featheredclover

[featheredclover]

guidance (pt. 5)

summary: with both lovers being miles away, their yearning intensifies. maybe what arnav taught khushi can be put to use to help them both?~

themes: romance, mature, mutual yearning woohoo, self-exploration on khushi's end, smut heehee, "main jo karunga, kya tum woh kar paogi?"

The boardroom was a battlefield.

Arnav’s voice cut through the heated debate like a blade, his fingers steepled under his chin as he dismantled arguments with ruthless precision. The numbers on the screen were his ammunition—every decimal point, every projection—and he wielded them with the same cold focus that had built his empire. The air was thick with tension, the hum of the projector the only sound as his team waited for his next move.

“If we pivot now, we lose leverage in the Asian markets. The data doesn’t support this gamble.”

His CFO opened his mouth to protest, but a single glance from Arnav silenced him. The man’s jaw snapped shut, his fingers tightening around his pen. The room exhaled. Deal closed.

Yet as his team shuffled out, murmuring praises, Arnav’s gaze drifted to his phone—dark, silent. 

They didn’t know that his sharpness today stemmed from the fact that he hadn’t spoken to his wife. Nor did they know that he had begun yearning for her more desperately after dreaming about bending her over his desk, his hands gripping her hips, her breathy moans filling the silence of his office.

Maybe it was something in the air—the sterile, impersonal scent of the hotel, the endless cycle of meetings with new clients, the way every interaction felt like a negotiation. Whatever it was, it left him on edge, his skin too tight, his thoughts too loud.

That night, as the shower steamed around him, water sluicing off his tense shoulders, he braced his palms against the tiles, head bowed. It had been years since he’d let himself ache like this. He felt like a teenager in heat, restless and desperate, wishing he could teleport home. No one else and nothing else would do—he needed Khushi.

Her absence wasn’t just an emotional void; it was a physical torment—the hollow in his chest, the way his fingers twitched for the warmth of her waist. He’d spent half his life believing love was transactional, something he’d never earn. Too harsh. Too broken. As if he was too difficult to be loved.

But Khushi…Khushi loved him like breathing. Without reason, without limits. Her love never felt like too much—it was just right. A fresh sunny day, a warm cup of coffee, a blooming garden.

And everything felt right again once he finally heard her voice.

His thumb swiped over his phone screen, pulling up the private memo he’d drafted earlier: Gulfstream G700 – expedite purchase.

A ridiculous indulgence. But one he could most definitely afford. The thought of Khushi waiting at airports, worrying—no. He’d burn the money if it meant she’d never look that scared again. A cost-benefit analysis could never fulfill nor justify this need.

Four whole days without Arnav had passed.

Khushi’s clock was still stuck, her heart heavy with his absence. She missed him in everything she did��the way he’d grumble into his coffee in the mornings, the warmth of his hand at the small of her back, the sound of his voice when he whispered her name in the dark. The house had quickly become a whirlwind of activity—baby shower plans, nursery decorations, endless discussions about names—but none of it filled the space he left behind.

Today, she was helping Paayal select clothes for the baby, her fingers lingering over impossibly tiny onesies, her heart swelling at the thought of something so small and fragile coming into their lives.

Arnav had asked her to stop by his office later to pick up some files Aman had prepared. During their brief FaceTime calls, her world finally slowed. 

As she drove to the AR Design office, her mind wandered. She wanted to do so much—but what? Arnav had reassured her that her restlessness wasn’t a bad thing, but it didn’t make the confusion any easier.

The office buzzed with its usual energy, employees moving with purpose, the hum of printers and hushed conversations filling the air. Khushi lingered near Arnav’s empty desk, running a finger along the polished edge.

How would it feel to sit here? To run these halls again, this time with real purpose?

She cringed inwardly at the memory of her first chaotic days in the office—her unprofessionalism, the team’s resistance. But she had tried. She had learned. And now, standing here, she wondered what it would be like to be part of it all—the proposals, the projects, the thrill of building something.

Aman’s knock pulled her from her thoughts. “Ma’am?” He hovered in the doorway, holding a file. “The quarterly reports Sir requested are here.” He placed them on the desk.

“Aman-ji,” Khushi blurted, then hesitated. “How is it working here?”

Aman smiled, as if he understood exactly what she was asking. “I like it. There’s a lot to learn from Arnav Sir.” He nodded toward the desk. “There are some documents in the right drawer for you as well.”

Khushi hummed, pulling out the envelope with her name on it. But what caught her attention was the file labeled ‘AR Design Quarterly Results’.

As she flipped through the pages, something flickered in her chest. Columns of numbers, profit margins, KPI’s—this was the language of her husband’s world. The same world she’d dipped into blindly before:

Selling sweets to keep her family afloat.

Running a tiffin service after marriage, bartering with suppliers.

She’d done it all by instinct, never realizing she’d been building skills. Her father had been a businessman—of course this felt natural.

A realization bloomed in her chest, warm and certain. She didn’t need to overthink it anymore. Her usual gleeful smile returned as she gathered the files, her steps lighter on the way out. She couldn’t wait to tell Arnav. He had to be the first to hear.

The next day, Khushi found herself home alone, the house eerily quiet. Paayal and Aakash had slipped away on a whispered date, leaving her with nothing but her thoughts—and the growing, gnawing ache for Arnav.

His call usually came in the morning or afternoon, but today, there was nothing.

“I’ll call you late at night, your time,” he’d texted.

Now, as night fell, Khushi traced idle circles on her phone screen, the empty notification feed mirroring the hollowness in her chest. She wandered to his wardrobe, the cedar scent of his suits wrapping around her like phantom arms.

One by one, she touched the fabrics that had graced his skin—the charcoal suit he favored, the blue shirt he’d worn just before leaving. Pressing a sleeve to her face, she inhaled deeply, her knees nearly buckling at the fading traces of his cologne.

She surrendered to instinct, slipping into the black cotton shirt he slept in. The hem brushed her thighs as she crawled onto his side of the bed, burying her face in his pillow. Here, surrounded by his scent, the distance felt almost bearable.

The phone’s sudden vibration startled her awake at 1:00 AM. She fumbled for it, his shirt slipping off one shoulder as she answered.

Arnav’s face filled the screen as his eyes trailed her form. “Been wearing that all day?” His voice was rougher than usual.

Khushi shook her head, the movement making the neckline slide further. “Just since sunset.” Her fingers nervously plucked at the fabric. “I missed—”

The call ended abruptly.

Khushi’s stomach twisted—anxiety, frustration, a flicker of anger. The emotions were sharper in her sleepy haze.

Then, her phone buzzed.

“Sorry, call you back soon. Love you.” a text.

The tension in her chest eased. The next call came an hour later.

Khushi answered in the moonlight, curled in their bed, still wearing his shirt. The moment his face appeared, she beamed.

“You’re still wearing my clothes,” he noted, his voice darkening.

Her fingers plucked at the cotton as she hummed. “It smells like you.”

“Khushi,” he warned.

She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Hmm?”

His jaw clenched. “Do you know what you’re doing? I rushed back to the hotel as soon as I could because of you”

She could feel the shift—the tension thickening, his gaze turning predatory. Her breath hitched.

Then, the words he’d been holding back,“Will you be able to do what I’m about to do?”

That same challenge, months later—but now, she knew exactly what it meant.

Her lips parted. “Try me,” she whispered, never one to back down.

Arnav moved the camera, revealing his bare torso, the hotel sheets pooled low on his waist.

Khushi gasped.

His skin was gilded in the dim light, muscles taut as he deliberately dragged the sheets lower, exposing the defined V leading to his manhood. His hand palmed himself through his boxers.

Khushi’s breath stuttered, her thighs pressing together.

