy shroud of satisfaction that settles over the bed like a warm blanket.
With a heavy, exhausted sigh, Aurangzeb finally pulls himself from your spent, aching body. The sensation of him leaving you is a bittersweet ache, a sudden emptiness that makes you shiver despite the heat. He doesn't move away far, instead, he collapses onto the bed beside you with a heavy thud, his large frame sinking deep into the plush mattress. He lies there on his back, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on the dark, ornate ceiling as he tries to reclaim his breath.
The sensation of the bed cover's fabric against your bare skin is a soft, welcoming embrace as you settle back into the warmth of the bed. You feel small and delicate in the wake of his massive presence, yet for the first time in your life, you do not feel disposable. The dread that had been tightening your chest begins to dissolve, replaced by a dizzying sense of wonder. You are not being dismissed, you are being kept.
Before you can even settle, his arm sweeps around you with a sudden, possessive grace. He pulls you toward him, dragging your body across the silk until your back is pressed firmly against the hard, warm expanse of his chest. His arm is a heavy, muscular band around your waist, anchoring you to him as if he fears you might vanish into the night if he lets go for even a moment. The sheer heat radiating from him is intoxicating, a living furnace that wraps around you and banishes the cool air of the room.
He tucks his face into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and rhythmic against your sensitive skin. You can feel the steady, powerful thrum of his heartbeat against your spine, a deep and resonant drumbeat that seems to synchronize with your own.
"Tum jaa nahi sakti," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a dark, velvety caress that sends a fresh shiver dancing down your arms.
"Aaj ki raat, aur shayad har raat... tum sirf humari ho."
The possessiveness in his tone is absolute, a royal decree that settles deep in your bones. It is a promise and a claim, a vow that you have been woven into the very fabric of his life.
You let out a long, shaky breath, finally allowing your muscles to go limp in his embrace. Your head rests against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut as the exhaustion of the night finally begins to take hold.
The weight of his arm, the scent of his skin, and the overwhelming sense of being wanted not just as a pleasure, but as a presence envelops you. As you drift toward sleep, the last thing you feel is his lips pressing a lingering, tender kiss to the nape of your neck.
I have been ignoring my other fics but idk rn i reallyyy wanna write an AK as Aurangzeb fanfic AND NO I'M NOT JUSTIFYING AURANGZEB HE CAN GO BURN IN HELL BUT ABOUT AK
so if you have any one shot reccs slide em in, I'll try to finish by tomorrow and post
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Disclaimer: This oneshot is inspired by the 2025 movie Dhurandhar by Aditya Dhar. This is in no way meant to idolize the real people the movie is about; they are bastards, and this is just a fanfic for the appreciation of the movie and the lovely actors who brought the characters to life. SO TAKE A FUCKING CHILL PILL and enjoy <3
Author's note: Iqbal is such a rage-baiting bastard, yawrrrr...I wanna fuck him.
---------------------------------
A Lesson in Diplomacy
Day 0 @ 3 pm
(MEA) Ministry of External Affairs, Delhi, India
Why did diplomat Yamini Sing have to be so fucking good? That's the question of the century to the woman. She ponders this question as she sits in her office massaging her temples. She felt the migraine rising along with the rage. “KABIR WHERE THE HELL IS MY KADAK NIMBU SODA?” she yelled at her assistant out the door of her office. Nimbu soda would have to do, because she can't drink straight vodka on the job.
Being this good is a curse and not a boon. Which is contrary to what most people think. Most people think that being fucking phenomenal at your job gives you perks. And yes she does get perks. Was she allowed to be slightly more bitchy, rude, and unconventional? Yes. Because she got the results. But if you were to ask Yamini if those perks were worth the migraines she would have said absolutely not.
Being that damn good as a diplomat means one thing and one thing only. Yamini is only sent somewhere where relations are fucked beyond repair. Because Yamini Singh is magical, she can manage any situation.
She once talked the economic minister of the UK down from increasing tariffs and tax rates influenced by the mohhle ki kaleshi aunty, the US, with just a drink and a few well scattered slightly scandalous jokes. Another time she repaired tense relations with the eastern european countries by hosting a party with enough hard liquor and fun to get twenty alcoholic diplomats drunk out of their minds. She drank so much she had to go sober for a month but that's okay because relations were repaired.
So yes. Yamini is magical, she is phenomenal, and she is brilliant. Most of all she loves a challenge. The entire ministry knows that. Normally she asks for the hardest assignments, because she has something to prove. Not to the world, but more to herself. But there is one diplomatic relation even Yamini doesn't want to touch with a 10 foot pole and a can of disinfectant.
That relation is the infamous India-Pakistan diplomatic channel. To put it lightly, it was entirely held together by an over inflated diplomatic ego, in other words it was a mesmerisingly devastating dumpsterfire that the hobos of both sides are watching from the sidelines. And everytime the fires escalate the hobos look at each other and say “Look your side started it”. Yet neither side is willing to pick up the fire extinguisher and put it out for good.
All because this dumpster fire provides a warmth that neither side wants to lose completely. And the truth is Yamini Singh absolutely doesn't want to manage the delicate dumpster fire that India-Pakistan relations are.
“KABIR! TU KYA NIMBU KA PEDH UGANE GAYA HAI KYA SAALE?” She fumes looking at her very empty and Kabir-less doorway right now. How long did it take to make a masala nimbu soda? She genuinely contemplates banging her head on the hardwood desk in front of her. Maybe she could plead brain damage to get out of this situation.
But more than that she hopes it will help her forget the conversation that got her here in the first place. Because you can't deny a diplomatic mission when it's given to you by the head of the ministry of external affairs. And you most definitely can't deny it when he asks for you by name. “KABIR!-”
—-------------------
Yamini looked at her watch absent mindedly then she looked at the door. “Yaar lunch ke liye late ho raha hai, kahan hai sir?” she sighed as she looked at the ceiling lazily wondering if the Mexican place would still be open by the time this meeting was over. Suddenly the door to the office opened, making Yamini straighten immediately her mentor was walking in.
Yamini stands up and straightens her blazer as the head of the ministry of external affairs walks in. Her mentor. Her boss. The man she aspired to be, the famous Dr. S. Shankar. “Good afternoon Yamini” he nods to her as he walks in
“Good afternoon sir” she smiles as she shakes his hand. “Please take a seat” Jaishankar says as he takes his own seat behind his desk. Yamini sits down as she looks at Shankar expectantly. He had asked for her personally, and she was incredibly excited. Because he always gave her the best assignments.
But Shankar didn't seem to hold the same excitement. Strange. He was always excited. “Sir...kya hua hai?” she asked carefully, putting her excitement on the back burner for the moment. He huffed a laugh that held no real joy "You are very perceptive Yamini, I like that about you. It's an important skill to have as a diplomat”
Yamini blinked at him. She did not interrupt in thanks because this was a compliment given to soften the blow of whatever was about to come next. “Sir, please just tell me what happened. Your lack of enthusiasm for this meeting is scaring me.” Shankar sighed knowing that would have to spit it out eventually so he better get it over with “India-Pakistan, I'm giving you the delegation”
“Sir no.” she said with a smile of disbelief “You can't be serious”. Shankar nodded gravely “Their delegation is landing tomorrow. I need you to handle it. The dumpster fire has never been more delicate. This has to go well. The fate of two nations rests on this.”
“Sir-” she begins balking for words. “Yamini. Don't refuse me, not when I'm putting so much of my faith into you. Not when I’m personally assigning you this.” Shankar interrupts leaning in to make his point.
Yamini takes a deep breath. She can't say no. She has no choice. But she tries. She stays quiet for 20 seconds as if looking for a loophole out of this situation. There is none. She exhales her breath. “Yes sir, I'll handle this.”
—--------------------
“Sorry ma’am! Woh nimbu nahi mil rahe the!” Huffs Kabir slightly out of breath as he brings Yamini her soda. The glass sits in front of her. The ice cold drink is making the glass sweat in this heat. The soda bubbles rise lazily through the ice, fizzing on the surface.
Yamini sighs as she takes a long drink. This was about to be a long week. “Kabir. Mere lal. Tu ek nimbu ka truck magwale. Agar phirse itna time laga toh phir tujhe hi nichod ke pi jaungi!” she smiles with a sweetness that's deadly. “Ji madam” he gulps.
“M-Madam ek aur baat” He stutters. “Kya?” she hums anticipating another nail in her coffin. Kabir gently rests a thick black dossier beside her nimbu soda. “Um you may want to look at the Pakistani delegation. More specifically the man heading it”
“Why is it always a man yaar?” she sighs under her breath. Yamini furrows her brow and opens the dossier. Her fingers flick though the pages until she lands on the page with the list of delegates. Her eyes widen then narrow and then widen again at the name at the top of the list. “Major Iqbal khan?....... Wait a damn minute” She mutters in disbelief as she stands up from her chair.
She walks to a filing cabinet in the corner of her office and yanks open the drawer. She uses her index finger to comb through the files “P-P-P- Papua New Guinea, Paruguay…..Pakistan!” She pulls out the file on Pakistan and flicks to its military section. Her eyes scan the page quickly
“E-Ek second….Major IQBAL khan?” She starts looking back at Kabir with a raised eyebrow as if she is questioning her own reading skills for a moment. Kabir nods solemnly. Yamini slams the file on Pakistan shut and shoves it back in her cabinet.
“Major Iqbal khan. The head of the fucking ISI. Is coming to India as a diplomat?” She almost can't believe this. “Ji madam” Sighs Kabir already anticipating her next reaction. And honestly her reaction was entirely valid.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!?!”
—--------------------
Day 0 @ the same time as previous segment
(MOFA) Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Islamabad, Pakistan
Major Iqbal Khan is not a diplomat. He is the head of the ISI. And yet here he was, the head of the Pakistan-India diplomatic party. How the fuck this happend is beyond him. He sits down in his office with a heavy sigh. The leather chair creaks under his weight as he leans backwards.
Iqbal crosses one leg over the other. An ankle resting over a knee, he runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Mir! Meri whiskey kahan hai?” he calls sharply to his junior in the ISI Sajid Mir. Where our heroine Yamini couldn't drink on the job, Major Iqbal was unburdened with that rule. Being the head of the ISI did have certain perks.
Iqbal genuinely did not understand why on earth he was chosen for this diplomatic mission. But as it turns out what he thinks doesn't matter when the President of the nation personally requests for you to head the delegation.
Mir sets his whiskey on the hardwood table in front of him. The amber liquid swirls with the large ice cube in the crystal glass. “Ye lijiye Major sahab” Mir nods. Iqbal takes a large sip from the glass. Sighing deeply as the whiskey burns his throat. Iqbal lights his cigar and takes a deep drag from it. Releasing a curling puff of smoke into the dark wooded office.
