It's just me!

"On your knees," Major Iqbal says, and it isn't a request. The weight of his voice alone could buckle you, crisp and cutting through the air like a blade. He doesn't raise it - he doesn’t have to. The command hangs there, inevitable, and your body obeys before your mind catches up, knees hitting the floor with a dull thud. His polished boots gleam inches from your face, the scent of leather and gun oil sharp in your nostrils.

His hand fists in your hair, not yanking - not yet - just holding, possessive. "Look at me." You do, tilting your head back, and his expression is ice: calculating, detached, the same look he’d give a suspect across an interrogation table. His uniform is pristine, buttons undone just far enough to reveal the stark line of his collarbone, the hint of sweat-damp skin beneath. His free hand trails the edge of his belt, slow, deliberate. "You understand why you’re here," he says. It isn’t a question.

You swallow. "Yes, sir."

The belt slides free with a whisper of leather, and your pulse kicks hard. He folds it neatly, once, twice, the buckle cold against your cheek when he presses it there. "Good. Then you’ll also understand what happens when you lie to me." The sting comes sudden, sharp - once across your thighs, twice, leaving heat in its wake. You bite back a whimper, and his grip tightens in your hair. "No. You’ll take it properly."

His palm cracks against your ass next, the sharp slap echoing in the sparse room - no warning, no hesitation, just the brutal efficiency of a man who expects his orders to be obeyed. You gasp, arching into the pain, and his fingers tighten in your hair, forcing your head back further. "Eyes on me," he growls, and you don’t dare blink. The belt lands again, higher this time, the buckle grazing the curve of your hip, and your thighs tremble. "Count."

"One, sir," you choke out, and his smile is a razor’s edge.

"Good girl." The praise is a weapon, and it cuts deeper than the leather. His free hand drags down your spine, fingers pressing into the fresh welts, and you shudder. "But we’re just getting started." His thumb hooks into the waistband of your pants, yanking them down in one smooth motion, the fabric pooling at your knees. The air is cold against your heated skin, but his touch is colder - clinical, assessing. He traces the outline of the belt’s mark, humming low in his throat. "Tell me who you belong to."

The words stick in your throat, and he doesn’t wait for hesitation. The next strike lands diagonally across your ass, the pain blooming bright and vicious. "Two, sir - fuck - "

His fingers dig into the welt, pressing until you whine, until the pain whites out your vision for a second. "I won't ask twice," he murmurs, voice like a blade dragged along your spine. "Who owns this?" His palm lands flat against your stinging ass, possessive, and you gasp his name - his rank - like a prayer. "Major Iqbal, sir - yours - "

"Louder." The belt cracks across your thighs again, and you jerk against his grip, your voice breaking as you repeat it, louder, desperate. He lets you pant for a second, your thighs slick with sweat, before his hand wraps around your throat - not choking, just holding , the weight of his palm a reminder. "Good. Remember that when I'm inside you." His thumb brushes your pulse, mocking how fast it's racing. "Unless you'd rather I stop?"

You shake your head violently, and his laugh is dark, satisfied. "Didn't think so." He releases your throat only to drag his knuckles down your chest, pausing to flick a nipple, cruel and teasing. "Hands behind your back. Now." You fumble to obey, and the cold bite of his belt loops around your wrists, cinching tight, the buckle digging into your skin. He tests the binding with a sharp tug, and you rock forward, unbalanced, your cheek nearly pressed to the floor. "Stay."

The rustle of his uniform is the only warning before his cock slaps against your ass, thick and heavy, already leaking. He grinds against you, slow, the fabric of his pants rough against your oversensitive skin, and you whimper, trying to arch back - but his hand plants between your shoulder blades, shoving you down. "Did I say you could move?" His voice drips condescension. "You take what I give you. Nothing more."

The head of his cock presses against your entrance without preamble, the stretch immediate, brutal - no slickness except what he’s smeared from his own arousal, no gentleness in the way he pushes inside. You choke on a gasp, your body clamping down around the intrusion, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t hesitate. He seats himself to the hilt in one smooth, merciless thrust, your back arching as he fills you, the burn sharp enough to make your vision blur. “Breathe,” he orders, and you do, ragged, your lungs fighting to remember how. His hand stays firm between your shoulder blades, pinning you in place as he leans over you, his uniform jacket brushing your bare skin, the starched fabric scraping like a brand. “Count.”

“Three, sir,” you rasp, the words trembling as much as your thighs, and his chuckle is low, dark, vibrating through your spine.

“Good.” He pulls out slowly, torturously, letting you feel every inch, the drag almost worse than the stretch - then slams back in, your body jolting forward with the force. His fingers twist in your hair, yanking your head back, his breath hot against your ear. “Again.”

You sob out the number, your voice cracking as he sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving the air from your lungs, the pain bleeding into pleasure until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. His grip on your hair tightens, forcing your spine into a sharper arch, your bound hands useless behind you, the belt biting deeper with every movement. “Look at yourself,” he snarls, and your gaze drops to where your body takes him, the obscene stretch, the way your muscles flutter around him, desperate. “Disgusting,” he murmurs, but there’s no disgust in his voice - only hunger, vicious and satisfied. “You’d let me fuck you like this anywhere, wouldn’t you? In front of my men, in the middle of an interrogation - you’d spread your legs and beg for it.”

His fingers tighten in your hair, forcing your head back further, exposing the frantic pulse in your throat as he fucks into you with the same precision he’d use to reload a weapon - methodical, relentless, every thrust calculated to leave you gasping. The drag of his cock is brutal, the friction burning even as your body betrays you, clenching around him greedily. "You’re dripping," he observes, voice dripping with contempt even as his hips snap forward, punctuating the words. "Pathetic. You can’t even pretend to resist me." His palm cracks against your ass again, the sting radiating through you, and you cry out, the sound mangled by the way he’s holding your head back. "Count."

"Four, sir - " you choke, the number dissolving into a whine as he grinds deep, the thick head of his cock pressing against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. You can feel him smirking against your ear, his breath hot and uneven for the first time - the only crack in his control.

"Good girl," he murmurs, and the praise is a blade twisted in your gut, sweet and cruel. His free hand slides around your hip, fingers pressing into the tender flesh of your inner thigh, spreading you wider as he drives into you harder, the wet slap of skin echoing in the room. "You want to come, don’t you?" His thumb brushes over your clit, feather-light, and you jerk against his grip, a sob tearing from your throat. "No," he snaps, withdrawing his touch instantly. "You don’t get to come until I say. Until you’ve earned it."

He pulls out abruptly, leaving you empty, aching, your body clenching around nothing as he drags you upright by your hair. The belt around your wrists bites deeper as he maneuvers you onto your knees facing him, your bound hands trapped between your bodies. His uniform pants are shoved down just enough to free his cock, glistening with your wetness, the sight obscene. "Open," he commands, and you do, your mouth falling open obediently. He doesn’t give you time to adjust - just shoves himself between your lips, the salt-bitter taste of him flooding your tongue as he grips the back of your head, holding you in place. "Suck."

You hollow your cheeks obediently, your tongue pressing flat against the thick vein beneath his cock as he fucks into your mouth with the same ruthless efficiency as before. He doesn’t let you control the pace - just holds your head steady, his fingers tangled in your hair, his thrusts shallow but deliberate, the tip hitting the back of your throat with every push. Drool spills down your chin, messy and unchecked, and his grip tightens when you gag, your throat fluttering around him. “Swallow,” he orders, and you do, forcing yourself to relax, your nose pressed to the coarse fabric of his uniform pants. The scent of gunpowder and leather clings to him, sharp and intoxicating, and you whimper around his cock, the sound muffled.

He pulls out suddenly, leaving you gasping, your lips swollen and wet. His thumb swipes through the mess on your chin, smearing it across your cheek with a mocking chuckle. “Disgusting,” he murmurs, but his pupils are blown wide, his breath uneven for the first time. His cock glistens in the dim light, slick with your spit, and he strokes himself lazily, his eyes locked on your face. “You want it back inside you?” His voice is low, taunting. “Beg.”

Your thighs are already trembling, your cunt aching and empty, and the words tumble out before you can stop them. “Please, sir - please, I need it - ”

The crack of leather never comes. Instead, his fingers wrap around your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your pulse stutter under his palm. "I think you've had enough marks for now," he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous hum. His thumb strokes your racing pulse, mockingly gentle. "I want to see you squirm without the sting. Let’s see how well you take it when all you have is me ."

His grip on your hair loosens only to drag you forward, your bound hands pressing against the hard planes of his abdomen as he guides his cock back to your entrance. The blunt head teases, circling but not pressing in, the slick heat of him maddening. "You’re trembling," he observes, his breath hot against your ear. "Good. That’s how I want you." He pushes in slowly, agonizingly slow, the stretch burning even as your body opens for him, greedy and desperate. Every inch feels like a violation, a conquest, and when he finally bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass, he lets out a satisfied sigh. "Perfect. Like you were made for this."

His hands settle on your hips, fingers digging into the fresh welts left by the belt, the pain sharp enough to make you gasp. But he doesn’t move - not yet. He just holds you there, impaled, his cock twitching inside you as he leans over your back, his uniform jacket rough against your sweat-slick skin. "Tell me again," he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Who do you belong to?"

"Y-you, sir," you stammer, your voice breaking as he grinds deeper, the angle ruthless.

"Louder." His teeth graze your earlobe, sharp enough to make you jolt, but he doesn’t bite - just hovers, a threat, a promise.

"Yours, Major Iqbal - yours - " The words dissolve into a moan as he finally moves, pulling out halfway before slamming back in, the force driving the breath from your lungs. His rhythm is merciless, each thrust calculated to drag against that spot inside you that makes your vision blur, your thighs shake. He doesn’t hurry, doesn’t falter - just fucks you with the same precision he’d use to dismantle a weapon, every movement deliberate, every groan measured.

The orgasm hits you like a gunshot - sudden, violent, your body arching against his grip as pleasure detonates up your spine. You scream his rank, his name, a litany of yours, yours, yours as he drives into you harder, his rhythm fracturing for the first time. His grip on your hips tightens, fingers pressing into fresh welts, and he growls your name like a curse, his cock pulsing inside you as he comes with a shuddering groan, his hips stuttering against yours.

For a heartbeat, there’s only silence - your ragged breaths, the sticky heat between your thighs, the weight of his body slumped over yours. Then, the belt around your wrists loosens, the buckle clicking open with practiced ease. His hands - the same hands that pinned you down, that marked you - slide gently up your arms, turning you to face him.

The Major is gone.

In his place stands Iqbal, your husband, his dark eyes soft with something raw and unguarded. He cups your face, thumbs brushing away tears you didn’t realize had fallen. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough but tender. “ Meri jaan. ” The endearment is a balm, a key turning the lock of the scene, and you sag against him, boneless.

He lifts you effortlessly, one arm beneath your knees, the other cradling your back, and carries you to the bed like something precious. The mattress dips under his weight as he settles you both, your sore skin protesting only for a moment before his lips press against your forehead, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth - each kiss a whispered apology, a claim, a vow. “You were perfect,” he says, nuzzling the shell of your ear. “ Mine. ” The word is softer now, a declaration, not a command.

His fingers trace the welts on your thighs, the reddened skin where his belt bit deepest, and he reaches for the salve on the nightstand without looking, the movement automatic. The cream is cool, his touch lighter than air, and you shiver as he works it into your skin, his brow furrowed in concentration. “I should have gone easier,” he mutters, more to himself than you, but you catch his wrist, pressing his palm to your cheek.

“I asked for it,” you remind him, and his breath hitches. He knows - of course he knows - but the way he looks at you now, like you’ve handed him the moon, makes your chest ache.

He cleans you both with a damp cloth, the water lukewarm, his movements slow and reverent. When he lifts the glass to your lips, you drink obediently, his free hand stroking your hair. “More,” he insists, and you roll your eyes but obey, the water spilling a little down your chin. He catches it with his thumb, grinning - a real, unguarded smile, the one he saves for you alone.

The bed creaks as he climbs in beside you, pulling you against his chest, your back to his front. His arms band around you, possessive even now, his lips brushing the nape of your neck. “Sleep,” he murmurs, but you twist in his grip, needing to see his face.

He lets you turn, his expression softening further as you press your forehead to his. “ Meri jaan ,” he breathes, the words a prayer. You can feel his heartbeat against your palm, steady and strong, and you curl into him, your legs tangling with his. His fingers card through your hair, his other hand splayed across your lower back, holding you close.

Outside, the wind rattles the windowpane, but here, in the circle of his arms, the world is quiet. Safe. His breath evens out against your temple, his grip loosening just enough to let you shift, but even in sleep, he follows you, his body seeking yours instinctively.

You press a kiss to his collarbone, the taste of salt and gunpowder still lingering on his skin, and he sighs your name into the dark.

When you wake, dawn is just bleeding through the curtains. His arm is still draped over your waist, his face buried in your hair. You shift, and he tightens his hold immediately, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “Stay,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, and you smile against his skin.

“I’m here,” you promise, and his fingers flex against your hip, possessive even now. Outside, the world stirs - birds, footsteps, the distant hum of traffic - but inside, there’s only this: his breath on your neck, his heartbeat under your palm, the quiet certainty of his .

He stirs first, his lips brushing your shoulder, slow and lazy. “Morning,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep, and you turn in his arms, catching his mouth with yours. He kisses you back, slow and deep, his hand cupping your jaw like you’re something precious. When you pull away, he chases your lips, nuzzling your nose with his. “Stay in bed,” he orders, but his thumb strokes your cheekbone, betraying the tenderness beneath the command.

You arch a brow. “Or what?”

His chuckle is low, warm, his teeth grazing your earlobe. “Or I’ll tie you to it.” But he’s already sitting up, stretching, the muscles of his back flexing under the morning light. He turns back to you, his gaze softening as he takes in the faint bruises on your thighs, the way you shift under his scrutiny. “Sore?”

You shrug, but he’s already reaching for the salve, his touch feather-light as he smooths it over your skin. His brow furrows when you wince, his fingers gentling further. “I should’ve - ”

You catch his wrist, pressing his palm to your lips. “I liked it.” His breath hitches, his eyes darkening, and you grin, tugging him back down. “Maybe next time you should go harder.”

He groans, burying his face in your neck. “ Meri jaan, you’ll be the death of me.” But his hands are already roaming, mapping your body like he’s memorizing it all over again. When he lifts his head, his eyes are bright with something fierce and fond. “Breakfast,” he declares, and you pout, but he’s already swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Then,” he adds, glancing back with a smirk, “we’ll see about that next time. ”

__________

SO, I've been having a few bad days and hence couldn't keep posting. I'm sorry. But I will try my best. Thanks for reading!

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The air in the Lyari safehouse hangs heavy, a suffocating blanket woven from the humid night outside and the stale breath of the city seeping through the barred windows. It's past midnight, but the sweltering heat refuses to yield, turning the small room into a steam bath where every inhale pulls in the faint, cloying sweetness of jasmine from the vine twisting up the outer wall. The petals, bruised by the day's relentless sun, release their perfume in waves, mingling with the sharper undercurrent of rust from the iron bedframe and the faint, acrid smoke of a recently extinguished cigarette. Your skin prickles with a sheen of sweat, the thin cotton of your blouse sticking to your back like a reluctant lover, while your skirt clings to your thighs, the fabric damp and chafing with every shift in the rickety wooden chair.

You've been at it for what feels like an eternity - hours blurring into a relentless cascade of syndicate reports scrolling across the laptop screen. The blue glow casts harsh shadows on your face, highlighting the dark circles under your eyes, the tension lines etched deep around your mouth. Your fingers, callused from endless typing and the occasional grip on a hidden dagger, ache as they hover over the keys. The weight of it all presses down: the latest turf skirmish with rival gangs, the encrypted messages about betrayals in the ranks, the fragile alliances that could shatter with one wrong move. As Inaya, the Strategist, you're the invisible thread holding this underworld empire together, but tonight, that thread frays at the edges. Your breaths come shallow and ragged, chest tight with the exhaustion of holding chaos at bay, emotions buried under layers of calculated calm.

The door creaks open behind you, a low groan of hinges that slices through the hum of the ceiling fan. Its blades whirl sluggishly overhead, stirring the air just enough to rustle the papers scattered on the desk but not enough to cool the feverish heat radiating from your body. Footsteps - four sets, deliberate and synchronized - pad across the concrete floor, the soles of boots scuffing softly against the grit embedded in the surface. You sense them before you see them, the shift in the room's energy, like predators circling in the dim light filtering from a single bulb dangling by a frayed cord.

Uzair Baloch moves first, his presence commanding even in silence. The Authority, they call him in the streets of Lyari - you were "meri jaan" to him, a title whispered in the dark that carries the weight of possession and protection. His hand, large and scarred from years of enforcing his brother's rule, slams the laptop shut with a sharp crack that echoes off the peeling walls. The sudden darkness from the screen's extinction makes your eyes blink rapidly, adjusting to the amber glow of the lamp. "Kaafi hai, meri jaan," he growls, his voice a deep rumble that vibrates through the air, laced with the rough edge of Urdu spoken in the back alleys. It's not anger, but finality - the tone that has silenced boardrooms turned battlegrounds and quelled uprisings with a single glare.

You start to protest, words bubbling up from the knot in your throat about unfinished maps of enemy territories, about the risks if you don't anticipate the next strike. But Major Iqbal is already there, his palms settling on your shoulders like anchors dropped into stormy seas. The Grounding presence in your private lexicon, his touch is firm, callused fingers pressing into the taut muscles with a soldier's precision. The heat of his hands seeps through your blouse, contrasting the cool metal of his watch band against your collarbone. He forces you back into the chair gently but inexorably, the wood creaking under the shift. "Breathe, mere dil," he murmurs, his breath warm and mint-scented against the nape of your neck, carrying the faint tang of the paan he chews to stay alert during night watches.