“Arnav—”

He smirked, freeing himself from the fabric. His cock sprang free, thick and already hard, pre-cum glistening at the tip.

Khushi’s mouth watered, her fingers digging into the sheets.

“Touch yourself with me,” he commanded, his thumb smearing the wetness over his flushed head.

The slick sound made her whimper.

Obedience.

The glow of the screen highlighted every tremble of her fingers as she obeyed, tracing the neckline of his shirt.

Arnav’s voice was rough, possessive. “Slow. I want to see you.”

Khushi set the phone against her pillow, angling it so he could see everything. The way his shirt rode up her thighs, the bare skin of her legs, the rise and fall of her chest with every shaky breath. Her skin burned under his gaze.

“Arnav…” His name was a whisper, a plea.

His hand stroked lazily, his eyes locked onto her. “Move your hands…lower.”

Khushi’s fingers drifted down, skimming the swell of her breast through the thin cotton, her nipple pebbling under the fabric.

A sharp inhale from Arnav.

“Like this?” she teased, her touch slipping further, dipping between her thighs.

His groan was visceral. “Take it off.”

With shaky hands, she obeyed. The camera shook as she lifted the shirt, moonlight spilling over her bare skin—her flushed breasts, the curve of her waist, the desperate clench of her thighs.

Arnav’s growl sent a shock of heat straight to her core.

“Fuuuck, Khushi—” His hand tightened around his cock, holding himself back from spilling just at the sight of her.

She whimpered, her fingers slipping beneath her panties, finding herself already soaked.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

She did—her wide eyes meeting his darkened gaze as she circled her clit, mimicking the rhythm he used on her.

Arnav threw his head back, his hips jerking.

“I wish you were here,” Khushi gasped, her back arching. “I wish you were touching me.”

“Where?”

Her free hand trailed up her body, tracing her tummy, then moving to her breast, pinching a nipple, just the way he liked. “Everywhere.”

Arnav cursed, his grip tightening. “Take them off. Now.”

She hooked her fingers into her panties, peeling them down her legs before spreading them, her heat on full display for him.

Completely bare. Completely his.

Khushi’s fingers dipped inside herself, her moan high and desperate as she grinded down against herself.

“Arnav, I—I—”

“Tell me,” he growled.

“I’m empty—ahn—sooooo so empty without you.”

His rhythm stuttered, his cock leaking more pre against his stomach. “Fuck—”

She arched, her neck exposed, her breasts bouncing as she chased her release, his name a broken chant on her lips.

“Cum for me,” he ordered, his voice raw with need. “Now.”

And she completely shattered. A shrill cry, her body convulsing, her thighs clamping around her hand as pleasure ripped through her. She was riding her orgasm, two fingers curling to hit that spot Arnav showed her. She whimpered his name, “Cumming Arnaaav.”

Through the haze, she heard his climax—his ragged groan forcing her to open her eyes to see him fall apart. His hips jerked into his hand, cum spilling over his fist as he moaned. 

Watching him tipped her over, extending her release—her moan fractured into a gasp as she dragged her fingers out, slow and slick, her breath ragged as she studied them under the dim light.

Silence.

Then—

“Fuck this,” he panted. “I’m catching the next flight back.”

author's note: i've come to deliver on a promise teehee, i hope you liked part 5! heavily inspired by the ANON ask to tie in: main jo karunga, kya tum woh kar paogi?

lowkey want to integrate that into more intense scenes too (maybe? or a similar theme?)

[featheredclover]

jalebijane's website is for sale, do you know the new site?

Hi!

Unfortunately there is no new site. She has been MIA for a while now :(

However you can read some chapters which are still uploaded on IndiaForums!

[featheredclover]

down bad, BAAAAAAD:

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DHoX3PZhUkP/?igsh=MTFhenduanBoeW0yMA==

Hell yeahh

[featheredclover]

Tezer Özlü, from her novel titled "Cold Nights of Childhood," published in 1980

[featheredclover]

September Rain

Chapter Twenty

Read from the beginning

Previous<<

The curtain sways with the wind, as the cool air provides relief to the warm room. But the inhabitant? Nothing could soothe her nerves tonight.

She paced back and forth in the common room, leaving Mona and Preeto asleep in their room. She bit her lip, as a frown creased her forehead. They knew nothing about this. 

Aman had caught hold of her, as soon as she came back to class. His grim face was enough to make her sick.

——-

“Where were you Khushi?”

“I..I don’t know if it was the right thing Aman but…I called Akash-“

“Goddamnit!” Aman cursed under his breath.

He seemed to have sombered down looking at her guilt ridden face.

“I might have done the same thing Khush. But you should have persuaded Arnav to make that call. It was his to make.”

“I…I…” 

She couldn’t get the words out. That she wasn’t thinking. That she felt only the man who inadvertently caused Arnav’s insecurity could solve it. 

She just couldn’t think beyond her Arnav breaking down. Her heart ached for his pain and fervently wanted to wish it away.

“I can call him back and ask him to pretend everything is okay for the time being?”

“No, Khush. Let this happen, I’ll take the blame if he crashes out once more.”

——

With a sigh, she curled up on the sofa, her eyes rested on the clock as it struck 12. 

Aman and NK had taken over from her. Akash had sounded tense on the second call, according to them. He was flying down from London, and nothing that Aman and Khushi said in assurance could stop him.

She had been on her toes for so long. So long that it seemed to now crash as she finally found herself alone.

Arnav had never mentioned or even hinted at….When did it begin? How horrible of a friend was she to never notice it in the years she had known him, had loved him? Why hadn’t he shared his feelings with her? His worries, his pain, his doubts?

They had lived in a bubble all this while. She wondered for the first time how an overachieving Akash had an impact on Arnav . Did he even want to be in the race to be a captain? Or was it just the path laid before him?

——

Musical tunes floated across the room. Khushi attempted the best to get her body to relax and move to them. Ballet, something new she had taken up since the past two weeks, was now an attempt at distraction.

A distraction to stop her from breaking into the red dormitories.

Lifting her arms up, she attempted to lift herself on her toes. A stumble broke her stance as her focus wavered all over again. Before she could gather herself again , the creak of the door startled her.

Arnav.

Her eyes flitted over his face. He was wary. It was evident from the stiff shoulders and the lines which seemed to age him overnight.

“You talked to my brother?”

Khushi took in a sharp breath, as she heard the caution in his tone.

“I am sorry, I am really sorry Arnav. I just couldn’t….I didn’t think clearly! I felt he was the only one who could solve this, so I dialled bhaiya’s number before I could stop.”

A painful pause.

“I am really sorry”

He swallowed, his throat bobbing up and down. 

“It’s okay.”

Khushi felt the relief flood through her.

“I need some time.”

“Of course. We are all here. I am here, Aman, NK-“

“No. I meant. Time from us. I need…”

And a blink of hesitation splintered through his stern demeanour.

“What?” , an uncomfortable chill settled in the pit of her stomach, as her voice turned into a shocked whisper.

He gritted his teeth, his fists tightened into a clench. And before she could reach out to him, he had turned around and left, leaving her with the fading sound of his footsteps and the melancholy of her heart.

[featheredclover]

I can't 💘

This is so ASR coded 🧎🏻‍♀️ ( I cannot keep calm )

[featheredclover]

This is so ASR coded 🧎🏻‍♀️ ( I cannot keep calm )

[featheredclover]

September Rain

Chapter Nineteen

Read from the beginning

Previous<< >>Next

He will be okay. He will be okay, He is the sane one. He will understand. He will be okay.

Her mind flooded with a gamut of thoughts as a fresh wave of panic seized her when she couldn’t find him. The staircase, the library, the pavement by the basketball court. He was nowhere. A dreaded chill spread through her, even as her palms felt unusually clammy. 