“Major sahab kal subah aapki flight hai India ki. Pure delegation ke saath.” Mir says as he hands Iqbal a dossier of his travels and his diplomatic notes. Iqbal nods in acknowledgment, Mir salutes him and leaves the office. He wonders how he got into this mess.
Iqbal’s inability to say no is how he landed in this mess. He remembers the conversation so clearly.
—---------
“Assalam Walikum Janab” Salutes Iqbal, straightening his tall powerful frame to its full height. Aqib Ali Zarwari, the president of pakistan nods in greeting “Walikum Assalam Iqbal, aao andar aao”
Iqbal takes five large strides and crosses the room. His patent leather boots thudding dully on the plush carpet of the presidential office. The room was covered in marble, gold, and other various types of luxury. Zarwari was seated behind his large gilded hardwood desk, his table covered with files and documents meant for his signature.
Major Iqbal stands in front of the desk in relaxed military posture. His hands behind his back, his feet shoulder-width apart. His posture straight and his aura undeniable. He waits for Zarwari to speak.
“Iqbal mai chahata hun ki tum kal subha India ke liye rawana ho. We are sending a diplomatic mission to Delhi and mai chahata hun ki tum unke sath jao. Na bas jao, balkai unke delegation ko head karo.” Hums Zarwari as he takes a drink of water.
Iqbal blinks. What? This is not at all what he expected. But he revolvers smoothly and begins speaking “Janab mai ISI ka head hun, mujhme aisi diplomatic training nahi hai. I don't think that I am the right man to send for the job. With all due respect.”
“Iqbal it seems that you yourself are unaware of the skill you possess. If I am personally asking you to be there that means I have a certain hope for you don't I? Don't tell me you are second guessing an order by your president” Zarwari raises an eyebrow at Iqbal.
Iqbal straightens more as if that was possible. “Janab, I would never be so bold as to argue against your orders. Jaisa aap chahien waise hi hoga, mai kal subha baaki delegation ke sath India ke liye nikalta hun.” He nods with a salute.
—----------------
Iqbal rests the dossier against his knee as he sips his whiskey. He loosely flicks open the file and begins doing what intelligence agents do best. Understand and psychoanalyze the target.
He would begin with the head of the Indian delegation. Diplomat Yamini Singh. A woman with a reputation that precedes her. Shit show supervisor and an expert in cleaning up fallen raita. She was sent to put out fires and rebuild bridges. How interesting.
Iqbal smirked to himself as he took a deep drag of his cigar. This diplomatic shit show would be entertaining at the very least. Because India, putting her as their first line, spoke plenty about what they were expecting.
They saw that he was the Pakistani head and made assumptions and began maneuvers. They wanted to start the mindgames before the events had even begun. Now the question was whether Iqbal wanted to give them what they expect, or flip every strategy on its head.
Questions. Questions. Questions. And just as many options.
—-------------------------------------------
Day 1 @ 11 am
High Commission of Pakistan, New Delhi, India
“Kabir, remind me. How many more days until I can retire?” Hums Yamini as she straightens her clothes. The small India pin on her lapel had gone askew. Today she wore a powder blue vintage channel boucle set that she had scored on pure chance during her time off in France. She chose this color to match the beautiful blue and white building of the commission. Beneath her blue boucle skirt she wore silk stockings and white patent letter red bottom heels.
She was the picture of elegance with her dark brown wavy hair swept over one shoulder. A white chiffon scarf pinned loosely to her head. Her makeup was minimal with a focus on her eyes. Not just because she had beautiful eyes, no. That was a given of course. But the focus on her eyes was particularly pointed psychological warfare. A bold ‘Look into my eyes Major Sahab’
“Madam, I'm sorry to inform you that that measure isn't in days. It's in years” sighs Kabir as he wipes the lenses of his glasses with his handkerchief. Kabir looks dashing as well in his own tailored slacks, blazer, and white dress shirt. His medium length salt and pepper hair coiffed back handsomely.
“Fuck my life.” She sighs as she gives herself a final once over in the reflection of a window as she passes by. Her white red bottom pumps clicking through the marble halls of the Pakistani High Commission in New Delhi. It was decided that the first meeting of both delegations would happen on relatively neutral territory.
“Madam woh toh hone hi wala hai. Infact ho hi raha hai” Chuckles Kabir darkly. “Kabir, I didn't know you wanted to be unemployed” she smiles.
“Ma’am did I tell you that you look absolutely stunning today?”
Yamini rolls her eyes at the obvious job saving flattery “Thats better”
“Yes madam. I like my job” Kabir smiled as they walked through the halls towards the foyer where both delegations were to meet
—----------------------------
Major Iqbal Khan ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. Dressed in his black debonair structured jacket and well tailored slacks to go along with it. In his corsage pocket rested an emerald green silk handkerchief. To his lapel rested a metal Pakistani flag enamel pin.
He stood surrounded by the Pakistani delegation speaking to each other in hushed tones about various topics. Some spoke about the weather, some spoke about what they had seen in Delhi so far, some spoke in whispers about how Iqbal was sent to head this delegation rather than a proper diplomat.
He placed his hands in his pockets as he looked around the high commission building. They were waiting for the Indian delegation. The commission building was quite nice but nothing special to Iqbal. Marble floors, high arches, chandeliers, massive glass windows, islamic architecture. Major Iqbal was obscenely rich. None of this meant anything to him, honestly it bored him.
“Major Sahab, the Indian delegation is about to arrive. T minus 60 seconds” whispered an aide in Iqbal's ear. Iqbal nodded as he created his throat and fixed the cuffs of his sleeves. He steels himself.
Because it's a well known fact, Major Iqbal Khan, the head of the ISI, is famously Anti-India. Yet here he finds himself the head diplomat in the Pakistan-India delegation. He was told to be diplomatic. He was told to be civil. But he is here very, very openly unwillingly. He has already decided something that he will not back away from. Major Iqbal Khan will not show an ounce of diplomacy.
He looks up from the cuff of his sleeve to find the Indian delegation walking in front the opposite hallway. For a moment. It feels like time itself has slowed down. He hears her first. Heels clicking on the sharp marble floor, a melodious voice laughing politely to a comment made by someone near her.
Then he sees her. White patent leather heels clicking on the floor, long beautiful legs clad in silk stockings, then a powder blue pencil skirt beginning above her knee. Then a tailored jacket much like his, in the same powder blue. The jacket was very well tailored to her, elegant, feminine, just the right amount of class and sex appeal. Dark brown waves swept over her shoulder. A loose white chiffon scarf pinned to her hair. Well balanced features, eyes that could drown a man.
The way the woman walked it was clear she had substance to back her confidence. Her eyes locked on him. He felt her drag them over his body. One of her eyebrows arched as she stepped closer. Her lips twitched into a slight smirk, her head tilted slightly. She was analyzing him the way he was analyzing her.
Oh so this was the famous, or rather infamous, Major Iqbal? Mused Yamini as she walked. He was a tall man with a strong frame. Broad shoulders accentuated by his tailored jacket. A frown on his face, masked slightly by his beard. Dark eyes that pierce her. My my my he was a good looking man. It was clear, the way he stood, he didn't want to be here. And as fate would have it, she didn't want to be here either.
Her delegation walked behind her and his delegation stood behind him. Diplomats on either side stared at each other with a strange mixture of feelings. The room felt as tense as the India-Pakistan border. Hate, intrigue, annoyance, exhaustion. These were just some of the many feelings wafting through the room.
They stopped in front of each other. None of the usual cordial smiles were exchanged. Iqbal stared at her with his intense eyes. He was trying to intimidate her. She stared back, deep into his eyes, trying to tell him passionately that this maneuver of his was bullshit. She wasn't going to let it work.
Grace and etiquette says that the male head of a delegation should extend his hand first if the person leading the opposite delegation was a woman. Iqbal kept his hands firmly in his pockets. He didn't even make a move to pull his hands out of his pockets. Oh! What a bastard.
The Indian delegates blinked. They blinked at the blatant disrespect of Yamini. They were this close to forgetting where they were standing in the name of Yamini’s honor. Kabir took a deep breath to not lose his mind.The Pakistani delegates blinked. They blinked to hide their horror. What the fuck was Iqbal doing.
Yamini didn't let the disrespect bristle her. Her lips remained in the smirk they held ever since she walked into view. Her head tilted slightly, her eyes twinkled with a certain spark. He wants to be a bastard and not make the first move as he should? Fine. She would let him win this round. But not without a stab of her own.
She smiles at Iqbal. A cordial smile that reaches nowhere, openly fake. She folds her hands into a namaste. “Namaste Major Sahab, welcome to India” she nods befores he continues “We are honored that we get to host you for your first ever diplomatic mission.”
“This isn't my first mission” Iqbal hums darkly. “Well that's a surprise” she chuckles. “Is it?” he hums, stepping forward. Tobacco, oud, and something darker in his cologne clouds Yamini’s air. She keeps a pleasant smile on her face “ If this really isn't your first diplomatic mission then it truly is surprising. Yeh lack of etiquette sirf aapke sabse khas padosi ke liye hai?” She steps closer.
Both delegations gasp. Some out loud, some cover it with a cough, some clear their throat awkwardly. Yamini grins at him. Iqbal raises an eyebrow with a smile, his gold tooth showing. “Lack of etiquette? Singh Madam, we have only been in each other's proximity for 30 seconds and you are already questioning my manners?”
“Ji jo dikhega usi pe toh question karenge? Aap intelligence me hai na?” She responds. Iqbal nods. “You must be aware of the impact of first impressions, correct?” Yamini smiles. Iqbal huffs a laugh under his breath. He knows where she is going with this line of reasoning. “Chaliye be the bigger man Major Sahab” She grins.
What a phenomenal bitch, Iqbal has to admire her wit. He wanted to destabilise her greeting to destabilise her this entire diplomatic mission. She didn’t let that happen. How interesting.
He reaches his hand out of his pocket and holds it out in between them. Yamini doesn’t reach for it immediately. She lets it hang in the air. She shows Iqbal that she has the reins here. Both delegations wait with baited breath.
“Welcome to India major sahab” she grins as she shakes his hand. Sparks flutter through both of them. The energy undeniable. Her hand is soft in his battle worn hands. Like a delicate flower petal on a rough rock. Is the spark good? No. Is the spark bad? Also no.
Yamini pulls away first. Now that the heads of both delegations have shaken hands the rest of the members can meet. The border is crossed by both members as they shake hands. Both sides were relieved that there isn’t a diplomatic incident just yet. But both sides knew it was only a matter of time.