From the sides, Hamza Ali Mazari and Rehman Dakait close in, their movements fluid, predatory. Hamza, a name that evokes the delicate illusions he weaves with information and touch - locks his dark eyes onto yours, pupils dilated in the low light, reflecting a hunger that's as much emotional as physical. His scent precedes him: a subtle spice of attar, sandalwood and musk, clinging to his kurta like a signature. Rehman, the Foundation - your sturdy reflection in their affections - blocks the door with his broad frame, the concrete dust from his boots grinding underfoot. His presence is solid, unyielding, the air around him thicker with the earthy smell of sweat from a day spent fortifying safe routes through the labyrinthine streets.

"I'm fine," you insist, voice cracking slightly as you try to rise, but Uzair's fingers are already at your blouse, deftly popping the buttons one by one. The fabric parts with a soft whisper, exposing the lace of your bra, damp and translucent against your flushed skin. The air kisses the newly bared flesh, raising goosebumps despite the heat. "Tum khud ko barbaad kar rahi ho," Uzair says, leaning close, his beard grazing your cheek, rough and tickling, his breath hot with the aroma of black tea laced with cardamom. His eyes, sharp as a blade, bore into yours, seeing through the facade to the fraying edges beneath.

Iqbal's hands slide down your arms, pinning them to the chair's arms with a grip that's unyielding yet careful, his thumbs stroking the insides of your wrists where your pulse hammers like a trapped bird. The sensation grounds you, the steady pressure a counterpoint to the whirlwind in your mind. Hamza kneels before you, his knees thudding softly on the rug, fingers hooking into the waistband of your skirt. He tugs it down slowly, inch by inch, the fabric dragging over your hips, exposing the soft skin of your thighs to the humid air. His fingertips trail feather-light paths along the way, sending electric shivers racing up your spine, the touch igniting nerves raw from neglect.

Rehman steps forward, his massive hands - hands that have crushed windpipes and loaded clips in the dead of night - now gentle as they reach for your panties. He eases them down, the cotton peeling away from your core with a sticky resistance, revealing the trimmed patch of hair and the glistening folds already betraying your body's response. The scent of your arousal blooms in the close air, musky and intimate, mixing with the jasmine to create a heady cocktail. Rehman's fingers trace the faint scars on your hips - souvenirs from close calls in the syndicate's wars - his touch reverent, like mapping sacred ground. "Let us take what is ours, gudiya," he rumbles, voice low and gravelly, vibrating through his chest as he kneels to help Hamza discard the skirt.

Your resistance crumbles under their assault of touches, each one building like a tide. Uzair's palm cups your breast through the bra, the heat of his skin searing, thumb circling the nipple until it hardens into a tight peak, straining against the lace. A soft gasp escapes you, the sound swallowed by the fan's drone and the distant rumble of thunder rolling in from the Arabian Sea. Hamza's lips brush your inner thigh, the whisper of his mustache tickling, his breath fanning cool relief over the heated skin before his tongue darts out, tasting the salt of your sweat. Iqbal releases your arms just long enough to unclasp the bra with practiced ease, the hooks giving way with a faint snap. His mouth descends immediately, closing over one nipple, sucking with firm pressure that sends jolts straight to your core, his teeth grazing just enough to tease without pain.

Rehman spreads your legs wider, his rough palms sliding up your calves, knees, thighs, parting you open to the room's humid gaze. His fingers delve between your folds, parting the slick lips to expose your clit, swollen and throbbing. The air hits it directly, a shocking coolness amid the warmth, and you whimper as he circles it once, twice, with a callused fingertip, gathering your wetness. The slick sound of his touch echoes softly, obscene in the quiet tension. Outside, the first fat drops of rain patter against the tin roof extension, a sporadic drumbeat that syncs with your quickening pulse.

Their public personas - Uzair the ruthless enforcer whose name sends shivers through Lyari's markets, Hamza the whisperer who extracts secrets with a smile, Rehman the unbreakable wall against invasions, Iqbal the tactical mind that turns battles - dissolve here in this shadowed sanctuary. In their place, a private devotion unfolds, Urdu phrases slipping like secrets between them: "Tum humari jaan ho," Uzair breathes, his free hand tilting your chin up to capture your gaze, his eyes softening from command to plea.

Hamza rises gracefully, a silk tie dangling from his fingers - pilfered from some forgotten drawer, smooth and cool against the heat. "Time to surrender, pari," he says, his voice a silken thread, wrapping the blindfold over your eyes. The fabric blocks out the light, plunging you into velvet darkness, heightening every other sense. The world contracts: the creak of the chair as they lift you, the brush of their fabrics against your skin - Uzair's crisp shirt, Hamza's soft kurta, Rehman's rough denim, Iqbal's starched uniform pants. Scents intensify: Uzair's tobacco-laced cologne, Hamza's attar, Rehman's earthy sweat, Iqbal's clean soap undercut by gun oil.

Iqbal guides you to the worn Persian rug in the center, its threads frayed but soft under your bare feet, the faint mustiness rising as you sink down. His strength cuffs your wrists loosely to the nearby bedpost, the metal links cool and smooth, clinking softly - not to bind in cruelty, but to tether your racing thoughts. "Stay present, mere dil," he instructs, his voice a steady anchor, hands gripping your thighs to spread them wide, the pull stretching muscles taut with anticipation. The rain picks up, a steady hiss now, drowning the city's distant horns and shouts.

Uzair assumes command, his authority the invisible conductor orchestrating the symphony of your unraveling. "Ab aapko sirf humare baare mein sochna hai, meri jaan," he declares, positioning you on your knees atop the rug, the coarse fibers digging into your skin just enough to ground the haze beginning to form. Rehman settles behind you first, his foundation role manifesting as he pulls you onto his lap, the heat of his thighs like heated stone against your ass. His cock, thick and rigid, presses insistently between your cheeks, the velvety skin hot, a bead of pre-cum smearing slickly as he adjusts. His hands brace your hips, fingers splaying wide, supporting your weight with effortless power - the same hands that have shouldered crates of smuggled arms now cradling you like fragile porcelain.

The air thickens with anticipation, your blindfolded world alive with sounds: the wet smack of lips as Hamza leans in, his mouth replacing the feather-light touch he starts with. From a hidden pocket, he produces a small peacock feather - soft, teasing - trailing it over your nipples first. The barbs whisper across the sensitive peaks, making them tighten painfully, a shiver cascading down your spine. Then, his mouth follows, tongue flicking the left nipple into wetness, sucking it deep with a pull that hollows his cheeks, the suction sending sparks to your clit. His mustache scrapes lightly, an added texture that makes you arch, a low moan escaping your parted lips.

Iqbal kneels in front, his grounding presence ensuring no sensation overwhelms without purpose. His thumbs part your pussy lips wider, the cool air rushing in to tease the exposed clit, already pulsing with need. He leans in, breath ghosting over the slick folds before his mouth engulfs it - lips sealing around the nub, tongue lapping in firm, deliberate circles. The flat of it presses broad and insistent, then the tip flicks rapidly, building pressure that coils low in your belly. His fingers dig into your thighs, not bruising but holding you splayed, the calluses rasping against your skin, anchoring you as your hips buck involuntarily. The taste of you floods his mouth, salty-sweet, and he hums approval, the vibration buzzing through your core like an electric current.

Uzair steps forward, his cock - long, thick, veined prominently - brushing your lips, the musky scent of his arousal hitting you first, mingled with the faint salt of his skin. "Open up, baby girl," he commands, voice husky, and you do, lips parting to take the head into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around the slit, tasting the bitter pre-cum, as he thrusts shallowly, fingers tangling in your hair - not pulling, but guiding. The texture of him fills your mouth: smooth skin over steel hardness, the ridge of the head catching on your inner cheeks.

From behind, Rehman's hands slide forward, one dipping between your legs to join Iqbal's efforts. Two thick digits push into your pussy alongside the major's tongue, stretching the walls with a slick, squelching sound that reverberates in the humid room. The fullness is immediate, his fingers curling to stroke the spongy front wall, hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. "Relax into us, gudiye, " he whispers against your neck, his beard scratching the sweat-damp skin, lips pressing hot kisses along the column of your throat. His other hand kneads your breast, palm rough against the soft mound, pinching the nipple in rhythm with his finger-thrusts - twist, release, twist - building a counterpoint to the suction on your clit.

Hamza's sensory play escalates; his mouth leaves your nipple with a pop, trailing wet kisses down your side, tongue dipping into your navel before moving lower. But first, he teases your ear, nibbling the lobe with his teeth, breath hot and ragged. "Do you feel that? Do you feel every inch of his cock dragging against your walls, pari?" he murmurs, voice a velvet caress, as his fingers trace intricate patterns on your back - swirls and lines that mimic the tattoos hidden under his clothes. Then, down to your ass, circling the tight ring of muscle with a lubed fingertip, the cool gel contrasting the body's heat. He presses in slowly, the intrusion burning briefly before blooming into pleasure, his finger sliding knuckle-deep, twisting gently to match Rehman's pace in your pussy.

Voices layer in Urdu, intimate codes that bind you closer: "Tum humari ho, aur hum apnon ke khayal rakhte hain " Iqbal growls, adding a third finger to your pussy, the stretch bordering on too much, pumping steadily with wet slides. The sounds are obscene - schlick, schlick - punctuated by your muffled gasps around Uzair's cock. Hamza's finger in your ass joins the chorus, scissoring lightly to open you further, the dual penetration making your walls flutter. Thunder cracks outside, shaking the windowpanes, rain now a torrent that drums relentlessly, mirroring the building storm in your body.

They rotate with practiced ease, a dance honed in stolen nights like this. Uzair withdraws from your mouth with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting you briefly, the cool air hitting the sensitive head. Hamza takes his place, his cock slimmer but curved upward, sliding past your lips to hit the back of your throat. The angle makes you gag softly at first, but you adjust, hollowing your cheeks to suck, tongue pressing along the underside vein. His hands cup your face gently, thumbs stroking your jaw, guiding the rhythm - slow, deep, savoring.

Uzair moves downward, his authority claiming your core. He lifts your hips slightly from Rehman's lap, the shift making you whine at the loss of support, but then he's there - cock aligning with your entrance, the broad head nudging your folds. With one powerful stroke, he thrusts in deep, bottoming out, your walls clenching around the invasion. The fullness is overwhelming, every ridge dragging against your insides, his balls slapping lightly against your ass. "Meri jaan, you're still so fucking tight," he groans, voice strained, hips snapping forward in a steady grind. The scent of sex intensifies - your arousal, their pre-cum, sweat - thick and primal.

Rehman supports you from below, his cock now grinding against your ass cheeks, slick with the drip of your combined wetness leaking down. The friction is teasing, hot skin on hot skin, as his hands roam: one steadying your waist, the other reaching around to roll your free nipple between fingers, tugging until it aches deliciously. Iqbal shifts to your breasts fully now, mouth alternating between nipples - suck, bite, soothe with tongue - his free hand stroking his own thick length, the wet schlick of his fist echoing. Pre-cum beads at his tip, dripping onto the rug, the salty scent adding to the overload.

The pace accelerates, bodies colliding with slick slaps in the humid air, rain roaring like applause. Hamza fucks your mouth with controlled thrusts, his curved cock hitting new spots, making saliva drip down your chin. Uzair pounds your pussy relentlessly, each withdrawal pulling your walls taut, each plunge filling you to the hilt, the head kissing your cervix. "Cum for us now, mere dil," Iqbal commands from your side, his voice cutting through the haze. He replaces Uzair momentarily, pulling out with a gush of wetness, then slamming his thicker cock in, stretching you anew. The burn is exquisite, your pussy gripping him like a vice as Rehman's fingers delve deeper into your ass, three now, pumping in opposition to Iqbal's thrusts.

Hamza pulls from your mouth, gasping, and they reposition fluidly. Rehman lifts you higher, muscles bunching under you, guiding his massive cock to your pussy. You sink down onto him, the descent slow, inch by girthy inch, until you're fully impaled, his foundation holding you steady as he thrusts up powerfully. His hands grip your ass cheeks, spreading them wide, thumbs pressing into the flesh for leverage. The stretch is profound, his thickness filling every crevice, the veins pulsing against your walls.

Iqbal moves behind, the squelch of lube from a bottle he produces slicking his cock generously. The cool gel drips down your crack, then the pressure of his head against your asshole - blunt and insistent. "Deep breaths, mere dil," he instructs, voice steady, pushing in inch by burning inch. The ring gives way, the fullness dual now - Rehman's cock in your pussy, Iqbal's in your ass, the thin membrane between them allowing you to feel their ridges rubbing, thrusting in tandem. It's a symphony of stretch and friction, your body rocking between them like a vessel in rough seas.

Uzair kneels in front, feeding his cock back into your mouth, the taste of your pussy still on him - tangy and addictive - as you suck greedily, throat relaxing to take him deeper. Hamza strokes himself beside, his hand a blur, occasionally reaching to tweak your clit with slick fingers or deliver a light slap to your thigh, the sting blooming into heat that pushes you higher. "Harder, but hold her together," Uzair directs, sweat dripping from his brow onto your back, salty trails cooling briefly.

Rehman thrusts up into your pussy, deep and rhythmic, his grunts low and animalistic; Iqbal matches from behind, pulling your cheeks apart for deeper access, hips snapping with controlled force, the slap of his pelvis against you echoing. Your body jolts with each movement, filled in every orifice - Uzair's cock gagging your throat slightly, the bulge visible as you swallow around him. Hamza leans in, tongue lapping at your clit where it emerges between Rehman's thrusts, then sucking it hard, teeth grazing the hood. The overload crests: sounds of flesh on flesh, wet plunges, your choked moans; scents of cum and sweat overpowering jasmine; tastes of salt and musk; touches everywhere - rough, soft, insistent.

"Pari, taste your own sweetness," Hamza says, dipping fingers into the mess between your legs and feeding them to you alongside Uzair's cock, the flavor exploding on your tongue. Subspace edges in, sensations blurring into a white-hot fog - heat of slick skin sliding, vibrations of their Urdu chants: "Gudiya, take it all," Rehman groans, his cock swelling, veins throbbing.

Orgasms cascade like the rain outside. First, your pussy clamps down on Rehman, milking him as waves crash through you, body convulsing, a scream muffled by Uzair. He pulls out to let it free, raw and piercing, then thrusts back. Iqbal follows, his ass-fucking erratic, hips stuttering as he cums, hot spurts flooding deep with a bellowed "Mere dil!" The warmth spreads, leaking out around his cock. Rehman erupts next, flooding your pussy, the excess gushing down your thighs, sticky and cooling in the air. Hamza claims your mouth fully, fucking it with short bursts until he spills, thick ropes coating your tongue - "Swallow every drop, pari" - the taste lingering as you obey.

Uzair takes the finale, pulling you off the others to straddle him on the rug. His cock slams into your cum-drenched pussy, the mixture squelching with each thrust, lewd and filthy. He fucks you hard, hands bruising your hips, guiding the ride until you shatter again, walls fluttering wildly. "Break completely for me, meri jaan," he demands, and you do - body arching, mind dissolving into euphoric void, only their essences remaining. He cums deep, pulsing jets mixing with the rest, then pulls out to let the final spurts paint your stomach and breasts, warm rivulets trickling down.

The physical crescendo shatters more than flesh; it cracks the dam holding back the week's torrent of buried grief and strain. Sobs erupt from your chest - raw, guttural, heaving cries that tear through the aftershocks of pleasure. Tears soak the blindfold, hot and unending, your body shaking violently as limbs go limp, the weight of syndicate shadows crashing down. The emotional collapse is total: hiccuping gasps for the lives risked under your strategies, the isolation of your role, the fear masked as control. Rain hammers the roof like judgment, thunder rumbling sympathy.

They catch you without hesitation, the shift instantaneous - dominance yielding to devotion, their feared exteriors stripping to vulnerability's core. Hamza unties the blindfold with trembling fingers, the silk whispering away to reveal his eyes, soft and glistening. "Shh, pari, hum yahin hain," he soothes, wiping your tear-streaked face with the pad of his thumb, the touch feather-light, tasting the salt on his skin. Rehman eases you down to the rug fully, his arms encircling from behind like an unbreakable fortress, chest a broad, sweat-slick wall pressing warmth into your back. The steady thump of his heart against your spine anchors the chaos, his breath even and reassuring in your hair, carrying the faint scent of rain-dampened earth from his earlier patrol.

Iqbal uncuffs your wrists with careful clicks, the metal cool against heated skin, then rubs the faint red marks with his thumbs, circling in slow, soothing motions that chase away the tingles. "Aram se, mere dil," he murmurs, voice a low bass that vibrates through his touch, grounding the sobs into quieter whimpers. Uzair cradles your head, drawing you against his chest, the coarse hair there tickling your cheek, his heartbeat a thunderous drum under your ear - strong, unyielding. "Bas, meri jaan... rona nahi, hum sambhal lenge," he whispers, hand stroking your hair in long, rhythmic passes, fingers combing through the tangled strands, untangling knots with infinite patience.

The sobs wrack you fully now, chest heaving with each inhale that pulls in the mingled scents: cum drying on your skin, their sweat, the fresh ozone of rain filtering through the cracks. No judgment colors their holds - just unwavering presence, bodies forming a human cocoon around you. Hamza fetches a basin of cool water from the adjoining room, the slosh audible, and a soft cloth, wringing it with a drip that patters like after-rain. He starts at your face, dabbing gently, the chill soothing inflamed eyes and cheeks, then down your neck, tracing the pulse points where your heart still races.