He was going to be okay, she desperately chanted in her head. 

Suddenly, the dinghy storehouse caught her eye. She had never really paid it any attention. The rust and moss engulfed architecture was not really a starry attraction on campus. But today…something told her she would find him there. He was after all, the one who found corners amidst the most strange places. He had always been.

With a silent prayer, Khushi ran towards the storehouse.

——

The door creaked as she swung it open.

Her eyes flitted around the clutter. A speck of red in her peripheral vision. And there he was. Sitting on the floor, his knees and head bent towards each other, curled up as if he was afraid to move. Khushi’s heart lurched painfully as she realised the fetal position he was in.

“Arnav?”, she called out softly. 

A stream of sunlight had managed to invade the darkness of the room through a crevice.

She walked over to him, twisting and turning at the now useless bicycles kept stocked up. 

“Arnav, please…I know…I know you are hurting….it’s not the end of the world. There are other posts you can apply for? Please say something. We will work something out-“

“Not the end of the world?” He spoke out so quietly, Khushi bent forward straining her ears.

“Huh?”, she stared at him, confused at his tone. It was so unlike him. 

“Not the end of the world?” He looked up, their eyes locking in an instant. One in barely suppressed rage and the other with borrowed grief. 

“What do you know ,Khushi? What the fuck do you know?!”

She frowned,”Don’t curse at me”

He chuckled mirthlessly, as he slumped against the floor.

“You don’t know anything”

“Then tell me! Ple-“

“Akash Singh Raizada. Do you know how hard it is to live up to that name?”

He stared unseeingly straight ahead.

“He is the golden child. The gift that just keeps giving. He was the model child. The model brother. The model student. And now he is the model heir. I am also the heir. But I have to prove it. And the threshold is what he has achieved. Raizadas are school captains,leaders,CEOs…. And one cannot exist without each other. If I don’t prove that I am Akash’s brother now, then what is the point of me? I am a failure-“

“Stop it!” Khushi clenched her fists to hold herself in. His words had incited a sense of helplessness and panic in her. How long had he been thinking like this? Was he only running for sub captaincy because of his brother? Why hadn’t she noticed any of this before?

“You will not talk about yourself like this! You , Arnav Singh Raizada , are not a failure. You are one of the most talented and intelligent people I know! Just because you don’t follow Akash bhaiyas’ path doesn’t mean anything! How can you let yourself keep on thinking like this?!”

A humourless chuckle scratched the tension pulsing in the air.

“Yeah. A talented idiot who lost the sub captaincy “

She could feel the fear run down her spine in a cold thrill. He was shutting her down. Speaking to her like…like he probably spoke to himself. Harsh, mean, punishing. 

Khushi felt the hesitancy creep in. This was not Arnav being upset about one loss, this was him crumbling below years of pressure. She doubted she could handle this alone. Not when her Arnav, was not himself.

A pair of footsteps startled her, which was soon replaced by relief as she saw Aman at the doorstep.

He took one look at Arnav, and nodded at her, “Khush, I’ll take him to the dorm. Let’s not…let’s take it easy today”

She felt like a stranger as she watched Arnav’s hollow eyes and sunken face. A bystander as the boy she is in love with is hurting.

She needs to do something. She just needs to do something.

———-

“Hello”

She clutched the receiver of Raheem’s cafe’s telephone.

“Khushi, is that you? Everything okay?”

“Akash bhaiya”, she struggled with a sob stuck in her throat.

Hearing the scraping of chairs, she willed herself to do the right thing. Seek the right help. For him.  Even if she has to face his wrath after this, she will do anything for him.

----

Next chapter>>

[featheredclover]

real

[featheredclover]

guidance (pt. 3)

summary: coming down from their highs, khushi and arnav’s conversations deepen. intimacy is immersive, expanding beyond physical desires and into the depths of the soul. arnav guides khushi to reach realms of intimacy she didn't anticipate, yet again.

genres: romance, mature, FLUFF, aftercare, pillowtalk

a/n: this is part 3 of a series (initially intended to be a one shot w 2 parts only, but it was received much better than i anticipated <3 (tysm!)).

By the time Arnav and Khushi were done ravishing each other, it was almost dawn. Their thirst for one another was unquenchable, each touch and movement driving them further, pushing boundaries they hadn’t explored before.

Khushi’s veil of coyness had been peeled away layer by layer through the night, and Arnav was fascinated by how she let go of her restraint with each climax. He loved how honest her body was (unlike her), how it welcomed him with ease, squeezing around him as if unwilling to let him go.

Arnav was naturally a giver, and Khushi was slowly learning to take—to accept without guilt or hesitation. No matter how often they were intimate, Arnav’s passion always overwhelmed her.

With him, she felt a sense of security, a liberation she had never known before. His words of worship whispered against her skin as he pleasured her, made her feel cherished in a way she couldn’t quite articulate.

Morning light filtered through the cracks in the curtains, which Arnav had drawn at some point during the night. Khushi stirred first, the warmth of his chest beneath her cheek, a comforting anchor.

She blinked lazily, her eyes adjusting to the soft glow, and the memories of the night came flooding back—his hands, his voice, the way he’d worshipped her body. A blush crept up her neck as she buried her face deeper into his skin, trying to steady her racing thoughts.

Her mind drifted back to what Arnav had said the night before. Ovu-what? Ovulation? The word felt foreign, something Bua-ji had never mentioned in her stern, clinical version of the birds-and-the-bees talk.

All Khushi had learned was that a man had desires, and a woman’s duty was to fulfill them.

But Arnav had spoken of something entirely different—something natural, something mutual. Was it really normal to feel this way? To want him so desperately, to ache for him even after a night of passion?

A ring of shame began to settle deep into her core the more she thought, twisting her stomach into knots. If it was so natural, why did it feel so wrong?

Suddenly, she felt a thumb on her forehead and gasped. Arnav had awoken and was gently easing the crease between her brows. She hadn’t even realized she was so lost in thought.

He didn’t ask anything, his fingers grazing her cheek softly, his eyes intently studying her face. He took in the glow that lingered on her skin after they’d made love, the way her hair framed her face, the quiet vulnerability in her eyes. She was beautiful, and she was his wife. He was a lucky man.

“Are you okay?” he eventually whispered, his voice low and tender. He could see the worry hiding behind her gentle smile. “Does it hurt anywhere?”

“N-no, Arnav-ji, I’m fine,” Khushi said, her voice soft but steady, trying to calm him. She could tell he was getting concerned, his protective instincts kicking in. “I was just…thinking.”

“What were you thinking about?” he cooed, his thumb still tracing small, soothing circles on her cheek.

“Nothing important,” she murmured, avoiding his gaze. “I don’t need to worry you this early on a Saturday.”

But Arnav now knew Khushi. He knew how she hid away, how she avoided him whenever she was worried, no matter how big or small the concern. 

In the past, he’d given her space, thinking she’d come to him when she was ready. But he’d learned the hard way that she never did. Instead, she’d retreat into herself, overthinking, spiraling, jumping to conclusions that only hurt her more. It was a pattern he was determined to break. 

Building trust in their relationship—making her feel safe enough to open up—was everything to him. “Khushi,” he said firmly, his voice laced with both worry and affection. “Nothing about you is unimportant. You know I love listening to you. Tell me love, please.”

As he spoke to her, he made sure to keep his touch delicate, his fingers gently tracing the crook of her neck. He wanted to reassure her in every way he could. He knew how hard it was for her to lay herself bare, to trust him with her fears and vulnerabilities. But he could meet her halfway. He wanted to be the steady ground she needed.