—-------------------------------———-----
Same day @ 2 pm
Yamini had excused herself to the restroom for a moment. She had needed a break, she needed a break or she might genuinely say something to cause war between India and Pakistan.
She ran a napkin under cold water and then held it to her neck to help calm her racing pulse. Major Iqbal is an ass hat of the highest order. He was testing her in ways she didn't even know she could be tested. He was pushing buttons she didn't even know existed.
—-----------------------
After the barely saved first meeting in the foyer the Pakistani delegation invited the Indian delegation to lunch in the high commission. As is standard. As is protocol. And as protocol dictates Iqbal was to be seated next to Yamini. She took her seat and waited for him as well. The bastard didn't stop next to her.
In fact he walked right by his waiting seat and sat nestled deep between the Pakistani delegation. The entire room paused and blinked. A Pakistani delegate muttered “Ya allah yeh kya ho raha hai” An Indian delegate looked at the ceiling and exhaled long and slow “You have to be kidding me” This was count one. Ruining the seating arrangement, putting her in an awkward position.
Somehow she had covered the situation and the meal had commenced awkwardly. Iqbal raised an eyebrow and smirked. Oh she really is as good as they say. She was hard to shake. And he wanted to shake her. Now more for fun, rather than actual diplomatic gain. He wanted to see what she would look like when she was angry. Would she turn red? Would she stomp away? Would she yell? Iqbal wanted to find out.
The salad course was fine, the soup course was fine, the first appetizer was fine. The second appetizer was not fine. Yamini was making polite conversation with the Pakistani delegates. She was helping to melt the awkwardness she was helping both sides engage and get friendly. “Toh Khan Sahab aap Qawali aur ghazalon ke shaukeen hain?” She smiled at the mustached delegate beside Iqbal. Her smile was pointed carefully, it curved around Iqbal, missing him on purpose. What a bitch.
“Ji haan, humaare abbu Qawali ke shaukeen the, thoh woh shauk hume bhi aya” he responds cordially. “Arresh wah toh phir aapki Mishra ji se kaafi banegi!” she smiled “Haina mishra ji?”
Mishra nods “Ji bilkul madam.” Delegate Khan nods towards Mishra with a smile. Yamini continues “Bas kuch hi dino me yahin Delhi me ek mushaira aur qawalli ka program hai. Mishra ji hi bata rahe the. Maybe you would enjoy it too!” she suggests kindly. Khan and Mishra light up at the suggestion. The atmosphere is warming up.
Then Iqbal ruins the moment. “Khan wishes he could come. Sadly he would be too busy” Ice water is thrown on the warm moment. Khan clears his throat and returns to his paneer tikka. Yamini shuts her eyes and exhales slowly. Iqbal smiles. This was fun for him. Strike two.
She tries to tell a personal anecdote and he cuts it down. Strike three. She laughs and he stares. She places a current affairs topic into the conversation, he clicks his tongue and tells her that this is neither time nor the place. Strike 4.
—---------------------------
“Pardon me” she says with immense forced calm as she places her napkin on the table adjusting her skirt as she gets up. She needs a break. She needs a break or she might insult the entire nation of Pakistan. Her heels click sharply as she heads out of the dining room. Iqbal grins. He had gotten under her skin. Finally, he was enjoying this challenge. She looked good when she was mad.
A Pakistani delegate leaned over to him with great urgency “Major sahab aap ye kya kar rahe hain? We need to be diplomatic and kind! Aap aise pesh nahi aa sakte hain!” He hisses. Iqbal leans in and chuckles darkly “ Iss delegation ka head kaun hai?” The delegate gulps, he knows how dangerous Iqbal can get. “A-ap sahab”
Iqbal rests a hand on his shoulder. The warm weight is like a death warrant. The grin on his face is haunting “Aukat me rahiye aap, Zarwari shab ne hume personally bheja hai. Kisi kaam se bheja hai. Mujhpe ainda sawal na kariyega.” The poor delegate nods, swallowing his concerns. Iqbal continues to make his point “Biwi bacche Lahor gaye hai na? nani ke ghar?”
—----------------------
Yamini takes deep breaths as the cold damp cloth touches her skin. She box breathes. 10 seconds in. 20 seconds hold. 25 seconds exhale. And repeat. Once, twice, thrice, four times. Her heels click on the marble floors of the bathroom. She tries not to let rage consume her. Her reflection in the mirror looks like she is about to strangle a man. Specifically a Pakistani Major.
There is a series of sharp nocks on the bathroom door. “Yamini ma’am? Is there anyone in there or is it okay for me to come in?” It's Kabir. Of course he had noticed her face and body language and decided to follow her. He had known her for her entire career as a diplomat at the Ministry of External Affairs. Very rarely has she excused herself in that manner. Kabir knew she was homicidal.
“Aja Kabir!” She sighs leaning against the sink. Kabir walks in and immediately stands in front of Yamini. Yamini looks at him with the restraint of a slowly maddening woman. “Madam?”
“Kabir im about to strangle a man”
“I know madam”
“Kabir im going to cause a diplomatic incident”
“Please don’t”
Yamini sighs, pinching her nose bridge. Kabir takes the cool towel off her neck. The towel seems to be more of a hot towel than a cool towel. She really was worked up. Kabir raises his eyebrows in shock. Yamini looks at the ceiling begging the universe for strength. “Chalein madam?”
She nods. Kabir gestures for her to lead the way. She shudders and rolls her shoulders as she steels herself to face the bastard again. Yamini will be diplomatic, she will smile through gritted teeth, she will get the fucking job done or so help her god. Kabir falls into step behind her as they exit the bathroom.
—--------------------
Then a dark voice crawls through the halls. Dark enough to stop Yamini in her tracks. It crawls up her spine in unpleasant ways “Areh wah! How nice to see that India encourages its diplomats to get this close and personal with their secretaries” Iqbal drawls lazily with a smirk. His hands in his trouser pockets.
The look in his face makes it clear that nothing good will be coming out of his face “How nice to know that they assign someone to…help get your frustrations out on Miss Singh” He hums with a laugh as he brushes past her.
Yamini stands still for a moment. Her mouth opens and colossuses. Then it opens again, a strangled indignant sound comes out of her throat.
HOW DARE HE? She spins on her heel to watch Iqbal lazily saunter through the halls of the Pakistani High Commission. Iqbal was insinuating, in clear broad daylight, that she was fucking Kabir in the bathroom!?
Kabir can sense her rage. He feels it too, at the disrespect Iqbal is showing her. Kabir would like some stern words and sterner fists. But right now it was imperative to calm Yamini. “Yamini madam please dont commit homicide here”
Yamini takes a deep breath with a scary smile as she watches Iqbal walk away “We are on Indian soil Kabir….kuch jugad lagake we can spin the murder investigation right?” There is murder in her eyes. She would kill him, and she already knew where to bury the body.
Kabir clears his throat, his next words are chosen very carefully. Something she can't argue against. “This is on technicality Pakistani jurisdiction. Please…..PLEASE try to remember that they have the right of inviolability and immunity due to the Vienna Convention of diplomatic relations.”
“God damn the diplomatic version of the doctor's oath.” She curses under her breath as she storms the opposite way back to the dining room.
“THANK GOD for the diplomatic version of the doctor's oath” Kabir mutters weakly as he follows her.
—---------------------------------------
Day 2 @ 12 pm
Hyderabad house, New Delhi, India
Today was day two of the doomed-from-the-begining diplomatic mission. And overnight the news of the disastrous first meeting had spread to the MEA like wild fire. Whispers floated through the halls “Did you hear that the Major was rude?” and “Did you hear Yamini tried her best to handle the situation?”
Thankfully Yamini’s boss Dr. S. Shankar was currently traveling to Australia and hadn't heard anything about this meeting. If he had heard how shit it had gone Yamini would have gotten an earful even though she didn't do anything wrong.
—-------------------------------
Major Iqbal had retired to his suite in the TAJ palace with much satisfaction for the day. Did he want to be in India? Fuck no. But was he having fun now? Fuck yes. He was very happy to have shaken the unshakable woman. He walked to his bathroom as he un-buttoned his coat. He reached into the shower and turned it on to the warm side and let it heat up. Once he undressed fully he stepped into the shower. His hand ran along his bare body with a sigh. Under the warm spay he grinned. He began formulating how to piss her off the next day.
Yamini had retired to her apartment in Delhi with much chagrin. She was this close to killing the bastard. She would have stabbed the man with her fork if she was presented the opportunity. Maybe it was a good thing he wasn't sitting next to her. His expensive cologne would have choked her. His gold tooth flashing at her would have pissed her off. And his words. She wanted to sew his mouth shut with a needle and thread. She groaned in her hands when she collapsed on her sofa. The bastard may have won today….But tomorrow will be hers. Because tomorrow is the media conference.
She pulled out her phone and dialed a number “Hello haan Rashmika? I need a favour..” Tomorrow will be hers she grins as she leans back on her sofa.
—------------------------
The Hyderabad house media room was set to perfection. A large stage set with a panel sized long table for both delegations to take a seat. In front of them the media pen was set up with cameras at the front and reporters in the back. Why was it called a pen? Because the media were animals.
The Indian delegation and Pakistani delegation entered the room at the same time from opposite sides of the room. Yamini Singh leading the Indian delegation and Major Iqbal Khan leading the Pakistani delegation. They locked eyes from across the room as both parties walked up the stairs to the stage.
Iqbal was wearing a navy blue jacket set today, on his lapel another Pakistani flag. The gold ornamental buttons on his jacket are done up all the way save for the collar button. The blue slacks below the jacket were sharp and tailored elongating his already tall and strong frame. As always his jacket clinged sinfully well to his broad shoulders. His black leather loafers click sharply as they step on the marble floors.
Yamini was wearing an elegant black sheath dress. Classy enough to be appropriate for the occasion and dangerous enough so the neckline and the tight fit would catch a certain Major’s eye. The tastefully low neckline doses as it was meant to, she can feel his eyes at the plunge of her dress. Her hair is pulled back into a neat bun with a few tasteful strands of hair pulled out. Her lips painted a rosy red to match the red bottoms of her black patent leather heels.
Their eyes met from across the room. Iqbal held a smug look on his face he was riding on his high from last night. He expected her to meet his yes and then look away sharply, or to glare at him with anger. She did neither. She smiled at him. Like she was excited to see him. Strange.
Both delegations stood on the stage and took photos before everyone began to find their pre assigned seats. The chairs in the middle reserved for the heads of both delegations. Yamini strides onto the stage and pulls Iqbal's chair out for him and then she gestures with her eyes. A look that asks ‘Major sahab are you done being a diva?’