"Piyo thoda, pari... araam karo," he urges, holding a glass of water to your lips - cool, filtered, with a hint of lemon from the safehouse's stores. You sip haltingly, the liquid sliding down your raw throat, quenching the fire there. His care continues: the cloth moves to your breasts, wiping away the sticky remnants of their releases, circles soft and worshipful around each nipple, now tender and hypersensitive. The coolness contrasts the residual heat, sending shivers that he chases with his palm, warming you back.

Rehman tightens his embrace, rocking you subtly side to side, the motion a gentle sway like a cradle in the storm. His hands - one on your belly, rubbing slow circles to ease the cramps from orgasms; the other interlacing with yours, thumb stroking the back - provide a shield against the world's intrusion. "Suno meri gudiya... sab theek ho jayega," he whispers, lips brushing your ear, his voice a gravelly lullaby infused with Urdu endearments. The vibrations hum through you, syncing breaths until yours even out, sobs fading to sniffles. His solidity, the foundation that withstands gang wars, now fortifies your fragility, chasing shadows with unshakeable presence.

Iqbal kneels at your feet, lifting one leg with deference, his rough hands - scarred from bayonet grips and trigger pulls - now instruments of solace. He kisses the arch of your foot, lips dry and firm, tongue flicking briefly to taste the salt, then massages upward. Thumbs dig into the tense calves, kneading knots from hours pacing the room in heels, the pressure firm but yielding, coaxing blood flow with each press. "Thik se kaam karne ke liye, tumhare shareer ko bhi aaram ki aavashyakta hai, meri jaan. Aise khud ko halke mein mat liya karo, it's insulting to us" he says, devotion lacing every word, moving to your thighs, hands parting them slightly to work the inner muscles, avoiding the sore core for now. He kisses your knuckles next, each one lingering - a press to the thumb, a suckle to the index - sealing silent vows of protection.

Uzair's authority manifests in quiet command of the aftercare, directing without words: a nod to Hamza for more water, a squeeze to Rehman's shoulder for tighter hold. His fingers continue their path through your hair, braiding loose sections absentmindedly, the tug grounding. When sobs resurface, he hums a low tune - an old folk melody twisted with underworld grit - his chest rumbling the notes, enveloping you in sound.

They clean you methodically, no inch overlooked, the ritual extending time into a suspended haze. Hamza's cloth traces your arms, wiping sweat from elbows and wrists, then down to your stomach, removing the painted cum with gentle swipes, the fabric warming from your body heat. He parts your thighs wider, cloth dipping between to clean the leaking mess from pussy and ass - cool touches on inflamed tissues, soothing the ache without intrusion. "Tum jaise bhi ho, humare liye perfect ho, pari," he affirms, voice reverent, as if tending a queen.

Rehman hums deeper now, a traditional Urdu lullaby about lost lovers finding home, the melody vibrating against your back, lulling hiccups into even breaths. His hand on your belly presses lightly, feeling the rise and fall, syncing his own respiration to yours. The rain softens to a drizzle, pattering like whispered secrets, the room's golden lamplight casting warm halos on their forms - shadows of protectors, not predators.

Iqbal's massage climbs higher, hands working your hips, thumbs circling the scars there, then up your sides, easing the tension from your ribs. His mouth follows sporadically: a kiss to your knee, a nuzzle to your inner thigh, not arousing but affirming - tongue lapping any stray salt, breaths fanning comfort. "Hum tumhare hain, mere dil," he vows, eyes locked on yours when you glance down, intensity softened to tenderness.

Uzair shifts you fully onto his lap, your head pillowed on his thigh now, the muscle firm yet yielding. He combs your hair endlessly, fingers parting strands, the repetitive motion hypnotic. Scents evolve: rain freshening the air, their bodies' musk yielding to the clean sharpness of soap Hamza introduces, lathering a soft bar to wash your hands and face further. The fan's whir blends with breaths, rain, and murmurs - a symphony of safety that drowns the outer world's clamor.

Exhaustion claims you gradually, the emotional purge leaving you drained, boneless in their collective hold. Uzair's heartbeat lulls like a metronome; Hamza's vigilance anticipates every need - another sip of water, a fresh cloth; Rehman's shield rocks you toward slumber, his warmth a blanket; Iqbal's devotion lingers in kisses to your forehead, hands never ceasing their rubs. They love you distinctly: Uzair's command turned guardian, Hamza's senses nurturing every whim, Rehman's strength cradling fragility, Iqbal's grounding freeing your soul. In this Lyari night, the syndicate fades, leaving only their enveloping love - a sanctuary where you're held utterly, completely, until dawn's light creeps in.

_______

This was my first time writing a poly. Hope it was upto your expectations. Let me know what you think, thanks for reading!❣️

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​The stone floors of the Central Jail are colder than the Karachi pavement ever was, but it's the silence that really bites. In the Lyari Uzair remembers, there was always a hum - the drone of a distant motorbike, the sizzle of a street cart, or the rhythmic thrum of his brother Rehman's voice planning the next move for the family.

​Now, there is only the echo of his own breath and the jagged memory of a man who moved like a shadow and spoke like a poet.

​It began on a Tuesday, under the heavy, humid canopy of a monsoon sky. Rehman had called Uzair into the back room of the compound, his face unreadable. Standing beside him was a young man who looked like he belonged in a high-rise in Clifton, not a dusty hideout in Lyari. Realisation dawned on Uzair a few moments later, he remembered he had saved his brother's son.

​"Come Uzair," Rehman had said, his hand clapping Uzair's shoulder. "Meet Hamza. He's sharp, Uzair. He calculates. I want him with you. Teach him how we breathe here. Let him see the world through your eyes."

​Uzair had looked at Hamza then - really looked at him. Hamza didn't flinch. He didn't bow. He just stood there with a gaze so steady it felt like a physical weight against Uzair's chest.

*​A stranger's eyes, a mirrored soul,

To break the man and leave him whole. *

​"I'm a quick learner," Hamza had said. His Urdu was polished, missing the rough, guttural edges of the street, but there was a steel in it that Uzair found himself admiring before he could even register the suspicion.

​For the first few weeks, Uzair tried to be the mentor Rehman asked for. He showed Hamza the alleys that led to nowhere, the rooftops where you could see the police coming from three miles away, and the people who would die for the Dakait name. But the more he taught, the more he felt himself being studied.

​It wasn't a student's gaze. It was the gaze of a man trying to find the crack in a dam.

​One evening, as they sat on the edge of a rusted pickup truck, the smell of the sea drifting in from the harbor, Hamza turned to him. "You don't look like a man who wants to lead a gang, Uzair bhai. You look like a man who wants to be understood."

​The comment was a needle, thin and sharp, sliding right between Uzair's ribs. He should have been angry. He should have reminded this newcomer that he was a Dakait, that his loyalty was his identity. Instead, Uzair just watched the way the smoke from Hamza's cigarette curled around his fingers.

​"Understanding is a luxury people like us don't get, Hamza," Uzair replied softly.

​"Maybe you've just been looking in the wrong places," Hamza whispered back.

​In that moment, the first seed of a terrible, beautiful yearning took root. Uzair felt a pull - not toward power or blood, but toward the quiet gravity of the man beside him. He told himself it was just the novelty of a new friend. He told himself he was just doing what Rehman asked.

​But as Hamza's hand moved to steady a map they were holding, and their knuckles brushed for the briefest of seconds, Uzair felt a jolt that had nothing to do with the city's electricity. It was the first time in his life he felt like a person rather than a cousin, a soldier, or a name.

​He was already succumbing, and he hadn't even realized the war had begun.

​The humidity of August clung to the walls of the compound like a second skin, but inside the narrow office where they spent their nights, the air always felt different - charged, thin, and dangerously quiet.

​As the weeks bled into months, the hierarchy Rehman had established began to blur in the darkness of their shared assignments. Hamza was "the student," but he had a way of leading Uzair into conversations that felt like labyrinths. He didn't ask about shipments or turf; he asked about the way the light hit the Malir River at dawn, or if Uzair ever felt the ghost of a different life calling to him from the fog.

​"You're a philosopher in a soldier's jacket, Hamza," Uzair remarked one night, leaning over a desk littered with surveillance photos.

​Hamza didn't look up from the map. "And you're a poet who's learned to speak in gunfire. We're both wearing masks, Uzair. Mine is just a bit tighter."

​Uzair paused, his heart performing a slow, agonizing roll in his chest. He reached out, ostensibly to point at a location on the map, but he let his fingers linger near Hamza's. He wanted to touch the skin of this man, to see if he was made of the same clay as the rest of them, or if he was something crafted from starlight and deception.

*​I sought the truth in shadows cast,

Ignoring ghosts within the past.*

​The temptation wasn't just physical; it was the intoxicating drug of being *seen*. In the gang, Uzair was a function - a cousin, a reliable hand, a shadow of Rehman. With Hamza, he felt like a secret that was finally being whispered aloud.

​There was a night when the rains finally broke. They were caught in an old warehouse near the docks, waiting for a contact that would never show. The thunder shook the corrugated iron roof, a violent symphony that drowned out the world. They sat on crates, inches apart, the smell of damp earth and Uzair's tobacco filling the small space between them.

​"If this life ended tomorrow," Hamza asked, his voice barely a murmur beneath the roar of the rain, "where would you go?"

​Uzair looked at him, the blue light of a distant streetlamp catching the moisture on Hamza's eyelashes. "I don't think there's a world for me outside of Lyari, Hamza."

​"There's a world wherever you decide to stand," Hamza replied. He reached out then - a move so deliberate it made Uzair's breath hitch - and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Uzair's ear. His fingers were cold, but they burned like ice. "I could show it to you."

​Uzair didn't pull away. He leaned into the touch, a silent confession of a hunger he couldn't name. He knew, deep in the marrow of his bones, that he was betraying everything he had been taught. You don't trust the newcomer. You don't let your guard down. You don't love something that can be taken away by a bullet or a badge.

​But as he looked into Hamza's steady, calculating eyes, Uzair realized he was already lost. He wasn't falling; he was jumping, hopeful that Hamza would be the one to catch him, even as the first cold shiver of doubt whispered that Hamza was the very ground he was about to hit.

​By the time the winter winds began to whistle through the cracks of the Lyari tenements, the yearning had become a physical ache, a constant pressure beneath Uzair's ribs. It was no longer about teaching Hamza the ropes; it was about finding reasons to remain in his orbit, even when the business of the streets demanded he look away.

​"You're keeping him too close, Uzair," his cousin had warned one evening, his eyes narrowed over a cup of steaming chai. "The boy is sharp, yes, but a blade that isn't used for the hunt grows dangerous to the one carrying it."

​Uzair had brushed it off with a practiced smile, but his heart had hammered a frantic rhythm against his chest. He wasn't carrying a blade; he was carrying a flame, and he was letting it scorch him from the inside out.

​The moments they shared now felt stolen, wrapped in a fragile layer of secrecy that Uzair guarded more fiercely than any shipment. There was a particular afternoon in a safehouse - a crumbling room with peeling blue paint - where the world felt small enough to belong only to them. They were supposed to be cleaning weapons, the rhythmic clack-slide of metal the only sound between them.

​Hamza was focused, his movements efficient and graceful. Uzair watched him, tracing the way the afternoon sun highlighted the tension in Hamza's neck.

*​A kingdom built on shifting sand,

Held together by a traitor's hand.*

​"Why do you stay?" Uzair asked suddenly, the words escaping before he could filter them. "You're smarter than this, Hamza. You could be anywhere. You could be a king in a world that doesn't smell like gunpowder."

​Hamza paused, a handgun disassembled in his lap. He looked at Uzair, and for a fleeting second, the mask slipped. There was a look of such profound, agonizing conflict in his eyes that Uzair felt his own breath stall.

​"I stay because I have a job to finish," Hamza said, his voice unusually strained. Then, lower, almost to himself: "And because I didn't expect the view to be so beautiful."

​He reached across the gap between them, his hand heavy and warm as it settled over Uzair's. He didn't just touch him; he gripped him, a desperate, silent anchor. Uzair surged forward, the distance closing in an instant. They didn't kiss - not yet - but they leaned into each other, their foreheads resting together in a space thick with unspoken apologies and blooming devotion.

​Uzair closed his eyes, savoring the scent of Hamza - the salt of the Karachi air and something clean, something like iron. He felt a tear prick at his eyelid, not out of sadness, but out of the sheer, overwhelming weight of his own surrender. He was choosing this man over his blood, over his history, over his safety.

​He didn't see the way Hamza's eyes remained open, staring at the door with a cold, flickering guilt. Uzair only felt the warmth, oblivious to the fact that he was warming himself at the very fire meant to burn his house down.

​The air in Lyari had grown volatile, a storm brewing in the government offices of Islamabad that trickled down into the sweat-soaked alleys of the Karachi underworld. But for Uzair, the real danger wasn't the Rangers or the rival gangs - it was the quiet domesticity he had built with a ghost.

​By now, the lines were gone. There was no mentor and student; there was only Uzair and the man who held his heart like a fragile glass ornament. They spent their nights in a small apartment tucked away from the main compound - a place Rehman didn't visit. Here, Uzair felt he could finally breathe.

​He had succumbed entirely. He was addicted to the way Hamza looked in the morning, the way he took his coffee black, and the way he would occasionally recite verses of poetry that seemed to bleed with a hidden sorrow. Uzair didn't care that Hamza's stories about his past had more holes than a target range. He didn't care that Hamza sometimes vanished for hours, claiming to be "scouting" when there was nothing left to scout.

*​I drank the poison, called it wine,

To believe, for once, that you were mine.*

​One night, the city was under a blackout. The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant hum of a generator. They lay on a thin mattress on the floor, the heat making their skin slick where they touched.

​"Sometimes," Uzair whispered into the hollow of Hamza's throat, "I feel like I'm dreaming you. Like I'll wake up and you'll just be a shadow I imagined because I was lonely."

​Hamza went rigid for a heartbeat - just one - before his arms tightened around Uzair with a force that felt almost like a plea. "I am here, Uzair. I am right here."

​"Then stay," Uzair begged, his voice cracking. "After this next move, after Rehman settles the score with the Lyari task force... let's just go. We'll take the boat, we'll head for the coast, we'll disappear."

​Hamza didn't answer. Instead, he pulled back and looked at Uzair with an expression so pained, so filled with a fresh, raw yearning, that Uzair felt his eyes fill with tears. Hamza leaned down and kissed him - a desperate, bruising kiss that tasted of salt and finality. It was the kiss of a man saying goodbye while he was still standing in the room.

​Uzair let himself be swept away. He ignored the way Hamza's hands shook. He ignored the fact that he had seen a flash of a different phone - an encrypted device - tucked into Hamza's jacket earlier that day. He chose to believe the warmth of the body against his. He chose to believe that the love he felt was a shield that could protect them from the truth.

​He was a man standing on the tracks, hearing the roar of the oncoming train, and deciding that the vibrations felt like music. He loved Hamza so much it had made him a stranger to himself; he was no longer a Dakait, no longer a soldier. He was just a man waiting for a miracle that was actually a calculated execution.

​The end didn't come with a bang or a blaze of glory. It came with the heavy, rhythmic clanging of a steel door and the smell of industrial disinfectant.

​Uzair had been in the cell for three days when the realization finally began to settle, like silt at the bottom of a stagnant well. The raid had been too clean. The Rangers had known every floor plan, every hidden crawlspace, every shifting guard rotation. They had bypassed Rehman's strongest men and headed straight for the heart of the operation.

​Uzair sat on the floor, his eyes fixed on a crack in the concrete. He was waiting. Not for a lawyer, not for his cousin, but for a shadow to walk past his bars and tell him it was all a mistake.

​The footsteps that eventually stopped outside his cell were deliberate - measured, heavy, and polished. Uzair looked up, his heart leaping into his throat, only to feel it shatter against his ribs. It wasn't Hamza. It was a high-ranking official, a man Uzair had seen on the news, flanked by a guard with a sneer.

​"You look pathetic, Uzair," the official said, tossing a manila folder onto the small cot. "Rehman is gone. Your family's grip on Lyari is severed. And all because you let a wolf sleep in your bed."

​Uzair's hands shook as he reached for the folder. He already knew. He had known since that last, desperate kiss in the dark, but the human heart is a stubborn, foolish thing. It prefers a beautiful lie to a cold truth.

*​I gave my sight to see your light,

Now I wander in eternal night.*

​He opened the folder. The first thing he saw was a photograph. It was Hamza - but not *his* Hamza. This man was clean-shaven, dressed in a crisp, dark uniform, his eyes devoid of the soft, poetic sorrow that Uzair had fallen for. Below the photo was a name that wasn't Mazari, and a rank that didn't belong to a newcomer in the Lyari underworld.

​Intelligence Officer. Undercover Operations.

​The reports were dates and times. They were transcripts of the very conversations Uzair thought were sacred. 'Target is emotionally compromised,' one note read in a handwriting Uzair recognized as the one that had once written poetry on the back of cigarette packs. 'Utilization of personal intimacy to gain access to primary leadership successful.'

​"He's the one who signed the warrant," the guard added, his voice dripping with mock pity. "He's been laughing at you from the safehouse since the moment the handcuffs clicked."

​Uzair closed the folder. The tears didn't come immediately; instead, a hollow, echoing coldness filled the space where his soul used to be. He remembered the way Hamza had looked at the Malir River. He remembered the way his hand had felt behind Uzair's ear.

​He hadn't been blind. He had seen the shadows. He had felt the coldness beneath the skin. But he had loved the shadow so much that he had forgotten it was the absence of light. He had been a man dying of thirst who had found a mirage and decided to call it a home.

​As the official walked away, the sound of his boots echoing like a death knell, Uzair finally let out a jagged, broken breath. He leaned his head against the cold stone, a single, hot tear finally tracking through the grime on his cheek.