Khushi’s chest tightened as she turned her head away from him, her gaze dropping to the sheets, unable to meet Arnav’s eyes. The words felt heavy on her tongue, too shameful to say out loud. But Arnav’s thumb was soft on her, his presence steady and unwavering, and somehow, that made it harder to stay silent.

“I feel…disgusting,” she finally whispered, her voice barely audible. She was scared that if she said the wrong thing, Arnav would withdraw, emotionally and physically.

Arnav’s hand stilled, his brow furrowing. “What?” he said softly and then paused. “About what?”, his tone was gentle, careful, as if he were stepping into fragile territory—a place where her heart rested, vulnerable and unguarded.

Khushi’s lips began curling downwards, eyes squinting in guilt, Arnav could tell she was back in her head, “Khushi, why do you feel disgusting?” He used his hand to tilt her face back to him, “Look at me please.”

She hesitated, nit opening her eyes as her fingers drummed on his chest, he could feel her anxiety. “It’s just…the way I felt yesterday. The way I couldn’t stop thinking about…about you in that way. About us. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t proper.”

Arnav’s expression shifted from concern to confusion. “What do you mean? You couldn’t stop thinking about me? That’s a bad thing?”

“Yes,” she mumbled, her voice trembling. “It’s not…it’s not how I’m supposed to feel. I couldn’t focus on anything else all day, and I hated myself for it.” While Arnav was deeply flattered by the potent effect he had on his wife, he knew this wasn’t the moment to dwell on it.

Arnav’s hand moved to her shoulder now, his touch grounding. “Khushi, look at me,” he said tenderly. When she finally met his gaze, his eyes were filled with a mix of unease and determination. “Why do you think it’s wrong to feel that way? To think about me?”

She looked away again for the hundredth time this morning, her throat tightening. “Because…because it’s not how a woman should be.”

“Like how?” Arnav asked, his voice still calm but probing. “What exactly are you feeling that’s so wrong?”

Khushi’s face burned, her words stumbling over each other. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just…it’s like I couldn’t stop myself. I felt…desperate. Like I needed you to be with me, and I couldn’t think about anything else. I wasn’t just missing you Arnav-ji, I-.”

“You were missing my touch,” Arnav finished her sentence for her, his voice low. He could see the pieces falling into place now, he understood what she’d been trying to say “You were craving us”.

Khushi couldn’t react, her face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and discomfort. Arnav’s chest ached as he watched her, the weight of her shame pressing heavily on him.

He never wanted their intimacy to make her feel this way—never wanted her to feel anything but loved and adored. What she felt wasn’t something to be ashamed of; it was something to cherish. He wanted to make her see that.

His eyes softened, his other hand moving to cup her cheek. “Khushi, that is normal,” he said, his voice unfaltering but tender. He shifted slightly, sitting up a bit so he could look down at her directly. “You wanting me is perfectly natural. I feel the same way for you—I’ve felt like this for you even before you were mine,” he admitted. If she could be this vulnerable, so could he,"Do you think it’s wrong for me to want you? To need you?”

Khushi shifted closer to Arnav, her body pressing against his, her breasts brushing his chest—a sensation he was desperately trying to ignore. “But you’re a man, Arnav,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’m not supposed to feel this way. I’m supposed to…to satisfy you. That’s what I was told.”

His brow furrowed, “Who told you that?” he asked, his voice calm but firm. When she didn’t answer immediately, he pressed, “Khushi, who?”

Her voice was barely a whisper. “Bua-ji…and others. They said a wife’s duty is to please her husband. As a good wife, I shouldn't tell you what I want or how I feel when you’re with me.”

He exhaled slowly, trying to keep his frustration in check—not at her, but at those who had filled her head with such ideas.

“Khushi,” he said, and took a deep breath before continuing. “What we have together isn’t about duty. It’s about love. When we’re together, it’s not about you pleasing me or me pleasing you, this isn’t transactional. It’s about us sharing something beautiful. Something that belongs to just the two of us.”

Her eyes welled up, and she looked away again, her voice trembling. “But yesterday…I felt so desperate. I’ve never felt like that before. It was like I couldn’t control myself. And now I feel…ashamed of it-.”

“And I loved it, I loved that you were like that for me,” he cut her off, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped. “Khushi, do you remember what I told you yesterday? About your body…telling me to give you babies?” His tone was light, but his eyes were soft, searching hers.

She blushed, her cheeks flushing a deep pink. “I remember,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, “Ovulation”, she finished.

He smiled, oh, his smart smart wife, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. “It’s not just about babies, Khushi. It’s about your body knowing what it needs. During certain times, your body changes, just like when you’re on your period—it prepares itself, and it tells you what it wants. Ovulation…is not just about creating a baby. It’s about…connection. About us.” He made sure to choose the right words to get his point across, afterall he was talking to the biggest deal of his life.

Her brow furrowed, and she looked up at him, her eyes shining with curiosity. “Connection?”

Ah, his curious Khushi has come back to him. He nodded, his voice intimate. “Yes. When you feel that way—when you need me—it’s your body’s way of saying it wants to be close to me. To feel me. It’s not just about making babies, I promise. It’s about how much we mean to each other. How much we belong to each other.”

She swallowed, her voice trembling. “But it feels so…overwhelming. Like it will eat me up. Like I can’t control it. Like I’m not myself.”

He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. “It’s supposed to feel that way,” he said softly, pecking her lips. “It’s your body letting go. And there’s nothing wrong with that, Khushi. Nothing at all.”

Her breath hitched, and she closed her eyes, her hands gently tracing his broad chest. “But what if…what if I’m too much? What if you don’t want me like that?”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into her eyes. “Khushi,” he said, his voice firm but tender, “there is no version of you that is ever too much for me. When you need me, when you want me—it’s the most beautiful thing in the world to me. It means you trust me with all of you. I’ll never take that for granted.”

“But…what if I can’t stop feeling this way? What if it’s all I think about?”

A small smile played on his lips, and he brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Then I’ll be here,” he said simply. “Whenever you need me. However you need me. But Khushi” he paused, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You don’t always have to wait for me. Do you remember what I showed you yesterday? How to touch yourself?”

Her eyes widened, and she looked away, her face burning. “I…I remember,” she stammered. “But it feels…wrong. Like I’m doing something I shouldn’t.”

He shook his head, his hand gently tilting her chin so she would look at him again. “It’s not wrong, Khushi. It’s your body. Your feelings.  And you have every right to explore them—to understand yourself, to know what you need. I want that for you. I want you to feel good, whether I’m here or not.”

She buried her face in his chest. “I don’t know if I can Arnav,” she whispered. “It still feels…strange.”

He held her close, his hand stroking her hair. “It’s okay baby, you don’t have to figure it all out at once,” he said softly. “I’ll be here to remind you, every day, that there’s nothing to be ashamed of. And that I’m yours, just as much as you’re mine.”

A smile began to make it's way onto Khushi's lips. “You’re mine?” she asked, she liked the sound of that.

He smiled, kissing her head. “Completely,” he said. “Body and soul. Forever.”

Then, with a playful glint in his eyes, he added, “And, you know, we can always practice. So you feel more comfortable…touching yourself without me.”

Khushi gasped, swatting his torso lightly, but a small giggle escaped her lips. Finally, she was smiling—and his heart settled back into place, finding peace in the sound of her laughter.

He loved her, he loved Khushi.

Even though it was Saturday, Arnav had to drop into the office for a couple unavoidable client meetings.

When they finally dragged themselves out of bed this morning, Khushi was unsteady on her feet, her pelvis sore. Arnav couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride—as selfish as it might seem. He loved seeing her like this, completely spent, all because of him.

But his pride was tempered with concern. “Take it easy today, baby,” he had whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before headed out for work. He called twice within the first hour he was gone, his voice warm and affectionate, making sure his wife was okay and reminding her how much he cared.