Iqbal's jaw clenches. She is humiliating him on purpose. The cameras flash at this strange interaction. In public Iqbal has no choice but to smile goodnaturedly and take the seat she offers him. But not without pulling out her chair for her so he is captured as a gentleman in the eyes of the media “Oh how kind of you Major sahab….A proper Pakistani gentleman” She hums out loud making multiple people chuckle.
“What else would you expect Miss Singh? Yeh kya presumption leke ghum rahi han aap Pakistani mardon ke bare me?” He says with a sigh as he sits down next to her. His response is low enough that the microphones wont pick it up.
She grins as she leans against her chair, pivoting her body to the side in one swing. “Kya kare Major sahab, aap impression hi aisa rakhte ho….you sir are in a grave so deep that the only way left to go is up.” She hums lightly. “Not on a diplomatic stand point. I suppose you are on a relatively alright platform over there. Im referring on a more personal level”
Iqbal chuckles darkly he nods silently “Mashallah..aap humare bare me personal level pe bhi sochne lag gayi? Aapke Kabir ne aapka man sahi se nahi behlaya kya?” he muses leaning forward slightly. Oud, tobacco, and something darker cloud her personal space again.
Yamin leans forward too with a coy smile. Coffee, amber, and something painfully seductive cloud Iqbal's personal space. Her voice drops into a shiver inducing sexy husk “Kya karein Major sahab?” she hums. Iqbal can feel it coil in his gut. “Kabir is nothing compared to you…aapke yeh jo infuriating kartoot hai na? Meri raaton ki neend chura li…. Poori raat aap hi mere sapno me phudak rahe the” She husks at him with a wink.
Iqbal hates how her voice, her perfume, her coy smirk, and her eyes stir lust in his body. He clears his throat “Oh so I infuriate you? Hum kya aapke zehen me baith gaye kya?” he asks lightly with much difficulty. His voice is a deep register even with the immense effort he is putting in.
Yamini can hear it, it pleases her to know that she is having an effect on the usually stoic Major. She fixes her voice back to normal with infuriating ease “Ji haan Major sahab….aap kahan koi halki phulki hasti hain?....Yaad rakhne wali cheez hain aap” she smiles before turning to face forward in her chair. Iqbal blinked. Fuck this woman!....Fuck…this woman. Iqbal shakes out of it.
The press and media conference begins as soon as Yamini nods to Kabir. Kabir nods and addresses the room “Welcome esteemed media! The panel is now ready for questions” he says as he clears his throat.
The questions begin to pour in. Some to Yamini. Some to Iqbal. Some on Pakistan. Some on India. Some on ‘what's the point of this diplomatic mission in the first place?’ Iqbal answers his questions smoothly. Yamini answers hers with admirable finesse. Finesse that makes Iqbal stop and stare for a moment.
He watches the delicate curve of her throat as she speaks. The sparkle in her eye when she gives a cheeky answer. Her delicate and melodious laugh. The way she gives answers that make reporters stumble and scramble for follow ups. “Yes, next question please! And a fun one if you can” she joked while taking a sip of water.
A woman in the media pen grinned. She had been summoned “Rashmika Raina from the NNM! A question for Miss Yamini Singh!” A hand raised from the crowd and a woman in a deep blue salwar suit stood up. She brushed back a strand of hair that had come loose from her pencil made bun. She smiled at Yamini as her pen tapped against her notebook.
Yamini grinned as she saw Rashmika, her best friend who she had known from her college days. She wanted to get up and hug the woman but that would be severely unprofessional. Iqbal would have bullied her mercilessly. So instead she said “Oh hi Rashmika! Long time no see?”
Rashmika smiled to herself as she said the next words.“Hi Yamini! Woh asal me I had gone to Pakistan for a report. Abhi abhi wapas ayi hun” Yamini narrowed her eyes and she couldn't believe it. Rashmika was blushing to herself. What was that about?
“Oh how lovely…” she hums suspiciously. “We must discuss your report soon, I know it will be spectacular. You always have the most interesting takes.” Rashmika nods as she clears her throat and shakes out of whatever day dream she had gone into. She dragged her mind away from a certain dark and brooding SP of Karachi police. Who had her number but still hadn't called.
“Uh Miss Yamini. I would like to ask you what is your first impression of the Pakistani delegation?” Rashmika gets back into reporter mode. “There have been rumors that the first impression yesterday had gone disastrously?”
Yamini hums to herself for a moment, nodding her head in thought. She looks at Iqbal out of the corner of her eye. She gives him a look. A look that says ‘I could fucking destroy your diplomatic mission and the reputation of your country if I wanted to’ Yamini grins as she looks back into the crowd.
Iqbal's jaw sets at the realization. He didn't like the amount of power she had right now. She began speaking “Is that so Ms. Rashmika? I wasn't aware of that rumor actually. Tell me Major sahab, did our first meeting go disastrously?” she hums lightly, turning to Iqbal. Surprising that she is giving him the opportunity. Iqbal opens his mouth to speak “Dekhiye-”
“Areh aap kya bolenge major sahab mai hi bata deti hun” she interrupts, turning back to the crowd. Iqbal's words stop in his mouth. This bitch. This absolute bitch.
Iqbal releases a long breath though his nose. This was her snub. This was her revenge for his behavior yesterday. He humiliated her in private. She humiliated him in front of the world. “Mmm toh Rashmika ji i’d say our meeting was definitely unconventional.”
“Unconventional?” Rashmika raises an eyebrow. “Haan definitely un conventional. Because when you meet a foreign delegation you expect certain standards and protocols to be met for the greeting. Major sahab definitely kept me on my toes. The meeting was anything but standard. It was oh so close to misunderstanding.”
She hums with a grin looking at the seething Major beside her. She pauses long enough to make it seem like she was done talking. Iqbal goes to open his mouth once again but Yamini beats him to it “But thankfully quick thinking from both delegations saved the day” she smiles, ending the answer to Rashmika’s question.
—------------------------
Rashmika quirks her brow. There was something quite juicy here. Before she could probe further, her phone rang. “Thank you Yamini!” she nods as she sits down. The conference continues.
Rashmika looks at her phone. It's an Unknown number. The country code +92, meaning Pakistan. The area code for Karachi, +92 21. All clues point to one person. Her ex-police protection. SP Chaudhary Aslam.
Rashmika excuses herself from the press conference and bites her lip as she walks out of the room in hurried steps. It had to be him. The large conference room doors swing shut behind her. The phone had rang 10 times already without disconnecting.
“Hello? Yaad agayi humari SP Sahab? Bada wakt lag gaya apko” She hums sweetly into the phone. She expects a gruff voice to return her greeting. She leans against the wall smiling like a mad woman as she waits to hear his voice. She anticipates the shiver that would run through her body when she would hear it again.
Much to her surprise the phone disconnects without a word from the other side. Rashmika blinks. What the fuck? She looks at her phone. Did she lose signal? Did her battery die? Did she disconnect it by accident? Was it someone else?
“Fuck yaar” she sighs leaning her head against the cold walls of the Hyderabad House. Then suddenly her phone pings. Its a message
Unknown +92 21-: Phone galti se lag gaya tha.
Rashmika huffs a surprised breath through her nose. It really was him! How did she know? Because only Chaudhary Aslam would wait 10 rings to hear her voice and as soon as she stopped speaking he would cut the call. Sly bastard.
She shook her head with a smile as she went to her keypad to type back her response. Before she could type, three bouncing dots appeared.
Unknown +92 21-: …Waise kya kar rahi ho?
She laughed as she read the message, shaking her head. Sly bastard.
—---------------------
Iqbal can't believe this shit. Twice. Yamini had cut him off twice. She had made him look stupid thrice. His hand fisted in his lap as he held a neutral expression on his face. His knuckles cracked with effort. His mouth stayed shut with immense effort.
She turned and looked at him with a shit eating expression. She had neutralized the playing field. And she had a very devastating realization. The bastard looks much hotter with his mouth shut.
How else could she shut him up? Much food for thought. Her plans for the night had been fixed.
—-----------------------------------------------
Day 3 @ 4 pm
Hyderabad house, New Delhi, India
Yamini hummed through the halls as she walked beside Kabir. She was uncharacteristically cheery. Which was strange because she never skipped through the halls even on diplomatic missions she genuinely enjoyed.
So for her to be happy after 2 days of being volatile was a cause for concern to Kabir. “Yamini madam are you okay?” he asked carefully as he adjusted the files in his arms. “I'm overjoyed Kabir. O-ver J-oyed” she hummed. As she walked through the marble halls of Hyderabad House.
Kabir fell back slightly to watch her skip ahead. He sighed. This only meant one thing. She had decided how she was going to kill Iqbal. “Fuck my life” he groaned as he masaged his temples the files threatening to fall out of his hands.
—----------------
Major Iqbal Khan and his delegation stormed through the halls of Hyderabad house. She wasn't getting an inch today. Not a fucking inch. He would get his revenge for yesterday or so help him god. The entire delegation whispered duas’ under their breath as they walked behind their angry Major.
Diplomat Khan whispered to diplomat Ajmer “Mujhe aise kyun lagta hai ki aaj kisi ka qatal hone wala hai?” Diplomat Ajmer sighed as he responded “Kal ke baad? Puri possibility hai” another diplomat piped up. Marha whispered between the two men “Aap log Yamini ko discount na karein. She can hold her own, you know?” she adjusted her dupatta as she walked.
Both men nodded. Marha was right, Yamini would go down fighting. There would be a minimum of two bodies to handle in either scenario. The worst part would be that the Pakistani delegation and the Indian delegation would have to work together on that mess. All three sighed.
—-----------------
For the third time on this trip both delegations met. And the room held no presence of niceties this time. Just a smug woman and an incensed man holding a grudge from the day before. Both delegations shook hands with each other once again and then took their seats.
Today actual work was to be done. Both delegations were tasked with reviewing joint policies and re-negotiating on certain points of contention. Today was a long and boring day. Yamini sighed and clicked her tongue lightly as she opened her dossier. She felt Iqbal's stare on her.
He looked good today once again. This was beginning to get boring. And very difficult for the primal parts of her brain that wanted to claw at his shoulders while he fucked her. She hated that part of herself. The primal part that was affected by his bastard-like behavior and his dark and dangerous pheromones. She would leave dark red scars down his well defined muscular back. He wore a dark military green today with silver buttons.
She was catastrophic in her own way. Wearing a maroon dress with a neckline much too similar to yesterday. And much too deep to not be pointed at Iqbal. The somehow office appropriate dress clung to her sinfully well. He himself was having a difficult time not grabbing her and fucking her until she could think straight. Fucking her until all she was capable of doing was moan his name and beg for more. Fucking her until she stopped being infuriating.