​He didn't hate Hamza. That was the most gut-wrenching part. Even here, in the wreckage of his life, he found himself yearning for the man who had never existed. He was a prisoner of the state, but more than that, he was a prisoner of a memory - forever trapped in a blue-painted room, waiting for a traitor to tell him one more beautiful, soul-destroying lie.

*​I built a shrine within the wreckage of my name,

To worship the flicker of a cold and hollow flame.

I knew the steel was hidden in the softness of your skin,

Yet I opened every gate and let the executioner in.

Now I search the silence for a ghost who never cared,

Drowning in the memory of a love that was never there*

_______________________________________

​Alright, uh- don't kill me 😭 I don't even have people to defend me.

​Better things are on their way, I swear! I'll make it up to you! But please do tell me what you think!

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The cricket match blared from the television in a static-laced hum, the volume turned low enough that the excited Urdu commentary barely reached the bedroom. Hamza lay sprawled across the rumpled sheets, one arm thrown over his face, the other resting on the warm patch where Uzair had been not ten minutes ago. The scent of sweat and something muskier clung to the air, tangled with the faint citrus of Uzair’s shower gel.

Down the hall, water pipes groaned as the shower shut off. Hamza didn’t move, even when the bathroom door creaked open, followed by the soft pad of bare feet against hardwood. He knew without looking that Uzair would be damp-haired, towel slung low on his hips, skin still flushed from the heat of the water-or maybe from what they’d done before it. The memory of Uzair’s teeth scraping his collarbone, the way his back had arched under Hamza’s hands, flickered behind his eyelids.

A drawer slid open. Fabric rustled. Hamza finally lowered his arm and blinked at the ceiling, then turned his head-and froze.

Uzair stood there with his back to him, pulling on a pair of dark gray sweatpants Hamza knew weren’t his. The waistband sat just a little too loose, the fabric clinging in a way that made Hamza’s throat go dry. Then Uzair reached for the dresser again, plucking up a faded black t-shirt- his t-shirt-and tugged it over his head. The hem rode up for a second, revealing the dip of his waist, the lean muscle Hamza had mapped with his calloused fingers and soft tongue not even an hour ago.

Hamza’s fingers twitched against the sheets. The shirt hung slightly oversized on Uzair’s frame, the neckline slipping to one side to expose the sharp jut of his collarbone. The fabric was thin from years of wear, soft enough that Hamza could imagine the warmth of Uzair’s skin beneath it. The realization hit him like a kick to the ribs: Uzair smelled like him now. His soap, his clothes, the faint trace of his cologne still lingering in the cotton. Something primal coiled tight in his gut, hot and possessive.

Uzair turned, scratching idly at his damp hair, and caught Hamza staring. A slow, easy grin spread across his face. “Kya hua?” he asked, voice still rough from the shower steam.

Hamza’s jaw clenched. He forced himself to look away, focusing instead on the cricket match still droning from the TV. “Kuch nahi.”

Uzair’s grin didn’t falter. He padded closer, the sweatpants riding low on his hips with every step. Hamza could see the waistband of his own boxers peeking out-his boxers-and his throat went tight. Uzair dropped onto the edge of the bed, close enough that the mattress dipped under his weight, sending Hamza tilting toward him. The scent of his own laundry detergent clung to Uzair’s skin, mingling with the clean, damp heat of his body.

Uzair leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and tilted his head to catch Hamza’s averted gaze. “Seriously, Hamze. Ab kya hua?” he pressed, fingers drumming lightly against his own thigh-Hamza’s thigh, technically, since the fabric brushing his skin wasn’t his. The realization sent a jolt through Hamza’s ribs. He swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to the television where the match commentator’s voice crackled through a bad connection. “Kuch bhi nahi,” he muttered, tone clipped.

The bed shifted as Uzair straightened, his warmth retreating slightly. Hamza’s fingers dug into the sheets, the urge to yank him back almost overwhelming. Instead, he kept his gaze locked on the screen, jaw working. Uzair exhaled through his nose, a quiet, frustrated sound, and Hamza could feel him studying the side of his face-the tightness there, the way his throat moved when he swallowed again.

“Aise kyun dekh rahe ho?” Uzair’s voice was softer now, almost hesitant. The question hung between them, heavy with something unspoken. When Hamza didn’t answer, Uzair’s shoulders slumped slightly. He pushed off the bed, bare feet whispering against the floor. “Theek hai,” he said, too lightly. “Maanta hoon, main ja-”

Hamza’s hand shot out before he could stop it, fingers wrapping around Uzair’s wrist. The contact burned. Uzair froze, mid-step, and Hamza could see the pulse jump under his thumb. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Uzair turned, eyebrows raised, and Hamza snapped.

Hamza hauled Uzair back onto the bed with a rough tug, sending him stumbling sideways onto his lap. Uzair barely had time to gasp before Hamza’s mouth crashed into his, kissing him filthy and deep, one hand fisting in the borrowed shirt while the other clamped around Uzair’s thigh. The taste of toothpaste and something inherently *Uzair* flooded his senses, and Hamza groaned into it, biting down on his lower lip hard enough to make him jerk.

“Tune mere kapde pehen loye,” Hamza growled against his mouth, hips rolling up to grind against Uzair’s ass, the friction deliberate. The thin fabric of the sweatpants did nothing to hide how hard he was already, heat radiating through the material. “Tumare andar mera maal bhara hua hai, aur ab tu mere kapde pehen ke ghoom raha hai?” His voice was rough, frayed at the edges, like the last threads of his control were unraveling.

Uzair’s breath hitched, fingers scrambling for purchase on Hamza’s shoulders. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he arched into the touch, thighs bracketing Hamza’s hips as he ground down experimentally, dragging a ragged sound from both of them. “Haan,” he breathed, lips brushing Hamza’s with every word. “Tere kapde. Tere bistar. ” He swallowed, "Aur mein bhi-"

Hamza cut him off with another searing kiss, hands sliding under the hem of the shirt to map the familiar planes of Uzair’s waist, his back, the dip of his spine-all while the fabric of his own clothes separated them. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He’d marked Uzair up last night, left bruises in the shape of his teeth along his collarbones, but this-Uzair drowning in his scent, wrapped in his clothes-was somehow more intimate.

Hamza's fingers dug into the soft flesh of Uzair's hips, thumbs pressing into the divots he knew so well. The shirt-his shirt-had ridden up further, exposing the faint pink marks he'd left earlier. Uzair shifted in his lap, deliberately rolling his hips, and Hamza hissed through his teeth. Uzair's hands reached for the hem of the shirt, tugging it upwards slightly. "Utar dun?" He asked, his eyes glinting playfully.

"Tere himmat nahi hogi. Utar ke dekh kya hoga." Hamza warned.

Uzair laughed, breathless and low, his nose brushing Hamza's as he leaned in. "Himmat?" he echoed, fingers threading through Hamza's hair, tugging just enough to sting. "Jisne kal raat mere upar apna naam likh diya, woh aaj himmat ki baat kar raha hai?" His teeth grazed Hamza's earlobe, a teasing nip that sent a shudder down his spine. The audacity of it-wrapped in Hamza's clothes, filled with his cum, smelling like him, marked by him, daring him-should have pissed him off. Instead, it lit something feral under his skin.

Hamza twisted sharply, flipping them so Uzair was pinned beneath him, the mattress groaning under their combined weight. The shirt collar stretched dangerously, exposing more skin than fabric covered now. Hamza ducked his head, laving a wet stripe along Uzair's throat, relishing the way his pulse jumped under his tongue. "Tere upar likha hai, haan," he murmured against the damp skin, fingers skating under the waistband of the borrowed sweatpants. "Aur tu hai mera."

Uzair's breath hitched, legs falling open instinctively. "Acha? Yaad dilate raho," he challenged, arching into the touch, but his voice wavered on the last syllable. Hamza grinned-sharp, victorious-and pressed down, letting Uzair feel the full weight of him, the heat, the undeniable evidence of how much this affected him. The friction drew a gasp from Uzair's lips, his hips jerking up reflexively.

Uzair's fingers tightened in Hamza's hair, his breath coming faster as Hamza's teeth scraped over the sensitive skin beneath his jaw. The scent of his own laundry detergent on Uzair's skin was intoxicating-a paradox of familiarity and violation that made Hamza's pulse hammer. He could feel the moment Uzair's bravado cracked, the way his thighs trembled when Hamza dragged his thumb along the waistband of the stolen sweatpants.

Hamza bit down on the tendon where Uzair's neck met his shoulder-hard enough to make him yelp-then soothed the sting with his tongue. The taste of salt and citrus and his soap on Uzair's skin sent a possessive thrill down his spine. His hands slid lower, gripping the back of Uzair's thighs to hitch them higher around his waist, grinding down in one slow, deliberate roll that had Uzair's back arching off the bed.

The cricket commentary from the TV blurred into static as Uzair moaned, loud and unguarded, his nails scoring down Hamza's shoulders. The sound went straight to Hamza's cock, already straining against his own sweatpants. He could feel the damp heat of Uzair through the thin fabric separating them, could see the outline of his arousal where the material clung. The sight-his clothes stretched tight over Uzair's body, marked by his hands-unraveled something primal in Hamza's chest.

"Hamza" Uzair gasped when Hamza rocked against him again, his hips stuttering upward. The borrowed shirt had ridden up completely now, the hem crumpled under Hamza's palms as he pinned Uzair's wrists to the mattress. The contrast of dark fabric against Uzair's flushed skin was obscene. Hamza leaned down, breathing in the mingled scent of them both-his cologne, Uzair's sweat, the lingering musk of last night-before sealing his mouth over Uzair's in a kiss that was all teeth and hunger.

Uzair arched beneath him, a ragged moan vibrating against Hamza's lips. The sound sent a jolt of heat straight to his cock, already aching with the need to claim, to ruin. He broke the kiss just long enough to yank the sweatpants down Uzair's hips, the fabric catching at his thighs-his own damn clothes mocking him with every inch of skin they revealed. Uzair kicked them off with a breathless laugh, the sound dissolving into a gasp when Hamza's hand wrapped around him, stroking roughly.

"Tere mazak udane ka waqt nahi hai," Hamza growled, thumb swiping over the head of Uzair's cock, smearing the wetness there. Uzair's hips jerked, his fingers scrabbling at the sheets. The sight of him-spread out on Hamza's bed, wearing Hamza's shirt, writhing under Hamza's touch-unlocked something feral in his chest. He ducked his head, biting at the exposed skin of Uzair's inner thigh, reveling in the sharp inhale it earned him.

The shirt collar had stretched beyond salvation now, hanging off one shoulder, the fabric damp with sweat. Hamza dragged his tongue along the exposed collarbone, tasting salt and the faint tang of his own detergent.

Hamza's vision blurred at the edges. He caught Uzair's hips in a bruising grip, flipping him onto his stomach in one fluid motion. The shirt rode up further, exposing the dimples at the base of Uzair's spine-the ones Hamza had mapped with his tongue hours earlier. He palmed Uzair's ass, kneading the flesh hard enough to leave fingerprints, before delivering a sharp smack that echoed through the room. Uzair yelped, but shoved back against him immediately, the fabric of the shirt twisting around his torso.

"Chal," Hamza muttered, yanking the lube from the nightstand. He slicked his fingers hastily, barely giving Uzair time to brace before pushing two inside. Uzair gasped, forehead dropping to the mattress as his body yielded, the stretch familiar but no less intense. Hamza worked him open with rough, efficient strokes, his own cock throbbing at the way Uzair's back bowed, the shirt clinging to his sweat-slicked skin.

"Hamza-" Uzair's voice cracked, fingers fisting in the sheets. "Bas, kar-"

Hamza withdrew his fingers, replacing them with the blunt head of his cock, pressing in with a groan that tore from his chest. Uzair's body welcomed him, hot and tight, the shirt rucked up around his ribs as Hamza bottomed out. The fabric stretched taut between them, the only barrier left, and Hamza hated it-hated how much he loved it. He gripped Uzair's hips, pulling him back onto his thrusts, the slap of skin on skin drowning out the distant cricket commentary.

Uzair's moans pitched higher, his fingers clawing at the mattress for purchase. The shirt was drenched now, sticking to his back, the outline of his shoulder blades visible through the damp fabric. Hamza leaned over him, biting at the exposed nape of his neck as he fucked into him with punishing strokes. "Mere kapde" he panted against Uzair's skin. "Mere neeche. Tu bhi mera..."

Uzair's answering whimper was muffled against the sheets, his body trembling with the force of Hamza's thrusts. The shirt collar had slipped completely, pooling around Uzair's elbows, trapping his arms halfway. Hamza wrapped a hand around him, stroking in time with his hips, and felt the exact moment Uzair shattered-his back arching, a broken cry tearing free as he came untouched, spilling over Hamza's fingers and onto the rumpled shirt.

The sight of it-Uzair wrecked, marked, claimed in every way-unraveled Hamza completely. He followed with a groan, burying himself deep as he spilled inside Uzair, his forehead pressed between Uzair's shoulder blades. The shirt was ruined now, sticky and damp between them, but Hamza couldn't bring himself to care. Not when Uzair's breathless laughter vibrated under his chest, not when he turned his head to catch Hamza's lips in a lazy, sated kiss.

"Ab bata," Uzair murmured against his mouth, still breathless, his fingers tracing idle circles on Hamza's sweat-slicked back. The borrowed shirt-now thoroughly wrecked-hung off one shoulder, the fabric clinging to his skin where Hamza had bitten through it earlier. "Yeh sab kyun? Tumhare kapde pehenne pe itna bada reaction? "

Hamza exhaled sharply, his forehead still pressed against Uzair's shoulder. The scent of them-sweat, sex, and his own damn detergent-clung to the air, thick enough to taste. His fingers flexed against Uzair's hip, the skin warm and slightly tacky under his palm. "Zindagi mein kabhi bhi koi mera nahi raha" he muttered, voice rough. "Par tum toh pure tarahse mere ho." The words came out raw, unfiltered, and he felt Uzair stiffen slightly beneath him.

Uzair twisted in his grip, rolling onto his back despite Hamza's grunt of protest. His eyes-dark, amused, *knowing*-locked onto Hamza's. "Haan, haan, tera maal, tera naam," he teased, thumb brushing over Hamza's lower lip. "Par tu itna possessive kabse ho gaya?"

Hamza caught his wrist, pressing a biting kiss to the pulse point there. "Mein hamesha aisa hi tha," he growled, but there was no real heat left in it. The frenzy had burned out, leaving behind something quieter, smokier.

Uzair laughed-soft, breathless-and tugged Hamza down until their foreheads touched. "Acha," he murmured, voice dropping into something intimate, almost playful. "Toh ab har roz pehen ke ghoomunga. Tere T-shirts, tere boxers-"

Hamza's teeth found his collarbone before he could finish, biting hard enough to make Uzair yelp-but the laughter never left his voice. "Tab toh har baarmujhe aise dekhne ki aadat dal le" Hamza muttered against the reddening mark, fingers tightening where they gripped Uzair's waist.

Uzair arched beneath him, deliberately rolling his hips to feel the answering hardness against his thigh. "Aur agar main pehen ke market chala gaya?" he taunted, breath hitching when Hamza's hand slid down to grope the curve of his ass through the ruined shirt. "Log bhi dekhenge-"

The rest was swallowed by Hamza's mouth, hot and demanding. When they broke apart, Uzair's lips were swollen, his chest rising rapidly. Hamza dragged his thumb over the damp fabric stretched across Uzair's sternum, smearing the mess they'd made earlier. "Kisi aur ko dekhne nahi dunga," he said, low and final, like the closing of a lock.

Uzair's pulse jumped under Hamza's palm where it rested against his throat. He should have been irritated by the possessiveness-should have shoved him off with a sarcastic remark. Instead, warmth pooled low in his gut, his toes curling against Hamza's calf. "Control freak," he accused, but his fingers were already threading through Hamza's hair, tugging him back down.

The cricket match had dissolved into white noise hours ago. Outside, the afternoon sun slanted through the half-drawn curtains, painting stripes across their tangled limbs. Hamza's breath was warm against Uzair's shoulder, his body heavy and relaxed where it half-covered him. Uzair traced idle patterns down his spine, fingertips catching on the raised edges of old scars.

The fan creaked above them, stirring the humid air without cooling it. Uzair's fingers stilled on Hamza's back when he felt the tension return-subtle, but unmistakable. Hamza's breathing had changed, his exhales sharper, like he was counting them. Uzair knew that rhythm. Knew what it meant. "Phir se?" he murmured, thumb pressing into the knot between Hamza's shoulder blades.

Hamza didn't answer. His teeth grazed Uzair's collarbone-not a bite, not yet, but a warning. The hand on Uzair's hip slid lower, fingertips dipping beneath the waistband of the ruined sweatpants still tangled around his thighs.

Uzair caught his wrist. "Pani toh peene de pehle," he said, but his voice cracked halfway through. Hamza's pupils blew wider at the sound, his free hand pinning Uzair's other wrist to the mattress. The shirt-Hamza's shirt-was stretched beyond recognition now, the collar torn at the seam where Hamza had gripped it too hard earlier.

"Yeh lo," Hamza muttered handing him a bottle of water, and Uzair felt the words vibrate against his skin before the heat of Hamza's mouth followed. He arched off the bed with a gasp when teeth closed around his nipple through the damp fabric, the sensation bordering on pain. Hamza's tongue soothed the sting immediately, the contrast making Uzair's toes curl.

A bottle clattered to the floor as Hamza reached for the lube again, his movements less controlled now, frantic in a way that sent heat pooling low in Uzair's gut.

____________________________________

Hope this was a good way to end your day!

Please let me know what you think.

____________________________________

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The sound of the door sliding shut startles you awake and you smile blinkingly, recognizing his scent subconsciously.