Meanwhile, Khushi was in the kitchen with Nani-ji, learning how to make her special palak paneer. The older woman hummed as she stirred the pot, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Khushi bitiya,” Nani-ji began, her tone playful, “any good news to share?”

Khushi blinked, her expression puzzled. “Good news, Nani-ji?”

Nani-ji chuckled, realizing she’d have to spell it out. “I mean to say, can I expect a mini Arnav running around anytime soon?”

Khushi’s face turned a deep shade of pink, her hands freezing mid-chop. “I-I—”

author's note: AHH i'm doing it, guidance is becoming an official series!!!! part 3 is dedicated to @featheredclover and @professor-cant-fuck ! ty for encouraging me to keep going 🫶

i know i started this steamy, i wanted to show some aftercare, arnav really putting in the werrrrkkk in their marriage. it was so SO annoying not seeing them communicate for silly things and then have that drive the entire plot.

+ ANON’s recommendation of using the dialogues: "main jo karunga, kya tum woh kar paogi?" is coming i promise <3

+ also can we pretend the sheetal arc didn't really pan out the way it did and arnav & khushi are childless please

hope this was worth your time <3

[featheredclover]

The Case of the Unexpected Dilemma

Arnav Swami had always trusted Masterji with his tailored clothes.

Masterji, with a blue chalk tucked behind one ear and a pencil behind the other, carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who had stitched his way through history. He had crafted Arnav’s Dadaji’s clothes, his father’s, and now his; legacy, quite literally, sewn into every stitch. Specializing in Nehru Kotis, his craftsmanship was so impeccable that a peek into Arnav’s Godrej almirah would reveal a shrine of neatly folded masterpieces.

For Preetiji’s wedding, Arnav had donned his favorite black Nehru Koti, an exclusive masterpiece, stitched with painstaking care by Masterji. Standing before the mirror, smoothing out an imaginary crease, he gave himself a satisfied nod.

He looked dignified. 

Timeless.

Classic.

Like a well-groomed historical figure who would never, under any circumstances, be caught dead in anything other than a Nehru Koti.

And then he arrived at the wedding.

Preetiji’s father, ever the gracious host, seated him among a circle of seasoned gentlemen; uncles, grandfathers, distinguished men with stories in their eyes. And to Arnav’s mounting realization, every single one of them, without exception, was also clad in their finest Nehru Koti.

Now, this wasn’t exactly a problem. Arnav enjoyed the company of seasoned wisdom. But then, she walked in.

Khushiji.

Draped in a stunning green lehenga that somehow defied the laws of fashion by being almost mistaken for pants, Khushiji shimmered under the wedding lights like some kind of enchantress. She settled among guests dressed in impeccably tailored double-breasted coats, and suddenly, Arnav noticed something he had never paid much attention to before: structure, sharp lapels, the effortless fall of a well-cut jacket.

Khushiji laughed, tilting her head ever so slightly at one of the men in those very coats. Arnav, who had always believed the Nehru Koti to be the pinnacle of sophistication, found himself wondering if perhaps, just perhaps, his Godrej almirah had room for a navy or black coat.

Strangely, he wasn’t hungry that night, despite the mouth-watering moong dal cheela and aloo tikki calling to him. Instead, he spent the evening in an existential fog, half-listening to conversations, half-dreaming about betrayal… not of a person, but of fabric.

By morning, he found himself in Masterji’s shop, shifting awkwardly, like a man about to confess a great sin.

“Masterji,” he began cautiously, “what do you think about… double-breasted coats?”

Masterji, who had been pinning a sleeve with intense focus, froze mid-stitch. His blue chalk dropped to the floor. His eyes slowly lifted to meet Arnav’s.

For a moment, all was silent.

Then, in a voice laced with the weight of generations, he whispered, “A coat?”

Arnav cleared his throat. “A double-breasted one.”

Masterji dramatically wiped an invisible tear. Then, with the strength of a man accepting change against his better judgment, he straightened. “A man must always keep his options open,” he declared. “Who knows? The world changes… and so must we.”

Arnav swallowed the guilt of a lifetime of kotis. But Masterji, ever the eternal optimist, reassured him with a gleam in his eye. 

Then he left, unaware that fate had one last twist waiting.

A week later, Khushiji strolled into his dhabha, flipping through the wedding photographs with the casual expertise of someone who had spent years dissecting family albums for gossip. She narrated the evening like a seasoned storyteller; who wore what, who danced terribly, who made reckless life choices at the moong dal cheela counter, until she stopped at one particular picture.

“Swami Ji,” she mused, tapping the image lightly, “you did look… quite distinguished that night.”

Arnav, mid-sip of his chai, froze. 

Distinguished?

Was this how style legends were made? 

Did it start with an innocent remark from an unreasonably captivating woman? Was he, at this very moment, ascending into the hallowed ranks of timeless fashion icons?

He kept his face carefully neutral, but Khushiji was already leaning in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And that Nehru Koti?” she added as if discussing a relic of national importance. She sighed, her eyes glinting with amusement. “It was… perfect.”

Arnav placed his cup down with slow precision, suddenly aware of the way his sleeves fit, the way his collar rested against his neck. 

His pulse, uninvited, had decided to participate in this conversation, hammering a little faster than necessary.

“I mean…” Khushi’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Who else could have carried it with such… authority?”

Authority.

Arnav exhaled through his nose, resisting the very real urge to check if he had, in fact, looked that authoritative. Was she teasing him? Was she serious? Was his Nehru Koti now a historical artifact?

“But,” she continued, her voice light but laced with mischief, “if you ever feel the need to expand your collection, I suppose... a yellow koti wouldn’t be entirely awful.”

Arnav narrowed his eyes. A yellow koti. The woman who had just sung praises of his distinguished taste now wanted him to consider looking like an overenthusiastic sunflower.

He let out a slow breath and shook his head, half-smiling. “I���ll be sure to consult you before making any wardrobe decisions, Khushiji.”

“Good,” she said, handing him the photograph, her fingers brushing his ever so slightly. The touch was fleeting, but it left behind a strange warmth, like the aftertaste of strong chai. 

Her smile turned impossibly more mischievous. “I wouldn’t want you to lose your… legendary charm.”

And just like that, she winked and skipped away, leaving Arnav standing there, gripping the photograph as if it held the answers to life’s greatest mysteries.

His mind was a tangled mess of laughter, teasing, and the unmistakable glint in Khushi’s eyes.

Tomorrow, he was definitely visiting Masterji again.

Just… to keep his options open.

Also on the blog here and Wattpad here

[featheredclover]

guidance (pt. 2)

summary: khushi awaits arnav's arrival from the office desperately, craving his presence in one way more than others. arnav uses the opportunity to provide her with some guidance.

genres: romance, angst, smut, fluff-ish

disclaimer: part 2 does in fact contain smut (!) the guidance is in fact provided

Khushi’s breath hitched, the sound soft but unmistakable—a moan, not a groan. Arnav froze for a moment, his grip tightening around her as the noise sent a spark of heat straight through him. Blood rushed to his manhood instantly, his body reacting before his mind could catch up.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his gaze sweeping over her flushed cheeks, the way her lashes fluttered as she avoided his eyes. She was blushing all over by now, her vulnerability laid bare, and it only made him want her more.

He brought his right hand up to caress her cheek, his touch gentle yet electrifying. The gesture finally prompted her to open her eyes, and the desperation in her gaze made Arnav want to lose all control.

He wanted to take her right here, right now. “Khushi…” he whispered, his breath hot, fanning her face as he moved closer, brushing his lips against hers.

He was feeling so much—too much. He wanted to savor this moment, to etch every detail into his memory. Khushi was opening up to him in a way she never had before, and the trust she was placing in him left him feeling honored and fiercely possessive all at once.