The meeting began. Delegates from both sides took turns getting up and presenting their cases. India proposed that there be a designated schedule of meetings between India and Pakistan, seasonal perhaps, so that communications could be kept open throughout the year. Pakistan agreed. Everything was alright until then.
And then Iqbal motions for Khan to stand up. Khan nodded as he took the podium “We propose that Kashmir have its own diplomatic rights.” the entire room paused. What? Kashmir? Kashmir wasn't supposed to be discussed.
All the Indian diplomats looked at Yamini. Yamini looks unfazed. She taps a pen against her cheek. “You mean to say that Kashmir should have an equal Pakistani and Indian delegation?” she asks carefully. Getting a clear understanding was imperative. She crosses her legs elegantly.
“No, we say Kashmir will have its own delegation.” clarifies Khan. Yamini laughs. Both delegations blink at each other as she doubles over in laughter. “What exactly seems to be funny here, Singh madam?" Iqbal drawls lazily
“Well major sahab you seem to be insinuating that Kashmir isn't jointly occupied. You seem to be saying that Kashmir is its own nation?” She smiles leaning in. Iqbal grins too his gold tooth showing “Thats because it is”
“No It most definitely is not” countered Yamini. “We aren't here to debate that. We are here to discuss the diplomatic aspects” hums Iqbal.
“Well in that case we would like to respond with a resounding no to that appeal” She shrugs, shutting her files like she was done talking about this. “It wasn't an appeal.” He narrows his eyes at her, his voice lower than normal now
“Each point here is an appeal major sahab”
“And who decided that? You?”
“Our joint governments did. Not me. Not you.”
“These are excuses. Just say that you are afraid to make a single decision without express consent from your government.” drawls Iqbal lazily as he leans on the table “Fear is one thing major sahab. Respect for the chain of command is another” she emphasized each word so it gets to him.
“You make lovely excuses to avoid the main point. Is this why you were hired as a diplomat?” he narrows his eyes at her.
“Thats it. Im done” she says slamming her hands on the table before she grabs her things and leaves the room. She was about to kill Iqbal and his idiotic and painfully handsome face.
—------------------
Iqbal stormed behind her as she left the conference room. “Singh madam yeh koi baat nahi hui. This is highly professional even for you!” he called out as he followed her. Yamini stops suddenly and spins on her heel. She finds herself very up close and personal to Iqbal. Their faces inches away.
His cologne clouds her. Her perfume clouds him. Her face is red with rage. His strong eyes glower into her. “UNPROFFESIONAL?” she exclaims stabbing his chest with her finger. Iqbal feels lit sear like a brand into his being. She laughs in disbelief. “If I'm unprofessional then what have you been doing this entire diplomatic mission?” she steps impossibly closer to him.
“Im not the one who stormed out mid policy negotiation madam” he hisses “That was you”. She can feel the heat of his body. “And tell me Major sahab…why would I storm out? Backchodi ke liye?”
“Fuck knows madam….but for the first time today I agree with you” the tension between them brews into something painfully thick the breathe hard against each other. His eyes flick down to the swell of her breasts. This angle and the cut of her dress betray her. “Oh do tell major Sahab” she hisses “its good to know ki meri koi baat to aapke dimag me ghussi”.
He chuckles darkly, his voice crawling down Yamini’s spine. “Yeh pure fuckass diplomatic mission aap bakchodi hi kar rahi hain. And that's the truth” he practically spat.
“Oh really?" she asked with an angry laugh. Her head craned upwards to stare into his eyes. They were dark and angry. He leaned in closer. Their lips are inches apart. “Yes.” he hissed.
Like an incessant gravity she leaned forward. She could feel his breath against her. Lips now centimeters apart. “Fuck you major sahab” she whispered against his lips. “You wish Singh madam” he growled.
And yet they felt their bodies move closer of their own accord. His hand ghosted along her hip. Her eyes fluttered shut and a shaky breath exhaled from her lips. He was so close. So unbelievably close. Her lips parted as he leaned in closer. His cologne was making her dizzy.
“Major sahab? Janab?!” yelled a voice down the hall. Diplomat Khan. “Yamini madam?” called out another voice. Kabir. Both of them pulled away before their lips could meet. And immediately both took a large step back. What the fuck were they doing?
Iqbal ran a hand through his hair. Yamini clasped a hand over her mouth as she breathed out of her nose. Without a word both of them walked away from each other in opposite directions.
What the fuck were they doing?
—------------
Night 4 @ 7:30 pm
Durbar Hall, Taj Hotel, New Delhi, India
Today was the final night of the diplomatic mission. And both countries had the bright idea to organize a ball for both delegations. Something to ease the tensions they reasoned.
When Yamini had questioned how on earth they were supposed to relax tensions when everyone was painfully aware of each other? She was told “Oh that's simple. It's a masquerade ball. That should help take away the awkwardness.” Bullshit.
Yamini scoffed as she fluffed out her black sleeveless ballgown. The black lace gloves caught on the chiffon of her structured ballgown. “FUCK” she groaned as she untangled the lace from the chiffon. The warm chandelier light caught on the diamond choker on her throat. It refracted light across her skin using the help of the diamond drop earrings hanging from her earlobes.
Her hair was thrown into a chic messy bun. Strands pulled out tastefully to accentuate her look. The piece de resistance was the black lace mask that obscured her face. Only her eyes, nose, and lips are clearly visible. She looked like herself, yes. But with slightly more plausible deniability.
That was the point of the masks. Plausible deniability. For both delegations. Deniability to say "I didn't know who I was being friendly with! They were wearing masks!” as stupid as it was, it really was a good plan.
She walked into the grand Durbar ballroom of the TAJ palace in New Delhi. The TAJ hotel was where the Pakistani delegation had been housed for the entire mission. This masquerade ball was technically their territory once again.
The ballroom was opulent in every sense of the word. Golden decor, glass sculptures, a grand orchestra playing classical music. Delegates from both sides along with their aides and interns filled the ballroom. There must be 100 or maybe 150 people there at the minimum. Nobody here knew who the person next to them was.
A waiter walked by Yamini and she scooped up a glass of champagne from the tray. The cold fizzy alcohol soothed her as she sipped it slowly. She ran her eyes around the room observing the crowd of masked diplomats. The men in tuxedos and the women in evening gowns. All of them were much too occupied in themselves to notice her.
From across the room she felt a pair of familiar strong eyes drag along her body. She turned to look at the person staring at her. An ornate gold mask lay strapped to his face, his eyes pierced through her body. He was tall, with a strong frame and broad shoulders. He was wearing a debonair black tuxedo with an elegantly tied bow. The coat hugged his shoulders and tapered along his waist.
The mask obscured half of his face while his tamed beard graced the lower half of his face. She had seen those eyes before. That's all she could think. She had seen those strong eyes before. She looked at him over her glass of champagne as she drained it.
His eyes dragged across her from across the room. Her neck, her collarbones, her arms, her chest. The diamond on her throat, the diamonds on her beards. The man's eyes seemed to stare at every sliver of her exposed skin before landing intensely on her lips.
Another waiter walked by and she snagged another chilled glass of champagne. Her body burned under his gaze. She had seen this man before. She had a sneaking suspicion as to who he was. And she hoped she was wrong. Why? The man looked much too good. And she would hate to admit that major Iqbal was clouding her thoughts. That would simply be unacceptable.
Her finger twirled a stray strand of hair away from her face as she watched the man openly. Her lips pursed along the edge of the champagne glass as the liquid slipped down her throat. The Masked major watched back openly as he took a final deep drag off of his cigar.
He released the smoke through his nose as his hand curled around his whiskey glass. The woman he saw in front of him was the most eye-catching thing this entire trip. Wrapped in a black chiffon ballgown, black lace up her arms, black lace on her face. Elegant diamonds along her throat that looked like they belonged. He had seen her before no doubt.
The woman watched him with the same intensity he watched her with. Her lips twitch around her champagne glass. The Major drains his own whiskey and he must go to this woman. The major takes a step towards her. The woman grins as she drains her own glass. She was waiting for him to take the first step. She sets down the second empty glass and takes a step forward too. The orchestra pauses for a moment.
Both Yamini and Major pause. Then the orchestra plays again. The violins begin first and the both of them already know what piece was about to be played. “An invitation to dance” by Carl Maria von Weber Op.65.
Major Iqbal, the masked man, walks across the room. He stops directly in front of Yamini , the masked woman, and offers her his hand. A silent invitation. A silent dance with me. She bows her head in a small nod as she places her lace clad hand in his large hand. She smells his cologne in the air as they walk. The scent is familiar once again.
Iqbal silently leads her to the dance floor. Neither of them speak because then the mystery would be ruined immediately. Once in the middle of the dance floor one of his hands rested on her waist. Her free hand rests on his shoulder as his other hand clasps her lace gloved hand. Iqbal can smell her perfume in ernest now. It smells painfully familiar.
The music swells and they begin to waltz around the room. Small and controlled movements first. Both of them testing the waters between them. Testing if the other knew how to dance this particular dance. Yamini stares into the man’s eyes. Trying to prove her suspicions correct.
Iqbal led the dance in strong confident movements. Waltzing her around the ballroom as the orchestra swelled. She followed each movement with grace and competence. Each step was perfect. Each stride was confident. His hand on her waist tightened as he spun them around. Her hand clutched at his shoulder to keep her balance as her chiffon ball gown flared behind her.
Iqbal stared into her eyes when he wrapped both hands around her waist and lifted her into the air. Her warm brown eyes glowed in the chandelier light. She lands with a little flounce, a small gasp as his hands brace her against him. Iqbal has heard that gasp before.
They slow down along with the music. Waltzing in slow controlled movements as they stare into each other's souls. The person across from them is all too familiar. Iqbal prayed it wasn't her. Yamini prayed it wasn't him. The air between them was thick.
The music climaxes and Iqbal begins spinning them with the music working to a big finish. She gasps as she follows the movements. They can feel the air get more difficult to breathe. They can feel the eyes of everyone in the ballroom on them as they dance. The two figures in black waltzing on the floor as one.
The music picks up into the finale. All the instruments bidding their finales to the piece. The drums, the violins, the violas, the flutes. All singing their final goodbyes. Iqbal spins her out to make her gown flare. She holds his eyes as she spins back into him. He leans her into a tip.
Her hands grip the lapel of his tuxedo for balance. The fabric crumpled under her hand. The elegant line of her neck stretches as her chest heaves to catch her breath. His eyes follow helplessly.