"Do you even know what you do to me?" Uzair murmurs, his voice low and rough like honey poured over gravel. His fingers trace the curve of your hip, possessive but tender, as if memorizing the shape of you. "Every fucking time."

The weight of him presses you deeper into the mattress, his body radiating heat, all hard muscle and restrained strength. He doesn’t rush - never dies - he always takes his time slowly mapping ypur body as if trying to memorize you. Uses one hand to yank down your already damp knickers to the side and slides in one finger, then two, curling them so that they hit the right spot, making you buck helplessly against his onslaught and then whine when he withdraws his hand completely. He just chuckles, his dark baritone reverberating through your body and lets his cock slide against your thigh, thick and aching, already slick with how much he wants you. His breath hitches when you arch up into him, a soft groan escaping his lips before he captures yours in a kiss that’s equal parts filthy and sweet.

"Look at me," he demands, pulling back just enough to catch your gaze. His dark eyes burn with something fierce and reverent, like you’re the only thing in whole wide world worth seeing. "Yeah, just like that. Perfect." His thumb brushes your bottom lip, his other hand sliding between your legs, fingers working you open with slow, deliberate strokes. "So fucking wet for me."

You gasp when he pushes inside, the stretch delicious, his cock splitting you apart, so familiar yet so perfectly it never fails to make your toes curl. He doesn’t let you look away, doesn’t let you hide, just holds your gaze as he sinks deeper, his breath coming harder. "God, you feel - " He grits his teeth, hips rolling in a slow, sinful grind. "Like you were made just for this, mere jaan. You really are just a part of me, aren't you?" He asks, his dark eyes filled with wonder.

Uzair’s hips move with a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic - slow, sinful, deep rolls that drag every inch of his cock against your walls, his breath hot against your neck as he murmurs praise like a prayer. "You take me so fucking good," he growls, his voice thick with his desire for you. His hands roam your body, calloused fingers tracing your smooth skin, rough palms running over your skin like he’s worshipping every curve, every shiver that you give him. "Feel that? How perfectly we fit together?" He punctuates the question with a sharper thrust, drawing a broken moan from your lips, his own answering groan vibrating against your throat.

Looking straight into your eyes, his own wild with need, he shifts, gripping your thigh to hitch your leg higher over his hip, angling himself deeper. The change makes you gasp at the way he reaches deeper into you, your nails digging into his shoulders as he fills you impossibly fuller, the stretch bordering on overwhelming yet not enough. It's never enough. "Look at me," he demands again, his dark gaze locking onto yours, unyielding. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, smearing the wetness there before he presses it gently between your teeth. "I want you to see how much I love fucking you. How much I love *you*." His hips snap forward, a rough, claiming stroke that has your back arching off the bed. "Fuck - *yes*, just like that. Clenching around me like you can’t get enough."

The pace builds gradually, his thrusts turning harder, more insistent, but he never loses that tender control, never stops touching you like you’re something precious. His free hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with unerring precision, circling just right - the pressure just shy of too much. "Come for me, baby." he orders, his voice rough but achingly soft. "I wanna feel you come around my cock. I want to hear you." His fingers work you in tight, relentless circles, his own breath coming in ragged bursts as he watches your face, drinking in every twitch, every whimper.

When you finally break, it’s with a cry of his name, your body clamping down around him in waves, your vision whiting out as pleasure crashes over you. Uzair curses, his rhythm stuttering for the first time, his cock pulsing inside you as he fights to hold back. "Fuck - *fuck*, you’re so tight," he grits out, his forehead dropping to yours. His hips keep moving, shallow, desperate rolls that prolong your orgasm, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. "That’s it, give it all to me. Let me feel everything."

His lips crash onto yours before you can catch your breath, swallowing your moans as his hips snap forward again, dragging another whimper from your throat. The kiss is a clash of hunger, messy, all tongue and teeth, his fingers tangling in your hair to hold you still as he licks into your mouth like he’s chasing the taste of your pleasure. "You’re so fucking sweet," he murmurs against your lips, his voice wrecked. "Why can’t I ever get enough?" His cock twitches inside you, still rock-hard, still fucking you through the aftershocks with slow, rolling thrusts that make your thighs tremble.

He pulls back just enough to watch your face, his dark eyes blown wide with want, his thumb tracing the flush on your cheek. "You’re so fucking beautiful like this," he rasps, his hips never stopping, each stroke deliberate, dragging against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. "Look at you - taking me so deep, so well." His hand slips down your body, calloused fingers skating over your ribs, your stomach, before settling possessively over your hip. "Mine," he growls, his grip tightening as he pulls you harder onto his cock, the slap of skin echoing in the room. "This creature of heaven is all fucking mine."

You gasp when he suddenly sits back, dragging you with him until you’re straddling his lap, his hands gripping your waist as he guides your movements. "Ride me," he orders, his voice rough but tender, his eyes locked on yours. "Let me watch you take everything you need." His hands roam your body as you move, thumbs brushing your nipples, palms cupping your breasts, his touch reverent even as his grip turns demanding. "That’s it, you're such a good girl for me." he praises, his breath hitching when you roll your hips just right, his cock hitting that sweet spot that makes your vision blur. "Fuck, you’re perfect - so perfect on my cock."

His fingers dig into your thighs as you speed up, your nails scraping down his chest, his muscles flexing under your touch. He lets you take control for all of three seconds before his hands clamp down on your hips, his thrusts turning sharper, deeper, his cock driving home with a force that it punches the air from your lungs. "No - like this," he corrects, his voice dark with need, his rhythm ruthless now. "Let me give it to you." His mouth finds your neck, his teeth scraping over your pulse point before he soothes the sting with his tongue. "Gonna make you come again," he promises, his breath hot against your skin. "Gonna fuck you so good you forget your own name."

You whimper when his teeth sink into the curve of your shoulder, the sharp sting melting into liquid heat as his tongue laps at the mark. His hands tighten on your hips, lifting you just enough before slamming you back down onto his cock, the angle so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. "Uzair - " His name fractures into a moan as he fucks up into you, his thrusts turning relentless, the wet, sloppy slap of skin against skin filling the room. He groans when your nails rake down his chest, his abs flexing under your touch, his breath coming in ragged bursts. "Fuck, *yes* - just like that," he growls, his voice raw with praise. "You're the best wife. Taking your huband's cock so well. Are you gonna be a good little girl and come again for me? Mm?"

His mouth crashes into yours before you can reply, his kiss messy and desperate, all tongue and teeth, like he’s trying to drink you in. You gasp when his fingers twist in your hair, tugging just enough to make your spine arch, your breasts pressing against his chest. He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he murmurs filthy praise between open-mouthed kisses. "I love how you feel against me," he rasps, his teeth scraping over your collarbone. "Your soft body, your lovely curves against my chest. Oh god, you’re gonna ruin me." His hips snap up, driving his cock deeper, the stretch driving you crazy, his cock hitting your G-spot with every thrust.

You’re trembling by now, your thighs shaking around him, your clit throbbing with every brutal thrust. He notices - of course he notices - his thumb finding your clit in tight, relentless circles that have you sobbing his name. "That’s it," he coaxes, his voice rough but tender, his dark eyes locked on yours. "Let go, baby. Come for me again." His fingers work you faster, his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur, and suddenly you’re breaking apart, your orgasm crashing over you so hard you nearly black out. Uzair curses, his rhythm stuttering as your walls clamp down around him, his own release tearing through him with a ragged groan. "Fuck - *fuck*," he grits out, his forehead dropping to yours as he spills inside you, his hips jerking through the aftershocks.

For a moment, neither of you moves, the only sound your mingled breaths, his cock still buried deep inside you. Then Uzair exhales, shaky and satisfied, his lips brushing yours in a lazy, sated kiss. "God, you’re just perfect," he murmurs, his voice husky with exhaustion and awe. His hands roam your body, smoothing over your sweat-slick skin, his touch reverent even now. "Look at you," he breathes, his thumb tracing the flush on your cheek. "Looking so pretty, all fucked-out and mine." He shifts beneath you, his cock softening but still inside you, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you closer. "Mine," he says again, softer this time, his lips grazing your forehead.

His fingers trail down your spine, slow and reverent, as if committing every shiver to memory. "Baby, are you still with me?" Uzair murmurs, his voice rough but impossibly tender, his lips brushing your temple. You nod weakly against his chest, your limbs heavy with satisfaction, but he doesn’t let you drift - not yet. Not after a whole day of staying away from you, from your loving gaze and frim your lovelier body. His palm cups your ass, kneading the flesh there, his cock twitching inside you as he drags a lazy moan from your throat. "Good," he growls, nipping at your jaw. "Because I’m not done with you."

Before you can protest, he’s rolling you onto your back, his body slotting between your thighs in the way he always did, like a king claiming his territory, mapping it out with tender fingers, holding it in his loving arms.

_______________________________

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@​hiraeth2006

"Did you get the new shipment in?" Uzair Baloch asked, leaning against the rusted metal shutter of the warehouse, his voice rough with the grit of Lyari’s dust-filled air. He flicked ash from his cigarette, watching it spiral down to the cracked pavement below.

Beside him, Asif - a wiry, nervous kid who’d only been running errands for a month - nodded too quickly. "Yeah, boss. All accounted for. Jamali’s men didn’t even check the crates."

Uzair exhaled smoke through his nose, his eyes narrowing slightly at Asif’s eagerness. The kid was green, too green for the kind of work Lyari demanded. But Uzair had been young once too, and the memory of his own shaky start kept his voice patient. "Good. Keep it that way." He pushed off the shutter, the metal groaning in protest, and rolled his shoulders to loosen the tension coiled there. The heat was relentless, clinging to his skin like a second layer. "Tell Rehman bhai I’ll be at Jamali’s thing tonight."

Asif’s eyes widened. "You’re going?" The question slipped out before he could stop it, and Uzair smirked, flicking the cigarette butt into the gutter. "Someone’s got to keep an eye on the vultures." He didn’t mention the other reason - the one that sat heavy in his gut. Hamza would be there. Always was, these days. Watching. Calculating.

The kid scurried off, and Uzair let his gaze drift to the narrow alley across the street, where shadows moved just a little too deliberately. He didn’t need to see the face to know who it was. Hamza had a way of taking up space even when he wasn’t trying to - like the air itself bent around him. Uzair clenched his jaw and turned away.

By the time evening rolled in, the humidity had thickened, pressing down on Karachi like a damp fist. Uzair adjusted the collar of his crisp white shalwar kameez, the fabric starched stiff enough to cut through the muggy air. He’d dressed sharp tonight, deliberately so. Let Hamza see what he couldn’t have anymore. What he'd turned away from for the sake of being loyalty.

The neon glow of Jameel Jamali’s sprawling bungalow spilled onto the street, casting long shadows that flickered like restless spirits. Uzair lingered at the entrance, his fingers brushing the brass handle of his revolver tucked beneath his waistband - habit, not fear. Inside, the air was thick with the cloying sweetness of rose attar and the acrid bite of expensive whiskey. Politicians and gangsters mingled under crystal chandeliers, their laughter too loud, their alliances too brittle.

He spotted Hamza immediately.

The man stood near the far wall, a glass of something clear in his hand, his posture deceptively relaxed. But Uzair knew better. Hamza’s shoulders were always a fraction too straight, his gaze always a second too sharp. Their eyes met across the room - just a flicker - before Hamza deliberately turned away, engaging in conversation with some ministry lackey. The dismissal stung, but Uzair refused to let it show. He smirked instead, tossing a careless salute to a group of Rehman’s men before striding toward the bar.

The bartender slid him a whiskey without asking. Uzair downed it in one go, the burn settling low in his gut. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement - Hamza shifting slightly, his jaw tight. Good. Let him watch.

The whiskey’s burn lingered on Uzair’s tongue as he leaned against the bar, deliberately rolling his shoulders to ease the tension - or at least make it look like he was at ease. The crowd pulsed around him, a living thing of clinking glasses and murmured deals probably planning whose life to ruin next, but his attention snagged on the reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bartender. Hamza hadn’t moved. Still planted near the ministry man, still pretending indifference, but his knuckles were white around his glass.

Uzair grinned into his next drink.

A hand brushed his elbow - light, hesitant. He turned to find Amina, Jamali’s niece, her kohl-lined eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and caution. “You’re Rehman’s cousin, right?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the din.

“Depends on who’s asking,” Uzair drawled, but he softened it with a playful wink. Amina laughed, too high, too nervous, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She was pretty in a way that felt out of place here - soft where Lyari was hard, bright where the underground thrived in shadows.

Amina leaned in closer, her perfume - something floral and expensive - clashing with the whiskey and sweat of the room. "They say you know everyone worth knowing in Lyari," she said, fingers twisting the hem of her embroidered dupatta. Uzair caught the movement in his periphery, the way Hamza’s posture shifted infinitesimally at the gesture.

"Only the ones who matter," Uzair replied, deliberately lowering his voice. He plucked a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. Amina giggled, reaching for it like she wanted to share. Uzair let her take it, their fingers brushing just long enough to be intentional. Uzair tsk-ed mentally, knowing whats going to happen next. Behind them, a glass shattered. Uzair didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

The air thickened, not from the humidity but from something far more volatile. Amina, oblivious, took a drag and coughed - too inexperienced to hide it. Uzair chuckled, plucking the cigarette back. "You’re not from around here, are you?" She shook her head, cheeks flushing. "No. Lahore." Uzair hummed, leaning against the bar. "Pretty city. Pretty people." He flicked ash into a tray, acutely aware of the weight of a gaze burning into his back.

A hand landed on his shoulder - heavy, deliberate. Uzair didn’t startle. He’d known the moment Hamza moved, had felt the shift in the room like a storm rolling in off the Arabian Sea. "Uzair bhai, we need to talk," Hamza murmured, his voice low enough that only Uzair could hear. The words were polite, but the grip on his shoulder was anything but.

Uzair didn't turn immediately. He took a slow drag from the cigarette, letting the silence stretch between them - a taunt in itself. Amina's gaze flickered between them, her fingers tightening around her dupatta as the air turned thick with something unsaid. "Later," Uzair finally replied, shrugging off Hamza's grip with deliberate casualness. "As you can clearly see," He looked at Amina and smiled, a genuine grin that made Hamza's stomach churn. "I'm busy."

Hamza's hand lingered in the air for a fraction too long before dropping to his side. His expression didn't change, but Uzair knew the tells - the slight twitch of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed once, twice, before stilling. "We need to talk now," Hamza corrected, tone smooth as polished steel. The words weren't a request.

Uzair exhaled smoke slowly, watching it curl between them like a challenge. Amina’s nervous swallow was audible, but he kept his eyes on Hamza’s reflection in the mirrored bar wall - the way his shoulders tensed under the crisp linen of his shirt, the pulse jumping in his throat.

The chandeliers flickered - just once - as the power surged somewhere deep in Jamali’s overworked wiring. A collective groan rose from the crowd, half-amused, half-annoyed, and in that split second of distraction, Hamza closed the distance between them. His hand found the small of Uzair’s back, fingers pressing just shy of painful as his lips grazed the shell of Uzair’s ear. The whisper was a blade wrapped in velvet: *"You better come with me right now unless you want all of Karachi to know how you look when you scream my name, Uzair. Utterly ruined and all mine."*

Uzair’s cigarette slipped from his fingers, ember dying on the marble floor. The threat - no, the *promise* - curled hot down his spine, settling low in his gut. Amina gasped beside him as the lights came on again, her dupatta slipping from her shoulder as she recoiled from the sudden proximity of Hamza’s towering frame. Uzair didn’t move. Couldn’t. The scent of Hamza’s cologne - bergamot and gunmetal - flooded his senses, and for a heartbeat, the room ceased to exist.

Uzair's smirk faltered for a split second - just long enough for Hamza to catch the flicker of hesitation - before he casually ground his cigarette into the marble floor with the toe of his boot. "Try me," he murmured, pitching his voice just loud enough for Amina to catch the challenge but not the lethal edge beneath it. His fingers twitched toward his waistband, not reaching for the revolver but letting Hamza see the thought cross his mind.

Hamza’s grip on the small of his back tightened fractionally, fingers digging into the starched fabric of Uzair’s kameez. The heat of his palm burned through the layers, branding skin. Amina took an unconscious step back, her dupatta slipping further as her gaze darted between them like a sparrow caught between two hawks. The crowd’s chatter surged around them, oblivious to the quiet violence simmering in the space between their bodies.

"You’re creating a scene," Hamza said, low and smooth, his Urdu laced with the crisp precision of a man who’d learned the language in the polished urban roads rather than Lyari’s back alleys. His breath ghosted over Uzair’s ear - a mockery of intimacy.

Uzair tilted his head just enough to meet Hamza’s gaze sidelong. "You started it." He didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Not when Hamza’s thumb was tracing slow, deliberate circles against the base of his spine, a contradiction to the steel in his voice. The bastard knew exactly where Uzair was most sensitive. Always had.

Hamza didn’t wait for a response. The lights finally gave up, the room being enveloped in darkness. One moment Uzair was leaning into the taunt, the next he was being yanked backward by his elbow, dragged through a ripple of oblivious partygoers toward a dimly lit corridor. The storage room door groaned under Hamza’s shoulder - too forceful, uncharacteristically sloppy - before they spilled into the claustrophobic dark. Crates of smuggled whiskey towered around them, the air thick with the reek of oak and damp cardboard. Uzair barely had time to register the scrape of his back against rough wood before Hamza’s mouth crashed into his, all teeth and barely leashed fury.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a reclamation.

Uzair laughed into it, sharp and breathless, his fingers tangling in Hamza’s collar to pull him closer even as he bit down on the bastard’s lower lip hard enough to taste copper. Hamza hissed, gripping Uzair’s waist to spin him around, pinning him between the unyielding crates and the heat of his own body. “You’re fucking insufferable,” Hamza growled, the words mangled against Uzair’s throat as his hands slid down to wrench Uzair’s wrists behind his back.