Before he could process it further, she pushed herself against him, kissing him with everything she had. The suddenness of her impatience surprised him, and a low moan escaped his throat as her tongue slipped into his mouth, working against his.

Arnav picked her up effortlessly, and she intrinsically wrapped her legs around him, their kiss unbroken. He carried her to the bed, gently laying her down before pulling back to look at her with hooded eyes, his desire for her burning brighter than ever.

She lay there, her mouth swollen from his kiss, her chest rising and falling as she panted. Her eyes grew dark with lust, mirroring his.

He wanted to tease her for being so needy, so utterly consumed by him, but the other part of him—the primal part—wanted to ravish her.

The former won, for now, as his hands found the waistband of her trousers. In one swift, practiced motion, he slid her pants and panties down, leaving her exposed to his hungry gaze.

Khushi moaned, the cool air hitting her heated folds. Her underwear clung to her for a moment, drawing a thin line of slick that connected to her core.

“Fuuuck,” Arnav groaned, precum beading at his tip at the sight. “How long have you been this wet, Khushi? Look at you—so ready for me.” His hands moved quickly, shrugging off his waistcoat and yanking his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, his breath deepening as he tossed the fabric aside.

Khushi hid her face behind her hands, overwhelmed by the way Arnav was looking at her, his gaze predatory and possessive. It was too all much. Her hole clenched around nothing under his scrutiny, and she brought her thighs together instinctively, trying to ease the ache.

The movement triggered something in Arnav. His hands reached for hers, pulling them away from her face, placing them on his defined torso. “Look at me, Khushi,” he commanded leaning down, his voice low and rough. “Were you like this for me?”

His left hand drifted to her core, spreading her slickness with his index and middle finger, earning another moan from her. “Tell me, Khushi. You don’t have to hold back. You’re my wife—you can ask for me whenever you want.” He paused, a sinister idea forming as he watched her nod innocently, her eyes pleading.

But before he could act on it, Khushi surprised him. Her hand reached for his, fingers curling around his wrist, urging him to continue.

It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. She had never done this before—never taken control, never asked for more than he gave. The realization hit him like a wave, and his heart swelled with pride and desire.

He hesitated for a moment, then pulled his hand away, teasing her. The absence of his touch was unbearable, and a frustrated groan escaped her lips. She squirmed, her body arching toward him, every movement screaming her need.

In a swift motion, Arnav removed his belt, letting his pants and boxers fall to his knees. He never broke eye contact with her, his gaze locked on hers as he stood between her legs.

“Khushi,” he said, his voice low and dripping with mischief, “let me teach you something important today.” He reached for her hand, guiding her fingers to her clit with a deliberate slowness. “Like this,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear as he showed her how to rub herself with just the right pressure.

“Arnav—ahh!” she gasped as pleasure shot through her. But before she could fully lose herself, his hands were gone, leaving her trembling and desperate. Her eyes flew to his, wide with frustration, only to find him smirking down at her, his hand now wrapped around his length, stroking himself slowly.

“You have no idea,” he said, his voice rough and strained, “how many times I’ve had to do this because of you, Khushi.”

She was too far gone to question his words, her mind clouded by lust. The sight of him touching himself was driving her wild, her arousal pooling beneath her.

“Take your kurta off for me, baby,” he coaxed, his free hand gently rubbing her thigh as he stayed hovering between her legs. “I want to see you.” His touch was tender, a contrast to the hunger in his eyes, and it spurred her into action.

She obeyed without hesitation, her movements automatic as she began to undress, her eyes never leaving his. She quickly discarded the last piece of restriction, throwing it to the side with her dupatta.

“Good girl” Arnav breathed out heavily, eyes on her swollen nubs, “fuck, no bra today? you're going to drive me crazy”. It was taking every fiber in his being to not grab her pretty tits, lick them, pinch them, squeeze them—his member twitched at the thought of the soft flesh in his mouth and he moaned.

“Lay down, I'm going to teach you to…mhm....to help yourself when I'm not here”

“What do you mean?” Khushi asked, confused  

“What you've been feeling today, it would be better if you do this, I'm going to teach you how to touch yourself when I'm not here to fuck you”

Khushi gasped at how vile his words sounded, he was still pumping himself, eyes on her as he said the most vulgar thing she's heard “A-Arnav-ji what do you mean?”

Oh, was he back to Arnav-ji now? He cocked one brow up but didn't push his desperate and confused wife. “Spread your legs and listen to me, mh…fuck, yeah just like that” he moaned at the sight of her soft folds back on display, all for him. 

Khushi was being so good, so unbearably perfect, that it took every ounce of his self-control not to lose himself in her completely. The urge to claim her, to fill her until she could think of nothing but him, burned through him like a wildfire. He wanted to erase every thought from her mind, to replace it with nothing but the sensation of him—her body full, her world reduced to the two of them. But he had to wait. He's going to be patient with her, this wasn't about him. 

His grip tightened on himself, his other hand sliding down to her sex. He gently inserted two fingers that were welcomed inside by her arousal, curling them just enough to make Khushi arch her back and throw her head back, a raw, incoherent noise escaping her lips. He pumped his fingers a few more times, drawing out the moans he loved hearing so much—before pulling away, leaving her trembling for more.

Her head snapped up again, now a mix of anger and need flashing in her eyes. “Shhh… I know,” he cooed, his voice low and soothing. “You’ll feel better soon. Just keep your eyes on me.”

He brought his fingers, glistening with her need, to his lips, sucking them slowly. A shared moan escaped them both, the taste of her driving him wild. God, he loved her taste. He loved his wife.

Switching hands, he coated himself fully with any remaining wetness left on his fingers, the slickness making his movements smoother, more urgent. His eyes locked onto hers, his mouth hanging open as he felt himself teetering on the edge.

“Mhm, fuck, Khushi,” he groaned, his voice ragged. With one final stroke, his head fell back, and he came undone. Thick ropes of release spilled from him as he kept pumping, milking every last drop, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

A low moan filled the room—and it wasn’t his. Still riding the waves of his climax, his head snapped toward Khushi. Her eyes were dark and hooded, chest rising and falling, her lips parted as if she couldn’t quite catch her breath. 

The sight of her—completely undone, her cheeks flushed, her body trembling just from watching him—sent a fresh surge of heat through him. She wasn’t just witnessing his pleasure; she was devouring it, her own desire mirroring his in a way that left him wanting more.

Arnav’s eyes darkened as he took in the sight, his seed on her skin, marking her as his. The visual alone was enough to make him hard again. “Your turn now,” he commanded, his voice low and dripping with dominance. “Touch yourself. Show me how much you need it.”

Khushi felt intoxicated, her body moving on its own as she obeyed. Her fingers found her clit, trembling slightly as she began to rub. Her eyes stayed locked on Arnav, watching as he gave himself one last, slow stroke.

“Good,” he growled, his voice heavy with approval. “Just like that Khushi. Don’t stop.”

She began circling her fingers, mimicking what Arnav always did, trying to replicate the rhythm he’d taught her. Her movements were tentative at first, but the memory of his touch guided her.

Arnav’s focus sharpened on her, his gaze heavy and unwavering as he watched her unfold. Her body trembled, her entrance clenching around nothing, a silent plea for the release she desperately needed.

Without a word, he took her other hand, guiding her fingers to where she ached, slipping two inside with a slow, deliberate precision that left her gasping.

Her fingers on her clit stilled for a moment as she gasped at the intrusion, her body trembling. “Keep touching yourself, Khushi,” he urged, his voice calm and steady. “It’ll feel better if you don’t stop.”