He holds her in his arms a moment more than he should. A moment more than necessary. Her plush lips part as she pants to catch her breath. Eventually both of them stand back upright. The ballroom erupts in cheers. They bow to each other. Folding at the waist as they hold each other's eyes. Iqbal can't stop his eyes from flicking to the dip of the fabric in her cleavage, the soft flesh behind the dress threatening to almost spill out. She grins as she catches his eye.
Not a word is said between them and yet they have a whole conversation with their eyes. Her hand fixes her mask as she gives him a salute and walks away into the crowd.
—--------------
Same day @ 10 pm
Durbar Hall, Taj Hotel, New Delhi, India
It had been hours since the dance yet the heat had not died down. Everywhere the masked man touched her burned with heat. Everywhere he dragged his eyes little fires sprouted along her skin. Three more glasses of cold champagne did nothing to extinguish them. In fact they made the burn worse.
An hour ago he had disappeared with a group of men as he smoked his cigar. The smoke curled around his face. It whispered through his clothes leaving a trail behind him. His eyes met hers as he walked by, once more he had scanned her body with shameless openness. She stared back. Her eyes burned into his broad back as he walked away. She had been 3 drinks into the night at that point
Now an hour later she was 5 drinks into the night. The champagne loosening her inhibitions. The champagne probed her to find the masked man. The champagne whispering dirty thoughts into her mind. Follow him. Find him. Fuck him. She swallowed hard and motioned for the waiter to get her a fresh glass.
That man had to be Iqbal. It had to be. If only he wasn't wearing a mask. Fucking plausible deniability. An aide walks over to her and hands her a note suddenly “Madam the man in the golden mask and the black tuxedo has asked me to give you this note”
“Oh thank you” she takes the note, the aide nods with a smile and leaves. Yamini unfolds the note. It's written in a neat english scrawl. And it simply says:
Aap nachti bada achha hain…do you play cards as well as you dance? (Vazir Hall)
She smiles to herself she brings the note to her nose. It smells like his cologne. As a matter of fact she does. Yamini is damn good at cards. She folds the note and tucks it into her bra.
—--------------------------------
Same day @ 10:15 pm
Vazir Hall, Taj Hotel, New Delhi, India
Yamini climbs up the steps to the secluded halls of the Taj hotel. They had main ballrooms and halls but they also had more private and secluded rooms as well. Her heels click on the marble floors as her ballgown swishes around her feet. Eventually she reaches the door of the Vazir hall.
It's a dark, wood paneled room. Deep red carpets. Low lighting. Poker tables and lounges placed sporadically. The room was deserted save for one table against the most secluded corner of the hall.
Yamini walks slowly. There he is. The man in the golden mask and black tuxedo. He is reclined in a leather armchair. An ankle over the other knee. A cigar between his fingers as he watches her carefully. The sway of her hips. The silhouette of her body in the low lighting. For a moment neither person speaks.
“You called?” she hums lightly. Keeping the seductive husk in her voice so who she is isn't entirely apparent yet. Iqbal laughs darkly, tapping ash off of his cigar into a crystal ash tray. “You came?” he asks with a low rumble that shoots through her spine. He gestures for her to take a seat across from him.
She settles into the plush leather arm chair with a coy smile. “Tell me what games do you want to play?” she hums lightly as she sets her seventh champagne glass on the poker table in front of her. “Well poker for now” he says as he takes a long drag off of his cigar.
“For now?” she hums with a grin as she rests her chin in her palm. “For now” he hums with a dark rumble. “How will we play? I don't see a dealer” she questions with a raised eyebrow. Iqbal grins and claps his hands once. The sound reverberates in the empty room.
From a curtained alcove in the wall beside them a hand extends and waves at Yamini in greeting “Dealer in the wall” he grins.
“How very innovative and discrete” she muses. “What's on bet? Cash? Im sorry to say i dont have any on me” Iqbal leans back stroking his beard in thought.
“Let's make this interesting. Lets bet the chips like we have the funds to back them. An IOU of sorts.” He begins and Yamini nods as if understanding the game. He continues “And the person who loses the round not only loses their money they lose a piece of their dignity.” he grins darkly to finish.
“Dignity? Strip poker you mean? How very perverted of you masked man” she narrows her eyes at him through the masquerade mask as she sips her champagne. “Scared?” he laughs while taking another drag of his cigar. Yamini laughs into her glass “Of you? I don't even know who you are. So no. I'm not scared”
“Chaliye. Lets play then” Iqbal claps his hands once again.
—-----------------------------
Authors note: Please listen to Sharab by Himesh Reshammiya for this part….TRUST ME
The dealer begins by opening a fresh pack of cards in front of them. He shuffles them against the table with immense artistry. The cards curve and dance in the dealer's hands as Iqbal observes the masked woman in front of him. Yamini examines the masked man in front of her.
Ye botal bhari bharaayi
Na honton se lagaayi
Ghazab toh dekho yaaro
Usne aankhon se pilaayi
The dealer splits the cards and deals 2 cards to each player at the table and sets five cards face up onto the green velvet table. Texas Hold’em poker. Yamini was good at this game. She hides her smile behind her mask as she checks her cards. It's a strong hand. She bets 10 thousand rupees.
Iqbal checks his cards. Good but not great. He sees she has bet low. Was it a strategy or were her cards bad? “I raise the pot to 30 thousand rupees” he hums as he takes a swig of whiskey.
“I call” she smiles as she matches the pot, which now rested at 60 thousand rupees. The dealer taps his hands to the table. As he takes Yamini’s chips to the mide of the pot.
“Show” hums Iqbal as he throws 5 thousand more into the pot as the price to make her show her cards. “Eager aren't you?” she hums
Pehle toh nazar milaayi
Phir dekh ke muskurayi
Ghazab toh dekho yaaro
Usne aankhon se pilaayi
Yamini throws her cards onto the table. Straight flush. Iqbal throws his cards on the table. Full house. Not as strong as Yamini’s cards. She claps in triumph. “Chaliye take it off now” she hums as she leans in closer. He grins and takes off his tux jacket tossing it to the ground. “Well played” he hums. Yamini watches intensely as she sips her champagne.
The white shirt beneath it is tailored to him just as well. It clings to his strong muscular frame. His fingers undo the buttons at his cuff as he rolls up his sleeves to his forearms. Cigar hanging loose from his mouth. His hand undoes his bowtie letting it hang loose around his collar.
Tujhe jaisi na koi teeno lok mein
Sab kuch luta doon tere shauk mein
Tum aur sharab mile ho a ho
Rehne nahi dete dono hosh mein
“Shal we keep the pot going if you aren't too greedy?” rumbles Iqbal as he leans forward now. Yamini laughs. “Why not”
The pot stands at 65 thousand now as the dealer re-deals the cards. Yamini checks her cards. They seem alright. Iqbal checks his cards. It's a strong hand. Iqbal throws in 20 thousand. Yamini throws in 10 thousand. Iqbal calls once again, throwing 5 thousand into the pot.
Tum aur sharab mile ho a ho
Rehne nahi dete dono hosh mein
The pot now stands at 1 lakh. Yamini throws her cards. Three of a kind. Iqbal grins as he throws his cards on the table. Full house. She takes a deep breath and shakes her head. Iqbal grins like a wolf “ And what will you be taking off?”
He assumes that she would take off her dress. He had her in an unfair position. A tuxedo had more parts. A ballgown had barely any parts. “Have some patience” she hums as she reaches under the table.
Her hand goes under her dress. She shuffles slightly in her seat as Iqbal watches curiously. She hums to herself lightly as she fumbles with her clothes. Her hand hooks into the waistband of her panties. She shucks them off and steps her heels out of it. She pulls her hand out from under her dress. Under the table.
She holds the fabric up. A slinky scrap of black lace and satin. Iqbal's throat goes dry as he realizes what he was seeing. She grins and throws it across the table to him.
Iqbal has to clear his throat before he responds. His thumb and index finger rub the lace. Fuck this is what she was wearing underneath. He can feel the gusset. It’s damp. “Eager are we?” he finally rasps as he holds up the fabric in front of his face. “Wearing a ballgown…I don't have many choices do I?” she smiles with a shrug.
Tum aur sharab mile ho a ho
Rehne nahi dete dono hosh mein
Tum aur sharab mile ho a ho
Rehne nahi dete dono hosh mein
Iqbal chuckles as he taps the table to make the dealer deal another round. Iqbal pockets her underwear discreetly as she turns her head momentarily. He feels the silky fabric slip into the pockets of his trousers. Lust swirls inside of him. This masked woman would be the death of him.
The dealer behind the curtain splits the cards and shuffles them once again. He deals the cards to both parties once again. The pot still sits at 1 lakh.
Chanchal kajrari aankhen
Haaye shikari aankhen
Dil pe chalaye chhuriyan
Teri katari aankhen
Iqbal looks at his cards. Shit. Not very good. Yamini looks at her cards. Very good. Very very good. She drains her champagne glass with a grin as she crosses one leg over the other and bounces her foot. Iqbal takes another deep drag off of his cigar. The smoke cures around her as he exhales. She was bare beneath that ballgown. Iqbal's hand twitched by his thigh.
She tosses 20 thousand into the pot. Iqbal tosses 25 thousand into the pot. Enough to raise and call on the same bet. The dealer taps his hand on the table making both of them throw their cards on the table. Yamini had a straight flush, Iqbal had straight. “Back to you” she hums with a grin.
Dil pe chalaye chhuriyan
Teri katari aankhen
Naagin si haye zulfein
Iqbal huffs a laugh as he places his cigar between his lips again. He leans back slightly and pulls his shirt out of his trousers. His hands make quick work of the buttons. Yamini stares at the masked man's body as he bares it.
His shapely chest is revealed first. Strong pectorals, hair on his chest. He unbuttons the shirt entirely and begins shucking it off of his shoulders, his biceps flexing behind his back as his abs come into view. Yamini stares openly. Dragging her eyes on every aspect of his fit muscular body that is littered with scars. A gunshot wound. A jagged knife scar. Each element adds to his rugged sex appeal. His cigar smoke curls around his own body.
“Like what you see?” he grins at her open staring. “Not bad.” She hums lightly, her voice slightly strained now, making him laugh as she throws his dress shirt to the ground.
Kaali ghataaye zulfein
Maaregi tauba tauba
Teri balaaye zulfein
Maaregi tauba tauba
Teri balaaye zulfein
The dealer splits and deals the cards once more. The pot sits at 1 lakh 45 thousand. But neither party really cares about the pot anymore. In fact they never cared at all. Iqbal looks at his cards again. Today just wasn't his day. Yamini looks at her cards. Today was her day.