“And you’re so damn predictable,” Uzair shot back, arching into the restraint. The crates rattled behind him, glass clinking ominously. Somewhere beyond the door, the party’s muffled chaos continued, oblivious to the silent war waging in the shadows. Hamza’s knee slid between Uzair’s thighs, pressing up just enough to make him gasp. “Was I predictable?” Hamza murmured, lips skimming the shell of Uzair’s ear. “Or was this inevitable?”

The scent of spilled whiskey and Hamza’s bergamot cologne coiled around them, thick as the tension in the air. Uzair twisted his wrists free only to grab fistfuls of Hamza’s shirt, yanking him closer. The fabric tore under his fingers - too sharp, too desperate - and Hamza let out a sound that wasn’t human. It was hunger.

A crate toppled behind them, glass shattering against concrete. Uzair barely registered it. Hamza’s teeth were at his collarbone now, biting through starched cotton to mark skin. “Still think I’m just your brother's best gang member?” Hamza breathed against the bruise blooming under his lips. His hands slid lower, rough palms mapping the dip of Uzair’s spine like he was relearning territory he’d once owned.

Uzair’s pulse roared in his ears. “Prove you’re not.”

Hamza’s laugh was dark, edged with something dangerous. He caught Uzair’s chin, forcing his head back against the crates. The wood dug into his scalp, but the pain was secondary to the way Hamza’s gaze burned - no longer cold, no longer controlled. “You want proof?” Hamza’s thumb dragged over Uzair’s lower lip, smearing the blood from where he’d bitten it raw. “Look at what you do to me.”

Uzair didn’t need to look down to know. The evidence pressed hot against his thigh, undeniable. But it wasn’t just lust twisting Hamza’s features - it was fury. The kind that came from months of watching, waiting, pretending he didn’t care. Uzair grinned, reckless with the power of it. “Should’ve staked your claim sooner, *Hamze*.”

The crates groaned as Hamza shoved him harder against them, one hand fisting in Uzair’s hair to yank his head back. The pain was sharp, bright, and Uzair hissed through his teeth. Hamza’s other hand slid beneath the waistband of his shalwar, calloused fingers tracing the old scar along his hip - the one from the ambush last summer, when Hamza had dragged him bleeding through three alleys before collapsing with him in a safehouse bathroom, stitching him up with hands that shook.

“You think I didn’t?” Hamza’s voice was raw. “Every goddamn day.” His thumb dug into the scar, making Uzair jerk. “You just stopped noticing. How I always followed you around, exactly at the right place at the right time, taking care of all your needs. " He smirked, "Except, looks like I left one of them unfulfilled."

The accusation hung between them, thick as the whiskey-scented air. Uzair’s pulse hammered against Hamza’s palm where it pressed against his throat, not choking, not yet - just reminding. He could taste the lie on his own tongue. He’d noticed. Too well. That was the problem.

Hamza’s knee nudged his thighs wider, and Uzair went, biting back a groan as rough fabric dragged against his erection. The storage room’s single bulb flickered, casting jagged shadows across Hamza’s face. In the half-light, he looked feral. Not the Scalpel. Not Hamza Ali Mazari, Just a man pushed past the edge of pretending.

Uzair licked his split lip, savoring the sting. “So what now? You gonna fuck me against Jamali’s stolen liquor like some common thug?” He rocked his hips up, deliberately grinding against Hamza’s thigh. “Or are you still too *professional* for that?”

Hamza’s laugh was low, dangerous. He caught Uzair’s wrist before it could reach his belt, slamming it back against the crate. “You wanna see how porfessional I can be?” He leaned in, breath hot against Uzair’s ear. “I could strip you down to your bones without a scalpel and still have you screaming my name.” The threat curled like smoke between them, and Uzair shuddered - not from fear, but from the raw truth of it. Hamza *had*, once. In that safehouse bathroom, stitching him up with hands that trembled just like this.

.

Hamza shut his eyes tight, inhaling sharply through his nose - like he was trying to drown himself in the scent of Uzair’s sweat and the whiskey soaking through their clothes. When he opened them again, his gaze was molten. He leaned forward until their foreheads touched, his breath ragged against Uzair’s lips. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered, the words raw, stripped of all pretense.

Uzair’s pulse stuttered. He’d seen Hamza in every state - cold, calculating, bleeding, furious - but never like this. Unraveled. “Then show me,” he challenged, voice rough.

Hamza’s grip tightened on his hips, fingers digging into the fabric of Uzair’s shalwar. For a heartbeat, he hesitated, as if weighing the cost of surrender. Then he shoved Uzair back against the crates with a force that knocked the air from his lungs. “Don’t look away,” Hamza ordered, yanking the waistband down just enough to wrap a calloused hand around Uzair’s cock.

The touch was slow, deliberate, agonizing in its precision. Uzair’s head thumped against the wood behind him, his hips jerking into the contact. Hamza watched him like a scientist observing an experiment - every twitch, every gasp cataloged. “Still so impatient,” he murmured, thumb swiping over the head of Uzair’s cock, smearing precome down the shaft.

Uzair snarled, grabbing Hamza’s wrist to force him faster, but Hamza caught his hand and pinned it back against the crate. “Stay still,” he said, biting the word into the sweat-damp skin of Uzair’s throat. His other hand continued its torturous pace, twisting just shy of where Uzair needed it most.

The crates groaned as Uzair arched into him, his free hand scrabbling at Hamza’s shoulder. “Fuck - ah - ” The curse dissolved into a groan as Hamza’s teeth found his collarbone, sharp and claiming. He could feel Hamza’s own hardness pressed against his thigh, the damp heat of it seeping through fabric, but the bastard refused to hurry.

When Uzair’s breaths turned ragged, his thighs trembling with the strain of holding back, Hamza suddenly stilled. Withdrew. Uzair made a sound halfway between a whine and a snarl, hips chasing the lost friction. “Hamza - ”

“I asked you a question earlier,” Hamza interrupted, voice dark as he crowded closer. His palm flattened against Uzair’s stomach, holding him in place. “Who do you belong to?”

Uzair’s laugh was breathless, incredulous. “The fuck kind of - ”

Hamza’s hand wrapped around him again, this time too tight, too slow - a deliberate torment. Uzair’s head thudded back against the crate, his fingers digging into Hamza’s wrist. The bastard had always known exactly how to wreck him.

“Say it.” Hamza’s breath scorched his ear. His thumb swiped over the head of Uzair’s cock, smearing precome down the shaft in a filthy glide. “Or I walk out right now.”

The threat was a lie. They both knew it. But the thought of Hamza leaving - of this ending - sent a bolt of irrational fury through Uzair. He twisted his free hand into Hamza’s hair, yanking his head back to meet his gaze. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Hamza’s pupils were blown wide, his lips parted around ragged breaths. For a heartbeat, he looked stunned - then his mouth curved into something feral. He surged forward, slamming Uzair against the crates hard enough to rattle the glass bottles overhead. “Try me.” His hand tightened around Uzair’s cock, stroking once, twice - then stopping just as Uzair’s hips jerked forward.

Uzair groaned, the sound ripped from his throat. “Fucking - *Hamza* - ”

Hamza ignored him, biting a path down his neck. His free hand shoved Uzair’s shalwar down further, fingers digging into the meat of his thigh. “Last chance.” His teeth scraped over Uzair’s pulse point. “Who do you belong to?”

The crates groaned as Uzair arched into him, his nails scoring red lines down Hamza’s shoulders. The words lodged in his throat - pride and desire warring in the heat between them. Hamza’s hand tightened around his cock, twisting just shy of where he needed it most.

Uzair snarled, twisting his grip in Hamza’s hair and yanking his head back. “Fuck you - ”

Hamza’s laugh was dark, breathless. He surged forward, slamming Uzair against the crates hard enough to rattle the glass bottles overhead. His free hand gripped Uzair’s hip, fingers pressing into the old scar there - a silent reminder. “Come on, you can say it.”

Uzair’s breath hitched. The denial burned on his tongue, but his body betrayed him, hips jerking into Hamza’s grip. The bastard *knew*. Knew exactly how to wreck him.

Hamza laughed - a breathless, jagged sound - as Uzair’s hips jerked into his grip, his cock twitching against Hamza’s palm. "Baby” he murmured, his thumb dragging a torturous circle over the head. Uzair’s breath hitched, his fingers digging into Hamza’s shoulders hard enough to bruise. The bastard was *enjoying* this. Enjoying watching him unravel.

Uzair’s jaw clenched. He could feel the orgasm coiled tight in his gut, just out of reach, and it was *maddening*. “Fuck you,” he growled, but the words lacked heat, his voice fraying at the edges.

Hamza’s smirk was wolfish. “I will, soon.” He twisted his wrist just shy of where Uzair needed it most, and Uzair’s thighs trembled, his head thudding back against the crate. The wood dug into his scalp, but the pain was distant, secondary to the way Hamza’s fingers stroked him with infuriating precision.

Uzair’s breath came in ragged bursts. His vision blurred at the edges, the room narrowing to the heat of Hamza’s hand and the dark promise in his eyes. He was close. So fucking close. And Hamza knew it.

The bastard slowed his strokes to a crawl.

Uzair *snarled*, his hips bucking helplessly into the touch. “*Hamza* - ”

"Yours," Uzair gasped, the word torn from him like a surrender. "Fucking *yours* - "

Hamza's grin was a blade in the dark - hungry, predatory, victorious. He didn't give Uzair time to regret it. His mouth crashed down, all teeth and possessive fury, and Uzair moaned into it like it was salvation. The kiss was messy, violent, a clash of lips and tongues that tasted like blood and whiskey and years of pent-up want. Hamza groaned against him, one hand tangling in Uzair's hair to yank his head back, the other gripping his hip hard enough to bruise.

Uzair wrapped his arms around Hamza's shoulders, fingers digging into muscle as Hamza lifted him effortlessly against the crates. Uzair's legs locked around Hamza's waist, heels digging into the small of his back as if he could fuse them together. The crates shuddered under their combined weight, glass rattling ominously above them.

Hamza broke the kiss only to bite down the line of Uzair's throat, his breath hot against sweat-slick skin. "Say it again," he demanded, voice raw.

“I’m yours, *Hamze*,” Uzair gasped, the words raw, stripped of pretense - like tearing out a rib to hand it over. He’d always been, since the first moment he’d seen Hamza in that dim-lit safehouse years ago, all sharp angles and colder eyes, stitching up a rival’s knife wound with clinical precision. Uzair had known then. Had *wanted* then.

Hamza’s breath hitched - a rare, unguarded sound. His grip on Uzair’s hip tightened, fingers pressing into the scar there like he was reminding them both: *This is where I put you back together*. The kiss that followed wasn’t softer. It was worse. Less violence, more *hunger*, their mouths moving with a frantic, desperate rhythm, as if they could fuse their ribs together through sheer force. Uzair’s back arched, his nails scoring down Hamza’s spine, and Hamza groaned into his mouth - a sound Uzair had only ever heard in the dark, in the sweat-soaked hours between midnight and dawn of one fateful day. They'd just been back from am extremely dangerous mission, almost having died and they'd both lost control of their inhibitions riight there, on the couch of safehouse number 23. The next day, Hamza has avoided him like the plaque and Uzair had decided he'd had enough.

The crates behind them rattled as Hamza shoved Uzair harder against them, his thigh slotting between Uzair’s legs with brutal precision. Uzair’s head thudded back against the wood, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

Hamza’s fingers dug into the meat of Uzair’s thighs, spreading him wider as he thrust into him with a slow, deliberate brutality that stole the air from Uzair’s lungs. The first stretch burned - a familiar, searing ache that made Uzair’s spine arch off the crate, his teeth sinking into Hamza’s shoulder to stifle the groan clawing up his throat. The taste of salt and sweat flooded his mouth, metallic where his canines broke skin. Hamza didn’t flinch. If anything, his grip tightened, fingers pressing into old bruises as he dragged Uzair down onto his cock with a merciless snap of his hips.

“Fuck - *Hamza* - ” Uzair’s voice shattered into a hissed breath as Hamza angled deeper, hitting that spot inside him that made his vision whiten at the edges. His thighs trembled, muscles straining against the relentless pace Hamza set - not rough, not gentle, just *inevitable*, like the tide dragging sand from the shore.

Hamza’s breath was ragged against his ear, his lips brushing the shell of it as he murmured something in Urdu too low for Uzair to catch - a curse or a prayer, maybe both. Uzair clawed at his back, nails scraping over sweat-slick skin, seeking purchase as Hamza fucked him into the crates with single-minded focus. Every thrust was a claim, every drag of Hamza’s cock inside him a reminder: *This is where you belong.*

The crates groaned under their combined weight, the wood digging into Uzair’s spine with each punishing stroke. He could feel the heat of Hamza’s gaze on him - dark, unblinking, *hungry* - even as his own vision blurred with pleasure. Hamza’s hand slid from his thigh to wrap around his cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts, and Uzair’s head thudded back against the crate, a broken sound tearing from his throat.

“Look at me,” Hamza ordered, his voice rough with strain. When Uzair’s lashes fluttered open, Hamza’s expression was *ruined* - jaw slack, lips parted, his usual icy control shattered into something raw and voracious. It was the look he’d worn in that safehouse bathroom, stitching Uzair’s side with hands that shook. The look Uzair had spent months trying to forget.

Uzair reached up, fingers tangling in Hamza’s hair to yank him down into a kiss that was more teeth than tongue. Hamza growled into it, his hips stuttering before he redoubled his pace, fucking into Uzair with a frenzy that bordered on desperation. Uzair could feel the moment Hamza’s restraint snapped - the way his rhythm turned erratic, his breaths coming in sharp, ragged bursts against Uzair’s mouth.

“Come for me,” Hamza murmured against his lips, his thumb swiping over the head of Uzair’s cock. “Let me feel it.”

Uzair’s hips jerked, his orgasm crashing over him with a violence that left him gasping, his back arching off the crate as he spilled over Hamza’s fist. Hamza followed with a choked groan, his forehead dropping to Uzair’s shoulder as he buried himself to the hilt, his body shuddering through the aftershocks.

For a long moment, the only sound was their labored breathing and the distant thrum of the party beyond the door. Then Hamza exhaled, slow and unsteady, and lifted his head to meet Uzair’s gaze. His eyes were still dark with want, but something else flickered in their depths - something like regret, or maybe resignation.

The silence between them was thick with unsaid things - words that had festered in the space between their ribs for months, sharp as shrapnel. Hamza’s fingers still gripped Uzair’s hips, his breath uneven against the sweat-damp skin of Uzair’s throat. Uzair could feel the weight of Hamza’s gaze before he even looked up.

Regret.

That’s what it was. The bastard actually looked *sorry*.

Uzair’s laugh was rough, raw. “Don’t,” he muttered, catching Hamza’s wrist before he could pull away. His thumb traced the rapid pulse there, a silent counterpoint to the chaos still thrumming under his own skin. “Don’t fucking apologize now.”

Hamza froze. His exhale was uneven, warm against Uzair’s collarbone. “I wasn’t - ”

“Bullshit.” Uzair tightened his grip, pressing Hamza’s palm flat against his own chest, right over the jackrabbit thud of his heart. “Feel that? That’s *you*. Always has been.”

The admission hung between them, fragile as the shattered whiskey bottles at their feet. Hamza’s fingers flexed against his skin, then curled - not retreating, but *holding on*.

Outside, the party’s muffled music swelled, a distant pulse of drums and laughter. Someone shouted Amina’s name. Uzair barely heard it. All his focus was on the way Hamza’s throat worked, the way his eyelashes cast shadows like inkblots across his cheekbones.

“You know what they’ll do if they find out,” Hamza murmured. His thumb brushed Uzair’s nipple - once, twice - a distracted caress that contradicted the tension in his shoulders. “Your brother. won’t tolerate - ”

“Fuck Rehman bhai. Fuck the whole damn world.” Uzair caught Hamza’s jaw, forcing their eyes to meet. “You think I give a damn about his rules?” He leaned in, close enough to taste the lie on Hamza’s lips. “You were always there. Always will be. For me. That’s all I need to know.”

Hamza exhaled sharply through his nose. The hand on Uzair’s chest slid up to cradle the back of his neck, calloused fingers tangling in his hair. “Sentimental idiot,” he muttered, but his mouth was curving - just barely - against Uzair’s.

The kiss was softer this time. Slower. Hamza’s lips moved against his with a tenderness that made Uzair’s ribs ache. When they broke apart, Hamza rested their foreheads together, his breath warm and uneven. “They’ll come for us,” he whispered.

Uzair grinned, wild and reckless. “Let them.” He pressed Hamza’s palm harder against his chest, right over the scar from the ambush - the one Hamza had stitched closed with shaking hands. “You’re not the only one who knows how to fight dirty, *Hamze*.”

The overhead bulb flickered once, twice - then died. In the sudden dark, Uzair felt Hamza's breath hitch against his lips. For a heartbeat, they were just two shadows pressed together, the only sound their ragged breathing and the distant pulse of the party beyond the door. Then Hamza exhaled, slow and deliberate, and Uzair knew that no matter what came after this, he would be able to handle it. He now had his shadow.

___________________________________

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"Did you know," Uzair said, idly spinning a pen between his fingers, "that I can tell when you’re about to lie?"

Hamza didn’t look up from the stack of papers in front of him. The safehouse was quiet, save for the hum of the overhead light flickering intermittently. "You can’t."

"I can," Uzair insisted, leaning forward just enough that his elbow brushed Hamza's sleeve. "Your jaw tenses. Right here." He reached out, his thumb hovering near the angle of Hamza's jaw-close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, but not quite touching. Hamza's breath hitched, imperceptible unless you were watching for it. Uzair was always watching.