Khushi obeyed again, her fingers resuming their rhythm as Arnav helped her pump in and out, his hand steadying hers until she took over completely.

“Mmh—ah… Arnav,” she moaned, her hands moving with growing confidence, driving him wild with every sound that came out of her mouth and body.

“That’s it, good girl,” he soothed, his voice a mix of praise and desire. “Make yourself come for me, Khushi.” He bent down, pressing a gentle kiss to her hip, and she arched into the contact, her body responding instinctively.

“I-I’m clos—unhhh,” she whined, feeling herself reaching a high, her walls fluttering around her fingers. The sheer eroticism of Arnav watching her like this pushed her closer to her peak.

Arnav’s fingers joined hers, pressing down on her clit with deliberate pressure and speed, expertly amplifying her pleasure. “Arnaaaav—ahng,” Khushi cried out as she climaxed, her body trembling, mouth falling open in ecstasy, eyes rolling to the back of her head.

Arnav smirked, a flicker of pride lighting his eyes. Even as Khushi’s hands fell away from her sex, still dazed and breathless, Arnav kept his fingers steady on her clit, gently prolonging her orgasm with practiced precision.

Another strategic win, he thought, watching her head fall back, her body still quivering and arching under his touch.

“Good girl,” he purred, his voice low and approving. “You did so well.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “Touch yourself like this whenever you miss me, Khushi.”

Khushi was still coming down from her high, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “Am I sick, Arnav?” she asked, her voice shaky. “Why was I like this?”

Arnav waited patiently, his hand brushing a strand of hair from her face as her breathing slowly steadied. He bent down, pressing a gentle kiss to her swollen mouth, his lips lingering for a moment as if to reassure her.

“When was your last period?” he asked, his tone calm and measured, his eyes soft but searching.

Khushi hesitated, her brows furrowing. “Why?” she asked, her voice tinged with confusion. But one look at his face made her give in. “around 2 weeks ago,” she replied coyly, looking away.

“No, baby, you’re not sick,” he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. “You’re ovulating.” His hand reached for her face as he spoke, bringing her eyes back to him. His touch was warm and reassuring, an attempt to comfort her after this overwhelming experience.

“What’s that?” she asked, her voice a mix of uncertainty and curiosity.

“Well, your body is asking me to give you babies,” he said, his tone playful but laced with tenderness. He wanted her to understand her body, to feel in control of it. Already, his mind raced ahead, planning to get her a tracker to help her learn her cycle better.

“What? How could you say something so…so…ugh,” Khushi stammered, her cheeks flushing an even deeper crimson, pulling Arnav back to the present moment.

He shifted closer, his lips brushing against hers in a tender kiss. Khushi melted into him, her defenses dissolving as she became raw and unguarded again.

“Why don’t I explain your cycle to you in detail after this?” he offered against her lips.

“After what?” Khushi asked, her puzzlement evident as she searched his eyes.

In one fluid motion, Arnav moved down her body, his face hovering just above her core, his hot breath fanning against her. “This,” he drawled, his voice thick with desire, before his mouth descended on her, drinking her in.

Fuck, he had been craving this—her taste, her arousal, the way she responded to him. As he lapped up her sweetness, he couldn’t wait to show her more about anything and everything her heart desired.

author's note: part 2 is heeeereee!! dedicating it to @featheredclover <3 you gave me the push i needed to edit this lol.

i really wanted to show khushi's growth and comfort levels expanding in their relationship, where she, over time, learns to be more honest, knowing that it's finally safe to do so. we could tell as the show progressed that khushi kept concerns to herself and wasn't able to voice them like she wanted to w arnav.

i also wanted to show arnav taking on the role of a provider for her in and out of their bedroom, especially given that she was younger and inexperienced (and i'm like 99.99999% sure he was not a virgin, like c'mon now, be fr). there is a fine line between controlling and guiding, and this was my attempt to explore the latter, as the title suggests.

+ TLDR; i wanted to show khushi learning to be honest and feeling secure in the marriage; arnav helping her navigate and express her needs

+ made a teeny tiny reference to the "it's okayyy, you're my wife, it's your right" dialogue here if you caught it!

[featheredclover]

guidance (pt. 1)

summary: khushi awaits arnav's arrival from the office desperately, craving his presence in one way more than others. arnav uses the opportunity to provide her with some guidance.

genres: romance, angst, smut, fluff-ish

disclaimer: this is a one shot that centers around a mature subject but doesn't really delve into smut. part 2 may or may not .

double disclaimer: gentle reader, i'm new to this genre but wanted to explore it, hope you have fun reading~

Khushi had spent the whole day wearing herself out. Cooking up a week’s worth of food, organizing the already spotless pantry, washing clothes that didn’t need washing. She was trying to keep busy, trying to exhaust herself to the point where her brain and body would beg for rest—and rest only. 

But no matter how many tasks she piled onto her plate, her thoughts kept circling back to him. She was yearning for her husband like never before. In a way that felt wrong to her—too intense, too consuming, as if she were losing control. It was such a foreign feeling, an uncontrollable urge, an inextinguishable fire rising within her.

Ever since she’d caught sight of Arnav that morning—his damp hair clinging to his forehead, water droplets trailing down the planes of his bare chest, the low rumble of his voice as he’d said her name—her heartbeat had quickened, palms growing slick with sweat.

The feeling was so intense, so unrelenting, that she kept clenching her thighs for relief, but it was no use. Her nipples tightened painfully, a sharp, insistent reminder of the desire coursing through her veins.

Every breath felt heavier, every movement more deliberate, as if her body was betraying her with its need. The memory of him lingered, taunting her, refusing to let her focus on anything else all day.

Arnav barely glanced her way, already on a call before his first cup of coffee. His week had been a blur of deadlines, and now, with the final review of their proposals looming, even her presence seemed to fade into the background.

Usually, Arnav was attuned to Khushi’s emotions better than she was herself. He had learned to read her body, to understand the subtle shifts in her posture, the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. He knew she was still learning to trust him, still grappling with how to voice her needs—especially the physical ones. To him, it was a work in progress, a quiet mission: to get Khushi comfortable, both in her skin and under his.

And now, as she stood in the kitchen with the steel strainer in hand, she realized the only thing she’d successfully accomplished was burning her last batch of jalebis.

The sweet scent drew Anjali and Paayal to the kitchen at separate times, their concerned glances lingering as Khushi assured them everything was fine.

Truly, there wasn’t any reason for concern. It wasn’t like she had fought with Arnav that morning, and everything at home with her family was okay as well. In all honesty, Khushi herself did not know what the problem was.

All she knew was that every thought of Arnav sent a jolt through her, leaving her thighs clenched and her breath shallow, as if holding back a flood she couldn’t name.

Each minute passed by agonizingly slowly after Arnav called Khushi to let her know he was on his way home—a small but significant gesture he made every day. It was his way of telling her that, even amidst his busy schedule, he had spent his day thinking of her, his beautiful wife.

Khushi sat in the living room with the rest of the family for evening tea, her fingers fidgeting restlessly in her lap. She tried to act normal, but her thighs kept clenching and unclenching of their own accord, betraying her inner turmoil. Her body was a live wire, every nerve ending alight with anticipation.

“Khushi, are you okay? Did you and chhote fight?” Anjali whispered beside her, her eyes narrowing at Khushi’s restless hands.

“N-no, everything is fine!” Khushi stammered, snapping out of her trance. “We haven’t fought, Di,” she added, forcing a calm tone into her voice.

“If you say so,” Anjali chuckled, though her gaze lingered on Khushi for a moment longer out of concern.

Just then, the front door opened, and Khushi’s breath hitched. She couldn’t bring herself to look up at Arnav, terrified that a single glance would unravel her completely in front of everyone. She was grateful when the family’s attention shifted to Arnav and Akaash, their chatter filling the room as she tried to steady herself.