“I bet 25 thousand” she hums, throwing in more chips to the pool. Iqbal sighs “Call. And an extra 5 thousand to show” the chips clatter on the large pile. The pool now sits at 2 lakhs. Yamini throws her cards on the table, a royal flush her grin is triumphant. Iqbal threw his cards face down. What he got didn't even matter anymore.
Toote chaand ka guroor
Tere chehre ka noor
Tujhe dekh dekh hota hai
Deewane ko suroor
“Ab kya utarenge?” she hums leaning back against the leather arm chair. Iqbal leans down and takes off his shoes, then his hands go to his belt and it comes away with a clatter. He tosses both things to the ground. “Hopefully that's satisfactory?” he chuckles as he ashes his blunt cigar.
“Not really ... .make it fun. Unbutton your trousers at the very least” she tsks off handedly as she fiddles with her lace mask. Iqbal grins behind his golden mask. “Why not?” he hums as he flicks open the button to his trouser pants.
Tujhe jaisi na koi teeno lok mein
Sab kuch luta doon tere shauk mein
“Shall we? Keep going that is.” he hums to her as he indicates to the dealer to re-shuffle the cards. The dealer's hands reach through the curtains and collect the cards on the table. He shuffles them artistically.
Yamini looks at the masked man with a grin. “Sabkuch lutane ka shaunk hai kya aapko?” The dealer begins to deal another pair of cards to both of them. “Kyun nahi?” he grins as he checks his cards. His luck had begun to turn and he had a strong hand.
“Hmm.. quite a risk taker aren't you? Not much dignity left for you to preserve.” She tsks at him as she oles his muscular body once more. Iqbal chuckles as he throws in 45 thousand. Yamini raises a brow at his bet. But matches it anyway with an extra 5 thousand to call him.
Tum aur sharab mile ho a ho
Rehne nahi dete dono hosh mein
Tum aur sharab mile ho a ho
Rehne nahi dete dono hosh mein
The pot now sits at 3 lakhs. But the money meant nothing. It was all on the cards. Iqbal throws his cards in. Royal flush. Yamini curses under her breath as she throws her cards face down onto the table. They weren't even worth showing.
Iqbal grins lazily as he leans back in his leather arm chair. Yamini reaches behind her. Iqbal expects her to unzip her gown. He even hears the zipper move slightly. She burns under the intensity of his stare. Her hand works fast, unhooking her bra behind her back. She pulls it out of her dress and zips it up again. The strapless matching satin and lace bra is pulled out into the air like a prized fish.
She tosses it across the table to Iqbal who catches it in his hand. His fingers fist around the material as he places it in his lap gently. “Youre a wild card aren't you?” he rumbles. His voice has gone gravely with restraint. Lust swirls in his dark eyes behind the gold mask. He can feel his trousers getting uncomfortably tight.
Tum aur sharab mile ho a ho
Rehne nahi dete dono hosh mein
Tum aur sharab mile ho a ho
Rehne nahi dete dono hosh mein
Yamini doesn't speak. Instead this time she signals to the dealer. Another round. Once again the dealer's hands reach through the curtains and collect the cards on the table. He shuffles them artistically. The cards flying through the air.
Yamini and Iqbal watch each other carefully. Her thighs clench the way he stares at her. His eyes dragged over her dress as if he had x-ray vision. He was imagining her bare beneath it. She could feel her nipples pebble with anticipation. Yamini looks at her cards. They were decent.
Iqbal could feel the way her eyes dragged along his bare skin. Each place her eyes rested for more than a moment burned. His thighs shifted apart as he manspread to create more room for his poor aching cock. The trousers are too tight for comfort. He looked at his cards. Decent.
Yamini gathers all of her remaining chips in her hand. 3 lakhs worth of chips in her palms. Iqbal mentally counts his chips. 5 lakhs worth of chips. She curls an eyebrow at him. She is telling him to make his move.
Iqbal’s tongue licks his teeth once. He doesn't think too hard “All in” he says gruffly as he shoves his chips into the pot. Yamini matches “all in”. Both of them now lean forward. The pot now rests at 11 lakhs. But the money didn't matter to either of them. Dignity was on the line. Both of them threw their cards down. It was a draw.
Both of them blink at the cards for a moment. They hear a soft clap and a rustle behind the curtain. The dealer was gone. The Vazir hall was empty. The masked woman and the masked man were alone. The game was a draw.
“How fucking anticlimactic” she scoffs as she stands up. Iqbal watches her carefully, not speaking, just observing. She hikes up her knee and climbs onto the poker table. Iqbal narrows his eyes at this as he watches. She begins to crawl towards him on top of the table.
Her black chiffon gown against the velvet of the poker table. She shoves the cards and chips out of her way as she crawls to him. She holds his eyes intensely. Iqbal has most definitely seen those eyes somewhere.
She reaches her hand forwards. “Chaliye ab khel khatam. Wapas dijiye. We will split our winnings fairly” She is asking him for her bra and underwear again. He grins at her darkly, there is a flash of gold in his teeth.
“Aise kaise de den hum aapko ye wapas?” he hums raspily as he leans in closer to her “maine jeeta hai inko. Fair and square.” he reasons as she looks at her. Iqbal fists his hand in her bra that sat in his lap. Yamini laughs it off even as anticipation and arousal pools in her gut. “Jeeti toh mai bhi hun. So I deserve my property back don't I?"
He laughs darkly, the laugh makes her core flutter “ I won too masked madam. It's a draw. Ab kya karna hai?” he leans in closer. Their faces are painfully close to each other. Yamini swallows hard at the proximity to the man in the gold mask. “ Well then there is only one thing left to do to make it fair to the both of us. Its a big step.”
“Kya karna hoga?”
“Ab toh sirf ye fair hoga ki agar hum dono apni dignity ke last shreds ko bhi hatale. Naga hona padega sahab”
Iqbal leans forward if that was even possible. The green velvet of the poker table makes Yamini’s palms sweat. His lips are inches away from hers when he whispers with a painful amount of restraint “Will you do it…if I do it?
She nods as she swallows. Her eyes are dilated behind the mask. Arousal pools in her body. She trembles in anticipation. The entire Vaizir hall is thick with tension. It's just them here. The air is impossible to breathe. His hands curl beneath her chin so she looks square into his eyes. “Use your words princess.”
Yamini’s breath hitches. His words. She swallows and nods before she stammers out “Yes. Yes I will” Iqbal's lips crash against her and its kiss of teeth and tongue. No sweetness or fondness. It's a kiss of deep need. The need to consume the soul of someone who already clouded you.
—------------------------
She moans into his mouth in surprise and Iqbal swallows it down. He pulls her off of the poker table with his strong arms. She lands on the floor beside him with a thud as he kisses her. Her hands rove along the hard disciplined plane of his body with an appreciative groan into his mouth.
Iqbal's hands go to her zipper behind her back. She loops her fingers into the waistband of his trousers and pulls him in closer. She tastes like champagne and he tastes like whiskey and cigars. Together they taste intoxicating.
“Fuck” she gasps against his lips as he pulls the zipper down. The metal teeth sounded painfully loud in the tense room. Iqbal’s hands pulled at the fabric and pushed it onto the floor as fast as he could while he consumed her breath. And then she was bare in front of him.
Iqbal pulls away to look at her flushed and panting face. Her ample breasts heave under her labored breathing under his gaze. “Just as I imagined. Fucking stunning.” he groans as he takes a breast into his palm. The warm heavy weight sat perfectly as he massaged the flesh which spilled through his fingers. She choked on a moan as her body arched towards him.
His hands cupped both of her breasts rolling her pebbled nipples between his calloused thumb and index finger. His lips attacked her throat leaving hot open mouthed kisses along her skin. She breathes shakily in his arms, sparks of pleasure shooting through her body with every rough twist and pinch. “Imagined?” she finally gasps “You were imagining me?”
Her soft hands trace along his bare torso. Her nails lightly drag on his skin. He groans against her throat as he nips below her ear. The diamond earrings brushing his face. “Ever since I saw you in the ballroom. Ever since I danced with you. I've been undressing you in my mind” he rasps as he pulls away reluctantly to look at her face.
“Do you like what you see? Do you like what you see without knowing who I am?” rasps Yamini as her eyes flutter shut in pleasure. She feels him latch onto her nipple with a hard suck. His teeth scrape along the top as his tongue flicks at the underside.
Without stopping his assault of licks, bites, and sucks on her breast Iqbal reaches for his half finished glass of whiskey. He pours out his remaining drink along her shoulder. The whisky traces cold rivers on her flushed skin. None of it goes to waste. His tongue traces every drop. He kisses and bites her skin to collect every drop of his whiskey.
Her hands fist in his hair with a gasp. The silk ribbon holding his mask up tangles in her fingers. She could pull it off if she pleased. “Fucking stunning.” he rasps as he licks off the last of the whiskey from her skin.
Before she could utter another word Iqbal pushed back onto the poker table. The chips and cards pushed away haphazardly framing her body. The image looks like a twisted poker porno. The light hanging above the table illuminates her diamond necklace. His hair is messy, the look in his eyes is crazed and obsessed. Like he was discovering something holy.
His hands roved along her hips. Along her waist. His hands were rough with years of use and grueling training. Her skin was so soft, so delicate. He breath hitched when he groped and squeezed the flesh of her thighs. Her legs crossed of their own accord.
His body was scared and hers was untouched. A man like him doesn't even deserve to be looking at such pristine perfection. Iqbal leans in and bites her beautiful unmarked skin. Yamini hisses in pain as his teeth clamp into the soft flesh of her stomach. He litters her body in bites and kisses as he works his way up.
She writhes on the green velvet poker table. Small sounds of pleasure escaping her throat in the form of whines and moans. Her hands find purchase on his shoulders. In his hair. Her thighs clenched tight. The friction helped the burning slick forming there.
Each sound she makes drives Iqbal even more insane. He trails sloppy kisses up her jaw, capturing her plush lips again. Her lips part automatically as he kisses her deeply. His hands groping the flesh at her hip making her gasp into his mouth. His pants are unbearably tight now, almost painfully so. “Please.. Need more” she gasps against his mouth.
That's what Iqbal was looking for. Within seconds he has her flipped onto her stomach. Poker chips clatter on the soft table. Yamini moans as her sensitive nipples rub against the velvet. “Oh fuck!” she gasps startled. Iqbal laughs darkly at her as he brings her hips to the edge of the table. He shoves his leg between hers and kicks her ankles apart forcing her legs to open wide for him.