Hamza exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. "That's not-"

"Tell me," Uzair interrupted, voice dropping into something softer, almost playful. "Tell me something untrue, and I'll prove it." He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "Unless you're afraid I'm right."

The silence stretched. The flickering light cast shadows across Hamza's face, sharpening the lines of his restraint. His fingers flexed once against the desk, then stilled. "Fine," he said, finally lifting his gaze. "I think you're annoying." The lie was deliberate, smooth-but Uzair's thumb brushed the exact spot he'd mentioned, feather-light, and Hamza's jaw clenched.

Hamza caught Uzair’s wrist before his fingers could retreat, his grip firm but not painful - just enough to still him. The air between them thickened, charged with something unspoken. Uzair didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned in further, his breath warm against Hamza’s cheek. "Liar," he whispered, and the word curled around them like smoke.

Hamza’s control snapped.

One moment, Uzair was taunting him, the next, his back hit the wall with a soft thud, Hamza’s body crowding him in, all heat and barely leashed intensity. Their mouths collided - not gentle, not hesitant, but hungry, as if Hamza was determined to prove just how annoying he found him. Uzair’s fingers tangled in Hamza’s shirt, gripping tight, his mind whiting out under the sudden onslaught. He’d pushed, yes, but he hadn’t expected-*this*. Hamza’s teeth grazed his lower lip, then his jaw, then lower still, until they found the dip of his collarbone. The sharp sting bloomed into warmth, and Uzair arched into it, a breathless sound escaping him before he could stifle it.

Hamza pulled back just enough to see the mark he’d left, dark against Uzair’s skin. His thumb brushed over it once, possessive satisfaction flickering in his eyes before he schooled his expression back into something neutral. "You should’ve stayed away" he murmured, voice rough.

Uzair laughed, the sound bright and careless, as if the weight of Hamza’s words *You should’ve stayed away* hadn’t sunk in at all. "Why would I?" he asked, fingers still twisted in Hamza’s shirt, knuckles brushing the warmth of his chest. His grin was unguarded, the kind that made Hamza’s pulse stutter. "When you’re this fun?"

Hamza exhaled sharply, something between frustration and surrender. He didn’t let go - couldn’t, not when Uzair’s body was still pressed against his, not when the imprint of his teeth was already darkening on Uzair’s skin. "You don’t know what you’re playing with," he muttered, but the warning lacked its usual edge.

Uzair tilted his head, the movement deliberately slow, deliberately *challenging*. "Don’t I?" His thumb traced the line of Hamza’s collarbone through the fabric, light enough to tease, heavy enough to promise. "I think I do."

The overhead light flickered again, casting the room into brief darkness. When it returned, Hamza’s expression was unreadable-except for his eyes, which burned with something Uzair couldn’t name. He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted over Uzair’s lips. "Tum pachtaoge Uzair."

"Shayad," Uzair admitted, grinning. His fingers tightened in Hamza’s shirt, pulling him closer. "Par abhi nahi."

Hamza’s mouth crashed into his again, this time with less urgency and more precision, as if he’d decided - *fine, if you won’t listen, then I’ll make sure you remember*. Uzair melted into it, his earlier bravado dissolving into something softer, more yielding. The kiss deepened, slower now, but no less heated, and Uzair’s hands slid up to tangle in Hamza’s hair, tugging just enough to draw a low noise from the back of Hamza’s throat.

When they finally broke apart, Uzair’s lips were swollen, his breathing uneven. He blinked up at Hamza, dazed. "Dekha?" he murmured, voice rough. "Entertaining."

Hamza’s thumb brushed over the love bite again, a silent claim. "Pagal," he said, but there was no bite to it _ just something dangerously close to fondness.

Uzair laughed, bright and unthinking, as if the tension between them hadn’t just rewritten the rules of whatever this was. "I don’t want to stop," he admitted, reckless in the way only someone who’d never feared consequences could be. His fingers traced the line of Hamza’s jaw, lingering. "Do you?"

Hamza’s gaze flickered, conflicted. Duty warred with want, and for once, want was winning. But before he could answer, the sound of footsteps outside the door-too close, too deliberate-had them both freezing. Hamza reacted instantly, shoving Uzair behind him, his body shielding him from view as the door creaked open.

It was just Rizwan. He took in the scene-Hamza’s rigid stance, Uzair’s flushed face, the way they were standing too close-and raised an eyebrow. "Am I interrupting something?"

Hamza’s voice was flat. "No."

Uzair, still breathless, grinned. "Yes."

Rizwan sighed, tossing a file onto the desk. "Save it for after the raid." He glanced pointedly at Uzair’s collar, where the mark was unmistakable. "Or at least be discreet."

Uzair frowned, touching his neck absently. "What-?"

Hamza cut in smoothly. "We’ll review the intel." His tone left no room for argument, and Rizwan left with a knowing smirk. The moment the door shut, Uzair turned to Hamza.

"You bit me?" he asked, incredulous but amused, fingers probing the tender spot. "Like some territorial alley cat?"

Hamza’s jaw tightened. "You provoked me."

Uzair burst out laughing, bright and unrepentant. "I provoked you?" He leaned in, crowding Hamza back against the desk. "You *liked* it." His grin widened at the flicker in Hamza’s eyes - caught. "Admit it. You’ve been wanting to do that for weeks."

Hamza’s hand shot out, gripping Uzair’s hip to still him. "And if I have?"

Uzair’s breath caught. The admission, rough and unvarnished, sent heat pooling low in his stomach. He’d expected evasion, deflection - not a direct confession. Not Hamza’s thumb pressing into the hollow of his hipbone, possessive even in stillness. "Then I’d say," he murmured, sliding his fingers into Hamza’s hair, "you should’ve done it sooner."

Hamza exhaled sharply, something between exasperation and surrender. His grip tightened briefly before he forced himself to let go, stepping back. "We have a lot of work to do. "

Uzair rolled his eyes. "Of course we do." He tugged his collar up half-heartedly, still grinning. "But just so you know-I’m not covering this up."

Hamza froze mid-reach for the file. "What?"

"I like it," Uzair declared, running his fingers over the mark with deliberate slowness. "It’s proof."

"Proof of what?" Hamza’s voice was dangerously even.

"That you’re not as controlled as you pretend

." Uzair grinned, stepping back just far enough to watch Hamza’s eyes track the movement. "That I *get* to you." He tilted his head, exposing the bite again-a challenge, a provocation. "And now everyone else gets to see it too."

Hamza’s jaw twitched. He reached for Uzair’s collar with deliberate slowness, fingers brushing the sensitive skin beneath. "Cover it up."

"Why?" Uzair caught his wrist, holding it there. His pulse jumped under Hamza’s fingertips. "Afraid people will talk?"

"They’ll assume-"

"That I'm taken?" Uzair’s grin widened. "Good."

Hamza’s fingers flexed. The overhead light flickered again, casting shadows across the sharp planes of his face. "You don’t know what you’re doing."

"I know exactly what I’m doing." Uzair leaned in, close enough that his next words brushed Hamza’s lips. "I’m making sure you don’t forget."

Hamza exhaled sharply-half frustration, half surrender. His grip tightened on Uzair’s wrist, thumb pressing into the delicate bones.

The overhead light flickered again, plunging them into momentary darkness before buzzing back to life. Hamza’s fingers tightened around Uzair’s wrist, thumb pressing into the delicate bones. "You’re reckless," he muttered, but his voice lacked its usual edge. It came out rougher, lower - closer to a confession than a reprimand.

Uzair laughed, bright and unrepentant, the sound curling around them like sunlight through smoke. "And you love it." He tilted his head, deliberately exposing the mark on his collarbone again. "Admit it. You like that I don’t cower."

Hamza’s gaze flicked to the bite, his jaw tightening. Something possessive and sharp flashed in his eyes before he schooled his expression back into neutrality. "I like that you’re alive," he corrected, voice flat. "Which you won’t be if you keep-"

"Taunting you?" Uzair supplied, grinning. His fingers traced the line of Hamza’s belt loop, deliberately slow. "Or tempting you?"

Hamza caught his wrist again, grip firm enough to still him but not enough to hurt. "Both," he admitted, the word rough.

The overhead light flickered again-once, twice-before settling into a steady hum. Uzair used the distraction to step closer, crowding Hamza back against the desk. "Good," he murmured, lips brushing Hamza’s earlobe. "Because I don’t want to stop."

________________________

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The bolt slid home with a sound like a rifle cocking.

You didn't need to turn around-the scent of gun oil and sandalwood announced him before his boots even touched concrete. Major Iqbal moved like smoke through the safehouse door, his shadow swallowing the flickering bulb overhead before his fingers found your chin.

"Eyes open," he murmured, the command velvet-wrapped steel.

When you obeyed, he was already circling—once, slow as a hunting panther. Twice, his regulation boots whispering against concrete. The third pass stopped behind you, close enough that his breath stirred the hairs at your nape.

His palm appeared in your periphery, offered without words. You took it. One effortless pull and you were upright, your knees protesting after hours kneeling, your pulse rabbiting where his thumb brushed your wrist.

"Strip."

The order landed between your shoulder blades, precise as a sniper's round. Your fingers shook on the first button. By the third, his breath had gone audible behind you—that controlled, hungry sound you knew meant his composure was fraying.

"You knew this would happen." His voice was smoke-dark, certain.

You swallowed. Nodded.

His hum vibrated through your spine as hands slid under your thighs. One heave and you were airborne, then descending—the umber wool of his uniform trousers rough against your belly, his erection branding your hip through the fabric. You squirmed instinctively, the movement grinding your throbbing clit against the firm muscle of his thigh.

"Still," he warned, fingers splaying across your lower back. The other hand traced the waistband of your panties, hooking a single finger beneath the lace. "Unless you'd like me to secure you properly?"

You whimpered into the crook of your elbow, thighs trembling where they bracketed his. The scent of his arousal—dark and salt-sharp—flooded your senses as he peeled the damp fabric down, baring you to the safehouse's humid air.

You freeze, acutely aware of how your ass is arched high in the air, how your thighs squeeze together instinctively—but he tsks, using his free hand to spread your legs wider. "None of that," he chides, fingers skating up your inner thigh until they brush the damp heat between them. "Look at you," he murmurs, gathering wetness on two fingers before holding them up to the dim bulb light. The sight makes your clit throb. "Dripping before I've even touched you properly."

"Do you know why you're being punished now, meri jaan?"

Your breath hitches when his calloused palm slides over the curve of your ass, the roughness catching on soft skin. "Yes, sir," you whisper, hips canting forward involuntarily—only for his grip to tighten, holding you immobile.

"Remind me again." He says, bending to nuzzle into the hair at your nape, his hot breath fanning your ear.

"I spoke out of turn—ah!" The first strike lands without warning, his palm connecting with a sharp *crack* that echoes off concrete walls. Heat blooms instantly, radiating outward in concentric waves as you gasp into his thigh.

"Count," he orders, voice dipping into that dangerous register that makes your stomach flip.

"One!" you choke out just as the second smack lands—lower this time, right where thigh meets ass. The pain is sharper here, brighter, sinking deep into muscle before twisting into something molten between your thighs. Your hips jerk forward instinctively, grinding against the hard line of his erection, but he yanks you back by the hair until your spine arches painfully.

"Greedy little thing," he growls, landing two rapid strikes in quick succession—one high, one low—that leave your skin singing. "Focus."

"Three!" you sob, fingers scrabbling at his pant leg. The welts rise immediately under his palm, the ache settling into a throbbing rhythm that matches your pulse—and the insistent throb between your legs.

His fingers trail down the crease of your thigh, teasing dangerously close to where you need him most. "Colour?"

"Green, sir—*four!*" The number bursts from your lips as his hand comes down again, this time with enough force to make tears prick at your eyes. Yet even as pain radiates through you, your hips rock forward again, chasing the friction of his uniform pants against your clit.

Iqbal's breath hitches when he feels it—the way your thighs tremble, how your wetness smears against his leg. "Look at you," he murmurs, dragging his fingers through slick folds before pressing two inside without warning. You cry out at the sudden stretch, back bowing as his fingers curl just right. "Taking your punishment so well while your cunt begs for more." He scissors his fingers slowly, watching your face crumple. "Shameless."

"Five!" you gasp when his palm cracks down again—harder now, angling so his fingers graze your dripping entrance with each strike. The dual sensations send sparks skittering up your spine, pain and pleasure blurring until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

By the eighth stroke, you're sobbing openly—but your thighs glisten with arousal, your clit swollen and throbbing against his leg. Iqbal pauses, running a reverent hand over the heated skin now mottled with his fingerprints. "Beautiful," he murmurs, spreading your cheeks to expose the wetness dripping down your inner thighs. "Marked by me, ruined for anyone else." His thumb circles your clit once—just once—before withdrawing. "And still you want more."

"Please—"

The word earns you two rapid, stinging slaps that leave you wailing. "Ten!" you hiccup, trembling violently as his fingers return to your clit, rubbing tight, punishing circles that have you bucking against his lap.

"Come for me, darling." he orders into your ear, his free hand twisting in your hair to arch your neck back at a painful angle. "Now."

Your orgasm crashes through you like a bullet—white-hot and devastating, ripping a scream from your throat as your body convulses against his. Iqbal holds you through it, his palm pressing firmly over the welts he left, amplifying every aftershock until you're limp and shuddering in his arms.

Only then does he gather you against his chest, his lips brushing your temple as his fingers card gently through your sweat-damp hair. "My brave little girl," he murmurs, the words tender enough to make fresh tears well in your eyes. His thumbs wipe them away before they can fall. "Always so good for me."

You don’t resist when he pulls you flush against him, your bare skin meeting the crisp fabric of his uniform shirt. His arousal presses hot and heavy against your stomach, but he makes no move to relieve it‐not yet. Instead, his fingers slide between your thighs, parting slick folds with deliberate, almost clinical precision. You gasp when he drags a fingertip through your wetness, slow and torturous, circling your clit just once before withdrawing. "Open up" he commands, and you obey without thought, lips parting for his fingers. The taste of yourself is sharp, musky, and you whimper around his digits as he watches your tongue swirl over them with dark satisfaction. "You take your punishment so well," he muses, voice low with something dangerously close to admiration. "Good girl."

Then his hand is back between your legs, two fingers sinking into you without warning. Your knees buckle almost falling off him in the process, but he holds you upright effortlessly, his other arm banded around your waist like an iron bar. "Wait, baby," he growls against your temple, fingers curling inside you just enough to make you keen, the stretch and friction amplifying every lingering sting from the belt. His rhythm is relentless, each thrust precise and punishing, his thumb flicking your clit in time with the snap of his hips against yours. You can feel the heat of your welts throbbing in time with the pulse between your legs, the contrast heightening every sensation until you’re dizzy with it.

The orgasm crests without warning, a white-hot detonation that rips through you like shrapnel. You cry out, body seizing around his fingers as pleasure drowns out the pain, your vision fracturing at the edges while your marked skin burns brighter. Iqbal’s grip tightens, forcing you through the waves until you’re limp against him, shuddering and oversensitive, every aftershock making you twitch. Only then does he withdraw, his fingers glistening as he surveys your wrecked expression. "You're such a good girl for me, meri jaan." he murmurs again, and the praise settles deep in your bones, warmer than any touch, making fresh tears prick your eyes from the overwhelming rush of emotion.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he guides you to the threadbare couch in the corner, his movements uncharacteristically gentle. You collapse onto the cushions, boneless and spent, but he doesn’t join you‐not yet. Instead, he reaches for the glass of water he’d set aside earlier, taking a measured sip before tilting your chin up. He gestures to his mouth and when you part your lips, he kisses you, letting the cool water spill into your mouth. You swallow obediently, the intimacy of the act making your cheeks burn with a different kind of heat. "My brave little girl," he teases softly, thumb brushing your lower lip. You bury your face in his chest, and his chuckle vibrates against your cheek, low and satisfied, the sound wrapping around you like a claim. "Kya hua, meri jaan? Itna sab karne ke bad ab sharma rahi hain aap?" He says, to which you just cuddle in deeper.

His hands are careful as they smooth cream over the welts, each touch reverent despite the brutality of their origin. The sting dulls under his fingers, replaced by a soothing coolness that makes you sigh, the contrast drawing out the lingering throb in the most delicious way. When he presses a kiss to the crest of your ass, his beard tickling tender skin, you arch into the touch instinctively, emotions swirling‐vulnerability, trust, and a deep, possessive affection for this dangerous man.

"Rest," he murmurs, gathering you against him as he settles onto the couch. The last thing you feel before sleep takes you is the steady thud of his heart beneath your ear, and the faintest brush of his lips against your hair.

The safehouse is silent except for the distant hum of Karachi at night‐the occasional motorcycle engine, faint voices carrying on the wind, the rhythmic creak of the ceiling fan above you. You stir against Iqbal’s chest, your skin still tingling from the aftershocks of pleasure and the cooling balm he’d applied so meticulously. His arm tightens around you, a silent command to stay still. You obey, pressing closer into the heat of his body, the crisp fabric of his uniform shirt rough against your cheek.

"Kya hua?" he murmurs in Urdu, his voice a low rumble beneath your ear. "*Bohat soch rahi ho app aaj*." His fingers trace idle patterns along your spine, the callouses on his fingertips catching slightly on your skin. "I can hear it." You don’t deny it. There’s no point. Instead, you tilt your head just enough to press a kiss to the hollow of his throat, tasting salt and sandalwood. His breath hitches‐just once‐before his hand slides up to tangle in your hair, tugging gently until you meet his gaze.