She gasps again as the cold night air hits her soaked folds. The difference in temperature makes a shiver run up her spine. “So fucking desperate arent you shehzadi?” he hums darky as his fingers trace her wet folds. “Soaked and i’ve barely fucking touched you”
Her face burns in embarrassment. She hates the heat that pools in her stomach when he calls her princess or shehzadi in that deep tone. She can feel herself dripping, her hole clenching around thin air. She can feel how her body responds to him. “Are you just going to stand there and feed your ego or will you do something?” she seethes through gritted teeth.
Iqbal chuckles darkly at her bitchy mouth. “Dont be impatient” he whispers against her shoulder blade as he plants a kiss there. She squirms as his hands hold her in place. The velvet is rough against her soft skin now. His ring and middle fingers part her slick folds. And before she can prepare herself he thrusts them deep into her.
A strangled moan rips from her throat at the intrusion of his fingers. The stretch is massive, she can feel his cold gold rings against her skin. Her back arches as his rough fingers drag against her g-spot. The motion makes sparks shoot through her body.
As her back arches Iqbal uses the moment to tangle his paw-like hand into her hair. He grips it and yanks her backwards. His fingers still inside of her, her back arches like a taught bow. She hisses in pain and pleasure. Her cunt flutters on his fingers. The stretch still burns. He shifts his fingers slightly making her moan wantonly. “So fucking tight princess…you can barely take my fingers.” he coos in her ear condescendingly.
“How on earth will you take my cock?” he tsks. She whines as her hands wrap behind her, around his neck. He begins to thrust his fingers in and out of her. Slowly at first. The pads of his fingers rub against her inner walls gently. His bare chest against her spine. One of his hands in her hair, one of his hands in her cunt. The heel of his palm hitting against her clit.
She grinds against his hand as he begins fucking her with his fingers propperly. His long and slender digits curled against her g spot. The heel of his palm hitting her clit. “More..need more” she gasps as her eyes flutter shut.
He laughs darky by her ear. He obliges and speeds up his fingers. “You are such a slut aren't you?” he starts darkly, his fingers thrusting hard. “You don't even know who I am and you are riding my fingers like a desperate slut begging for more” she moans loudly at his words and the way his fingers massage her walls expertly.
“Can’t the same be said for you? Hmm?” She laughs breathlessly against him “Look at you, fingering an unknown woman in a dark hall” she giggles with a moan as he curls his fingers inside of her. Iqbal pulls her hair harder for her insolence making her hiss. “Ahh!” she hisses “Take off the mask. Be brave and take off your mask”
“Bohot baat karti ho tum” he growls in her ear as his fingers speed up. “Darr gaye?” she moans as she rides his fingers harder. Each thrust hitting against her g spot. “Mai darta nahi hun shehzadi…if only you knew” he hums in her ear as he feels her cunt flutter around his fingers. She was close. Iqbal wanted to feel that around his cock.
He loosens the hand in her hair and brings it to her breast. He begins massaging the soft flesh in time with his fingers. He bites and kisses along her shoulder. She cries out in pleasure as she feels the pull of her orgasm. “That's it princess cum for me” he husks into her ear. “Fuck!” she exclaims as her walls quiver and sparks fly through her body
Wetness gushes on Iqbal's fingers as she cums. He chuckles darkly by her ear. “Well done” he hums as he pulls his fingers out of Yamini making her gasp. He brings his fingers to his face. He parts his lips and places his fingers inside. She tastes amazing, he moans around his fingers. The sound makes a fresh wave of wetness coat her folds.
A flush creeps up her face. Her chest heaves as she catches her breath. Her mask threatens to slip and loosen; Iqbal fixes it. Tightening the ribbon that held it in place with painfully gentle fingers. Before she can speak he takes a step back.
His hand pulls his cock out of his trousers with no flourish. He doesn't even take the moment to undress fully. Yamini’s eyes go to his cock with no shame. God damn he was big. 6 inches easily. Perfectly veined in such a way she was clenching her thighs in anticipation of the feeling. She leans back against the poker table.
With a deep groan he pumps his aching cock. The grin on his face is shit eating as he sees her wide eyes on him. He sits down in the large leather armchair again. It creaks slightly beneath his weight. His hand fists his cock lazily as he watches her through his golden mask.
His cock twitches lazily in his hand as he watches her hips, her breasts, the marks he left on her, the flush in her face. He calls to her in his deep and gravely voice. “Come here princess….. Like the cock hungry bitch you are”
She laughs darkly as she walks toward him. Hips swaying and breasts bouncing with every motion. “Im cock hungry?” she hums as she stands before him. “Arent you pussy starved? Don't tell me that this is one sided. Don't lie to yourself when your cock is that painfully hard”
Iqbal laughs darkly at her words. “Fine princess, I won't lie to myself. Come here so I can sink my aching cock into your tight cunt” She climbs into his lap. Her knees on either side of him. Her dripping cunt hovering over him.
Yamini holds his face gently in his hands. She pulls him close as she kisses him again. Iqbal's hands wrap around her waist as he groans into the kiss. She taunts him again, whispering against his lips “Take off the mask… don't worry. I won't make fun of you if you’re ugly”
Iqbal hums against her lips. He feels her slick drip onto his aching cock. “Why are you so desperate to know who I am?” His large palms brace her hips as he slams her down onto his cock. Practically impaling her. She screams into his shoulder as she feels his cock stretch her impossibly.
Fuck he was huge. Her cunt fluttered to try to accommodate him. Iqbal groans, pressing his forehead into her shoulder. Fuck she was tight. Her walls were milking him as they tried to fit him. He hadn't expected her to be this tight. He has to breathe deeply against her shoulder to loosen the knot of pleasure coiling inside of his core already.
A few moments later she moans weakly against his ear “You think I don't know who you are?” she chuckles as she rolls her hips against him. They both groan. Iqbal’s hands dig into her hips for support. She laughs and moans as he begins fucking into her “I know exactly who you are. And I think you know who I am too” she starts.
His hips snap into her making her choke for a moment but she continues “-But you are too afraid of reality. That's why you won't take off the mask” she hums as she rides his cock. Her breath came in uneven pants. He scoffs and says “I just don't want to be disappointed by the face under your mask thats all”
She rolls her eyes with a moan. This bastard. Yamini already knew who he was, otherwise she never would have let things go this far. She had a suspicion when he invited her for poker. It was confirmed many rounds ago. The time has come to let him know that she knew. She knew who he was.
“You like that, don't you Major sahab? The plausible deniability?" She rasps into his ear. Iqbal's hips stutter momentarily. Yamini felt it. The grin on her face was triumphant. His eyes went wide, she knew who he was. “Shut up princess. Don't start something you won't be able to handle” he pounds up into her harder. The rasp in his voice is delicious and it hits straight in her clit.
“Tell me Iqbal, does it turn you on?” he chokes on a moan at her taking his name. She laughs evilly as she unties his mask before he can stop her. The silk ribbon comes undone with a sharp tug. His cock brushes against her g-spot with every thrust. Her body quivers in pleasure.
The golden mask clatters to the floor. Iqbal's face is revealed, he looks so handsome, so exposed in the low lighting of the Vazir hall. “Mashallah yeh aya Eid ka chand” she laughs with a moan as she presses a kiss to his forehead. A flush graces Iqbal's face as he buries his face into her neck. Leaving hot open mouthed kisses along the column of her throat.
His lips bite and nip along her cleavage. His cock brushes deep inside of her with each thrust. Pleasure pulls at her navel embarrassingly fast again. Her thighs burn as she matches each thrust. The leather armchair beneath them groans and creaks. She pulls his head up by the hair. They are both close. She can feel it the way he is twitching inside of her. And he can feel it the way her cunt flutters desperately.
“Aap ISI ke head hai na? So for that sake, before we fall off the cliff of pleasure Major sahab. Tell me. Who am I?” She rides him hard with a roll of her hips. They pant against each other's lips. He fucks up into her harder. Each thrust settled deep inside of her.
“Tell me Iqbal, who do you want me to be?” she moans. Her head lolls in pleasure, her hands claw into his shoulders. He groans. Pleasure coils inside of him. But her request claws at him. He stays buried into the cork of her neck. His lips sucked deep marks that would remain for at least a week. With shaky fingers he goes to untie her mask.
“Yamini. I want you to be Yamini Singh” he says shakily into her throat, his hips still snapping up into her. Yamini’s breath hitched her cunt clenches again. He took her name for the first time. Iqbal groans as he feels her clenching around him. Her mask falls away. The black lace whispers as it falls against the arm of the leather armchair.
“Mujhe dekho Iqbal” she pants her eyes threatening to roll back. She is hazy with lust. Lost in the pleasure. Iqbal keeps himself against her throat. His shaky hand rests against her cheek “Iqbal please” she whines in pleasure as his cock brushes against her cervix.
The way she begs forces Iqbal to open his eyes. When he does he sees her beautiful flushed face. Her plump lips parted his name on her lips, her eyebrows scrunched. Fuck she looked beautiful. It was her. There was no plausible deniability anymore.
Her eyes were hazy and unfocussed as they stared at Iqbal. There most definitely was no plausible deniability anymore. Indian diplomat Yamini Singh. Pakistani Major Iqbal Khan of the ISI.
Iqbal pulls her in for a kiss. She moans into it. Their lips move against each other feverishly as they feel their highs get closer and closer. The reveal of identities made everything in the room burn with intensity. The air between them burns. His hands on her waist burned. Her hands on his shoulders burned.
Yamini feels pleasure pull at her again. She is close. His cock dragged deliciously along her ribbed walls. Each vein caresses the muscles. Each thrust first hit her g-spot and then her cervix. The pleasure was maddening. She felt her core clenching around him. The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the empty hall.
“Cum for me shehzadi….cum for me Yamini” he pants breathlessly. Yamini screams into his shoulder as pleasure takes her. White hot stars burst behind her eyes as her body falls against his limply. “IQBAL!”
“FUCK……. YAMINI” roars Iqbal as he feels his core tighten. His hips stutter violently as he shoots thick hot ropes of cum into her. Her body shakes against his as her walls milk him for all he is worth. Iqbal cant help it, he fucks her through the orgasm with shaky breaths.
—------------------
A few moments later.
Both of them stay like that. Him inside of her, now softening. His cologne and her perfume clouding them. The thick atmosphere dissipates into the large Vazir hall. They can hear the orchestra from the durbar hall below. Where the diplomatic masquerade ball continues.
Iqbal’s fingers curl beneath her chin. He kisses her softly as he holds her in his arms. She moans softly into him as her hands tangle in his hair. No India. No Pakistan. No Diplomacy. No animosity. Just them a few moments of peace before they would have to part again.
Maybe diplomacy between India and Pakistan wasn't so bad after all. Not when the lessons in diplomacy looked like this.
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I HOPE YALL HAD AS MUCH FUN AS I DIDDDDDDD
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