His eyes are darker now, the usual sharpness softened by something you can’t name‐something that makes your heart clench with emotion. "Tell me," he orders, but it’s quieter than usual, less a demand and more an invitation laced with rare vulnerability. You swallow, suddenly aware of how exposed you still are, how vulnerable in his arms. His thumb brushes your lower lip, waiting.

"You’re still dressed," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. His eyebrow arches, but you press on, emboldened by the way his fingers tighten in your hair. "I want‐" You break off, heat flooding your cheeks.

Iqbal’s lips curve into that slow, dangerous smile‐the one that makes your stomach flip. "You want," he echoes, his voice dipping into that velvet-dark register that sends shivers down your spine. His fingers tighten infinitesimally in your hair, tilting your head back further. "Say it."

The command wraps around you like smoke, impossible to resist. "I want to see you," you breathe, your fingers twitching against his chest where they rest. "All of you."

For a heartbeat, he says nothing. Then, with deliberate slowness, he releases your hair and leans back against the couch, his dark eyes never leaving yours. "I'm all yours," he murmurs, spreading his arms slightly in invitation. "*Le lo jo chahti ho*." The challenge in his voice is unmistakable, a rare surrender of control that thrills and terrifies you.

Your pulse stutters. You’ve never been allowed this‐never been the one to undress him, to set the pace. The power is intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure. Your fingers tremble as they reach for the first button of his uniform shirt, the crisp fabric warm from his skin. The button slips free with a soft *snick*, revealing a sliver of taut, golden skin beneath. You exhale sharply, your throat going dry as you work your way down, each button yielding to reveal more of him‐the hard planes of his chest, the dusting of dark hair, the old scars that map his skin like whispers of violence, each one a reminder of the dangerous world he inhabits.

His breath is steady, controlled‐too controlled‐as your fingers reach the last button. The shirt falls open, revealing the full expanse of his chest, the ridges of muscle taut beneath smooth skin. You hesitate, then press your palm flat against his sternum, feeling the rapid, measured beat of his heart. It’s the only betrayal of his arousal, and the realization sends a rush of emotion through you‐affection mixed with awe.

"Go on," he murmurs, his voice a low thrum beneath your touch. His belt buckle gleams dully in the dim light, and your fingers hover over it, suddenly unsure. His hand covers yours, guiding it to the cold metal. "You don’t need to ask permission," he reminds you, his breath warm against your temple.

The belt slides free with a soft hiss, leather whispering against fabric‐the same belt that had marked you so thoroughly moments ago. You set it aside carefully, your throat tight with memory. His trousers are next‐the button pops open under your trembling fingers, the zipper’s rasp loud in the quiet room. The heat of him sears your fingertips as you push the fabric down his hips, revealing the hard length of him, flushed and straining against the confines of his briefs.

Iqbal’s jaw tightens as you hook your thumbs into the waistband, dragging the last barrier down. He’s magnificent‐all hard angles and coiled strength, his body a map of old wounds and quiet power. You exhale sharply, your fingers tracing the ridge of his hipbone, the taut line of his abdomen, savoring the way his muscles jump under your touch.

Your fingers hover over his skin, tracing the raised edge of a scar just above his hip‐a souvenir from some long-forgotten mission. The flesh is smooth beneath your touch, but the memory it represents thrums with latent violence. Iqbal watches you with hooded eyes, his breath slow and measured, but the rapid pulse at his throat betrays him.

"Go on, Touch me." he orders, voice rougher than before.

You obey, sliding your palm up the hard plane of his abdomen, feeling the muscles jump beneath your fingers. His skin is hot, almost feverish, and when you brush a thumb over his nipple, his breath catches‐just once‐before his hand closes over yours, pressing it harder against him. "Not like that," he corrects, guiding your touch lower, past the trail of dark hair, until your fingers wrap around him. The weight of him is intoxicating, thick and heavy in your grip, his arousal slick against your palm.

His hips jerk slightly when you stroke him, a rare, uncontrolled reaction that sends a thrill of power through you. You tighten your grip experimentally, and this time, his fingers dig into your thigh‐sharp enough to bruise. "Slow down. " he grits out, though his voice wavers ever so slightly, the crack in his composure making your heart race with emotion.

His breath comes in controlled, measured exhales, but his fingers flex against your thigh, betraying the effort it takes to maintain that composure. You stroke him slower now, deliberately, savoring the way his body tenses under your touch‐the way his jaw clenches when your thumb swipes over the head, smearing the moisture beading there. His grip on your thigh tightens, a silent warning, but you ignore it, leaning forward to press a kiss to the base of his throat. His pulse jumps beneath your lips, hot and alive.

"Insolent little girl," he murmurs, but there's no real bite to it‐not when his hips tilt subtly into your hand, not when his other hand fists in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make you gasp. You lick a slow path up his neck, tasting salt and sandalwood, and when you reach his ear, you nip the lobe gently. His reaction is instantaneous‐a sharp inhale, the flex of his abdomen beneath your palm, the way his cock twitches in your grip.

"You're enjoying this," you whisper, and the corner of his mouth tilts up in that dangerous half-smile.

"I enjoy watching you learn," he counters, his voice rough. His hand slides from your hair to cradle your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes are black in the dim light, pupils blown wide with arousal. "But don't mistake my patience for leniency." The warning sends a shiver down your spine, but you don't stop‐can't stop‐not when every stroke pulls another fractured breath from him, the emotional weight of unraveling him like this making you feel cherished and powerful.

His breath falters when your thumb circles the head of his cock again, slower this time, twisting just the way you know he likes. The hand at your jaw tightens‐not enough to hurt, but enough to make your pulse spike. "Tease," he murmurs, but the word dissolves into a low groan when you sink to your knees between his legs, your lips brushing the inside of his thigh. The muscle twitches beneath your mouth, taut with restraint.

You exhale softly against his skin, watching the way his stomach tightens, the way his fingers fist in the couch cushions. The scent of him‐musky, warm, edged with sandalwood‐makes your mouth water. You drag your tongue up the length of him slowly, savoring the way his hips jerk forward involuntarily. A bead of precum glistens at the tip, and you lap it away with a deliberate swirl of your tongue.

Iqbal's curse is sharp, his voice unraveling at the edges. His hand tangles in your hair, not guiding, just holding‐a silent demand for more. You take him deeper, letting him fill your mouth until your throat burns, until his breath comes in ragged bursts above you. His control is fracturing, his usual composure slipping with every wet slide of your lips, and the sight fills you with a rush of possessive emotion.

"Look at me," he orders, his voice shredded.

Your eyes flick up, meeting his darkened gaze through your lashes. The sight of him‐composed Major Iqbal, unraveling at your hands‐sends a rush of power straight to your core. His jaw is tight, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief as he watches you take him deeper, your lips stretched around him. A drop of sweat slides down his temple, and you hum around him, reveling in the way his fingers spasm in your hair.

"You’ve learned me way too well," he grits out, the words rough with desire. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, tracing the stretch of your lips around him. The praise coils hot in your belly, and you hollow your cheeks, sucking hard just to hear his breath catch. His hips jerk forward instinctively, and you gag slightly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes‐but you don’t pull away. You hold his gaze, letting him see the wetness gathering there, the flush spreading across your cheeks.

Iqbal’s nostrils flare. With a growl, he yanks you off him by your hair, your lips parting with a wet *pop*. Before you can protest, he’s dragging you up onto his lap, his arousal pressing hot and insistent against your thigh. His palm cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "You’ll be the death of me," he murmurs, but there’s no anger in it‐only that rare, dangerous warmth that makes your chest ache with emotion. Then his mouth crashes into yours, his tongue licking the taste of himself from your lips.

The kiss is bruising, possessive, his teeth scraping your lower lip just shy of pain. You whimper into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his shirt, clinging as he nips a path down your throat. His hands slide down your back, tracing the curve of your spine before gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. "Ride me," he orders against your collarbone, his voice raw. "Now."

Your breath hitches as his command washes over you‐rough, ragged, stripped of its usual icy composure. The heat of him presses against your thigh, thick and insistent, and your hips rock forward instinctively, seeking friction. Iqbal's grip tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your waist, guiding you up onto your knees above him. His eyes are black in the dim light, pupils blown wide with need, but his jaw remains set, his breath measured‐as if even now, at the precipice of surrender, he refuses to relinquish complete control.

"You know how I like it," he murmurs, voice gravel-rough. His thumb brushes over your hipbone, a silent instruction. You nod, trembling as you reach between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance. The first touch steals your breath‐the blunt pressure of him against your slick folds, the way your body clenches around nothing, desperate for the stretch, the welts on your ass flaring as you shift.

Iqbal's nostrils flare as you sink down onto him, slow, deliberate, letting every inch of him fill you until your thighs shake. His fingers flex against your hips, restraining himself from thrusting up, from taking what he clearly wants. The stretch burns deliciously, your body still sensitive from earlier, and when you finally seat yourself fully against him, a ragged moan escapes your lips, the fullness amplifying every mark he left.

"For me," he orders, his voice fraying at the edges. His hands slide up your sides, tracing the curve of your ribs before settling at your waist, holding you steady. "Move."

You rock forward experimentally, the drag of him inside you pulling a gasp from your throat. Iqbal's breath hitches‐just once‐before his fingers tighten, guiding your hips into a slow, rolling rhythm. His lips part slightly, his chest rising faster now as you rise and fall, each movement deliberate, torturous. The heat of him fills you perfectly, the stretch bordering on too much, but you don't slow down. You can't, not when his gaze locks onto yours, dark and hungry, his usual composure fraying at the edges with every thrust, the emotional intimacy of this reversal making your heart swell.

His fingers dig into your thighs when you clench around him experimentally, his hips jerking upward involuntarily. A thrill races through you at the broken sound that escapes him‐raw, unfiltered. You do it again, squeezing tighter, and this time his head tilts back against the couch, his throat working as he struggles to maintain control. "Fuck," he grits out, the curse rough and unfamiliar on his tongue. His hands slide up to grip your waist, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin of your stomach as if to anchor himself.

The pace quickens, your hips meeting his with increasing urgency, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the quiet room alongside your shared breaths. Sweat glistens at his temples, his chest rising and falling rapidly now, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts that grow less controlled with every moment. You lean forward, bracing your hands on his shoulders, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Let go, Major Iqbal." you whisper, your voice trembling with the effort of speaking through your own rising pleasure. His fingers flex against your skin, his entire body tensing beneath you.

For a heartbeat, he hesitates‐the last vestige of his infamous restraint. Then, with a growl, his hands slide down to grip your hips, yanking you down harder onto him as he thrusts upward, finally surrendering to the rhythm. The force of it punches a cry from your lips, your vision blurring at the edges as pleasure coils tight in your belly. His movements are ruthless now, each snap of his hips driving you closer to the edge, his breath hot against your neck as he murmurs low, half-formed words of encouragement.

His rhythm falters for the first time‐a stuttering, uncontrolled thrust that rips a ragged groan from his throat. You feel the exact moment his restraint shatters, the way his hips jerk erratically, the way his fingers dig into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises. "Look at me," he demands, voice shredded. You force your eyes open, meeting his darkened gaze just as he drags you down onto him one last time, burying himself to the hilt. His entire body locks, tendons standing out in sharp relief along his neck as his release pulses hot inside you.

The sight of him‐completely undone, his lips parted around silent curses‐sends you spiraling over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you with violent intensity, your thighs trembling as you clench around him, milking every last shuddering pulse from his body. His fingers tighten convulsively on your hips, holding you flush against him as wave after wave of pleasure rolls through you both, the shared release deepening the emotional bond in the aftermath.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. His breath comes in rough, uneven gusts against your collarbone, his forehead resting against your sternum. You card your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips‐something so vulnerable, so human, it makes your chest ache with tenderness.

Slowly, reluctantly, he pulls back, his dark eyes scanning your face with an intensity that borders on unnerving. His thumb brushes your lower lip, tracing the swollen curve with something dangerously close to tenderness. "*Meri jaan*," he murmurs, the endearment rough with disuse. The words settle warm and heavy in your chest, more intoxicating than any touch.

His breath evens out slowly, the rise and fall of his chest steadying beneath your palms. The safehouse is silent except for the distant hum of the city‐a motorcycle engine coughing to life somewhere, the faint wail of a siren, the soft rustle of night wind through the cracked window. Iqbal shifts beneath you, his hands sliding up to cradle your hips as you reluctantly pull away from him. The loss of his warmth makes you shiver, but his grip tightens, keeping you close.

"Come here," he murmurs, the command softened by the rasp of exhaustion in his voice. His thumb brushes the crest of your hipbone, tracing the outline of a bruise beginning to bloom there. You obey, settling back against him, your head resting against his shoulder. His skin is damp with sweat, the scent of sandalwood and salt clinging to him. You press your lips to the hollow of his throat, tasting him‐sharp and familiar.

Iqbal exhales through his nose, his fingers trailing idle patterns along your spine. The touch is absentminded, almost gentle, a stark contrast to the punishing grip he’d had on you moments ago. His other hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together and pressing your joined hands against his chest. You can feel the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm, slower now but still strong, the rhythm grounding you.

The ceiling fan creaks above you, stirring the humid air. Iqbal’s breath ghosts over your temple as he tilts his head, his body tensing slightly beneath you for a moment before relaxing. His fingers trace the ridge of your knuckles absently, calluses catching on your skin. "You're cold," he observes‐soft, as if speaking to himself. Before you can protest, he reaches for the folded blanket draped over the couch's arm, shaking it out with one sharp flick before draping it around your shoulders. The wool is rough against your bare skin, but his hands smooth it into place with uncharacteristic care, tucking the edges securely around you.

The gesture is so unexpectedly tender that your throat tightens with emotion. You catch his wrist before he can withdraw, pressing a kiss to the pulse point there. His breath hitches‐just once‐before his fingers curl around yours, squeezing briefly. "I'm not leaving." he murmurs, but his thumb brushes your lower lip in silent contradiction, lingering a heartbeat too long, the touch speaking volumes he rarely voices.

Outside, a motorcycle backfires, the sound sharp in the quiet. Iqbal's head snaps toward the window instinctively, his body tensing beneath you. You feel the exact moment he forces himself to relax, the slow exhale through his nose, the deliberate unclenching of his jaw. His fingers resume their idle path along your spine, but the rhythm is tighter now, more controlled‐yet still, he holds you.

You shift against him, your thigh brushing his. The sticky heat between your legs is a stark contrast to the cool air, and you bite your lip at the sensation. Iqbal notices‐of course he does‐his dark eyes dropping to your mouth before flicking back up. "Does it hurt?" he asks, voice low. There's no pity in it, just quiet assessment laced with concern.

You shake your head, but he sees through the lie‐his fingers ghost down your spine, pressing lightly over the bruises blooming across your hips. "Liar," he murmurs, but there’s no reproach in it. His palm lingers at the small of your back, radiating warmth into the soreness. When he shifts beneath you, you expect him to stand‐to retrieve the cooling balm again, ready to refuse‐but instead, he pulls you flush against him, your chest pressed to his, his heartbeat steady against yours.

The sudden closeness steals your breath. Iqbal rarely lingers like this, never allows himself to be held. Yet now, his arms band around you, one hand cradling the back of your head as if shielding you from something unseen. His breath stirs your hair, slow and even, but his pulse thrums beneath your lips‐faster than it should be, a quiet admission.

"You’re shaking," he observes, voice rough with exhaustion. His thumb brushes your temple, wiping away sweat you hadn’t noticed. The calloused pad catches on your skin, the touch incongruously gentle, stirring fresh waves of emotion.

You press closer, inhaling the musk of his skin‐sandalwood and salt and something indefinably *him*. His beard scrapes your forehead when he tilts his head to study you, dark eyes scanning your face with unnerving focus.

His fingers trace the curve of your jaw, pausing at the hinge where your pulse flutters wild and rabbit-quick. His thumb presses there‐just once‐as if memorizing the rhythm of your heartbeat. "You should sleep," he murmurs, but his hand doesn’t withdraw, his fingers lingering at the nape of your neck, kneading the tension there with uncharacteristic gentleness, the care deepening the bond between you.

You tilt your head into his touch, your eyelids heavy. The safehouse is cooler now, the night air slipping through the cracked window, carrying the distant scent of rain-washed concrete. Iqbal shifts beneath you, his muscles flexing as he adjusts your weight against him. His shirt, half-unbuttoned and rumpled, is still warm from his skin, the fabric rough against your cheek.

The rhythm of his breathing changes first‐a subtle shift you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t pressed so close. The measured inhales deepen, the controlled exhales lengthen. His fingers, which had been tracing idle patterns along your spine, still. You lift your head slightly, just enough to see his face in the dim light. His sharp features are softened by exhaustion, the harsh lines of his jaw slackened. His dark lashes brush his cheeks, and for the first time since you’ve known him, his brow isn’t furrowed with tension or calculation.

It’s the stillness that shocks you most. Iqbal is never still‐not truly. Even at rest, there’s a coiled readiness in him, a vigilance that never sleeps. But now, his chest rises and falls in a slow, unguarded rhythm, his body heavy against yours. The hand cupping the back of your head relaxes, his fingers loosening their grip on your hair. A strand slips free, brushing his cheek, and he doesn’t stir.

You hold your breath, afraid to move. This is uncharted territory‐Iqbal never sleeps first, never lets his guard down enough to drift off before you. The realization settles over you like the blanket he draped across your shoulders: he feels safe. Safe enough to surrender to exhaustion, safe enough to let you be the one watching over him for once. The weight of that trust steals your breath, filling you with a profound, quiet emotion.

Outside, the city hums‐a distant car engine, the occasional shout, the ever-present undercurrent of Karachi at night. But inside, there’s only the quiet sound of his breathing, the occasional creak of the couch as he shifts slightly in sleep. You press your ear to his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat. It’s slower now, a languid rhythm that matches yours, binding you together in the afterglow.

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