But she could feel him. His presence was always like a magnetic pull, his electrifying gaze burning into her even from across the room. Her heart raced, skin prickling with awareness.

Just a little peek won’t hurt. I’ve missed him so much today, she reasoned with herself. Cautiously, she glanced up, relieved to see everyone engrossed in conversation. Her eyes trailed up Arnav’s form slowly, taking him in bit by bit.

The way his slacks hung on his hips sent a jolt of heat through her stomach. His waistcoat cinched his defined waist, accentuating the broad expanse of his chest. Her gaze lingered on his wide shoulders, the fabric of his shirt clinging to his muscles in a way that made her mouth go dry. The same muscular arms she clung to when he—

She gasped, cutting off the train of thought, her cheeks flaming. What is wrong with me? she scolded herself, but her eyes betrayed her, drifting shamelessly to his lips. A blush crept up her neck as she fought to push down the thoughts threatening to surface.

Her eyes darted further up before she could stop herself—and she instantly regretted it. Arnav was staring straight at her, his gaze unreadable but intense. That single look was enough to send her spiralling. Her thighs clenched involuntarily, and she shot to her feet.

“I-I have to, umm, clean up something upstairs,” she announced abruptly, avoiding his eyes as she made a beeline for the stairs. She could feel his gaze on her as she fled, her heart pounding in her ears.

Once she reached the stairs, she broke into a run, sprinting up to their room. Her body was on fire, every nerve alight with a need she couldn’t name. It felt like an unquenchable thirst, a hunger that gnawed at her from the inside.

She burst into their room, slamming the door behind her, and leaned on the cool glass of the sliding doors opposite to the pool, gasping for air.

Her entire body was ablaze, her mouth dry, her heart racing wildly. The emptiness between her thighs was unbearable, and the ache only grew worse as she clenched them together. Her nipples were so hard they hurt, and she worried they were visible through her dupatta, which she hastily pulled lower.

Her forehead found the cool glass of the door, and she gasped at the relief it brought. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. What is happening to me? she thought, her mind spinning. What is this?

She was so consumed by her thoughts, that she didn’t notice Arnav entering the room. His footsteps, usually so deliberate and impossible to ignore, were drowned out by the pounding of her heart and the rush of blood in her ears. By the time she sensed his presence, it was too late—he was already there, closer than she’d expected, his warmth radiating toward her like a magnet.

“Khushi? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” His voice was laced with concern as he took in her disheveled state.

Khushi let out a startled yelp, as she pressed herself closer to the glass. He grabbed her arm gently, turning her around to face him, his touch leaving a trail of fire on her skin. She gasped, her body reacting instantly to his proximity.

A familiar wetness pooled between her thighs at his mere touch, and her face twisted in frustration, worrying Arnav even more. “Khushi? Look at me, please. What happened? Did someone say something to you?” His voice was soft but urgent, his eyes searching hers.

He had noticed her the moment he entered Shantivan. There was an unfamiliar heat in her eyes, a tension in her body that sent a thrill through him. And when her gaze had trailed up his form downstairs, it had taken all his self-control not to react.

“I don’t know what’s happening, Arnav,” she breathed out, her voice trembling. “I-I think something’s wrong with me.”

Arnav’s brows furrowed. Did she just call him Arnav? Not Arnav-ji? His mind raced as he took in her flushed cheeks, her rapid breathing, the way her body seemed to hum with restless energy.

“Okay, what’s going on Khushi? You’re burning up—it might be a fever,” he murmured, half to himself as he stepped closer. His hands reached out instinctively, pulling her into a comforting embrace.

As soon as their bodies touched, Khushi let out a soft groan, her sensitive peaks hardening even more against his chest. Arnav’s breath hitched at the contact, his own body responding to hers.

It was then that the pieces clicked into place—her erratic breathing, her feverish skin, the blush creeping down her neck.

Khushi wasn’t sick. She was aroused.

author's note: AAAND scene~

part 2 is in the works 👩‍🍳 still figuring out my writing schedule and frequency. i wanted my first work here to be soft and fluffy (more of that to come, i promise!) but i finished writing this first so here she is in her glory.

[featheredclover]

The Case of the Reluctant Romantic

Arnav Swami prided himself on being a man of logic. A man of practical investments. A man who did not believe in unnecessary nonsense.

Which is precisely why he did not believe in Valentine’s Day.

He did not see the charm in overpriced chocolates, heart-shaped balloons, or, God forbid, giant teddy bears that took up too much space and contributed nothing to society.

No, thank you very much.

Until, of course, Khushiji happened.

And Khushiji… had a twisted understanding of the day.

"Swami Ji," she had announced one fine afternoon, dramatically throwing herself into the chair across from him, "Valentine’s Day is not about love.”

Arnav raised an eyebrow.

She leaned forward conspiratorially. "It is about strategy.”

He blinked. "...Come again?"

Khushiji clasped her hands like a seasoned war general. “Think about it, Swami Ji. If people are encouraged to celebrate love, then they will want to continue that celebration later.”

"And...?"

“And that is when I launch my Honeymoon Packages!” she declared, throwing her arms in the air. “Limited-time offers! Romantic couple stays! Heart-shaped parathas in breakfast buffets!"

Arnav stared at her. "Heart-shaped parathas?"

"Don’t interrupt my pitch,” she scolded. “We are discussing business.”

He rubbed his temples. "We?"

But somehow, against all logic, this was how, on the morning of February 14th, Arnav Swami’s respectable no-frills, no-nonsense dhaba had been overtaken by marigold flowers.

Everywhere.

Dangling from the ceiling, wrapped around the chairs, stuffed into the napkin holders…there were even three unfortunate marigolds floating in the dal makhni.

And the patrons?

The patrons were suffering.

The dhaba was unusually crowded that evening. Not because people had suddenly developed a new appreciation for romantic gestures, but because Khushiji, with her never-ending enthusiasm, had somehow convinced every hesitant customer that today was a historic event.

The first-ever Valentine’s Day Special at Arnav Swami’s dhaba.

"We must support love, Swami Ji!" she had declared, clapping her hands excitedly. "Or at least the economy!"

Which is how, by some force of nature, the usual patrons had been forced into participating.

Exhibit A: The Elderly Card Players.

These were the legends of the dhaba, four old men who spent their evenings playing cards, drinking endless cups of tea, and providing unsolicited political commentary.

Today, however, Khushiji had interrupted their intense Rummy tournament by plopping a single red rose in the middle of their game.

“For the spirit of romance,” she had said brightly.

The old men had stared at the flower. Then at each other.

Then, with a collective sigh of resignation, the oldest among them picked up the rose, ate a few petals, and resumed playing.

Because at the end of the day, what choice did they have?

Exhibit B: The Newly Married Couple.

A poor, unsuspecting couple had made the mistake of stepping into the dhaba at the wrong time.

Khushiji had immediately pounced.

"Newlyweds!" she had announced loudly, as if she were a game show host. "A perfect audience for our Valentine’s Day special!"

The couple had blinked in terror.

Within minutes, they had been seated at a table decorated with heart-shaped cutouts. A marigold garland had been placed around the groom’s neck. A candle, which Arnav was certain had been stolen from the dhaba, had been lit between them.

And before they could protest, a small bowl of kheer was placed in front of them.

"A symbol of sweetness!" Khushiji declared. "Go on, feed each other!"

The poor groom, very nervously, picked up a spoon and offered a bite to his equally terrified wife.

The moment their hands brushed, Khushiji clapped with delight.

The groom, now sweating profusely, shot Arnav a pleading look.

Arnav, who had long given up on controlling Khushiji, simply exhaled and poured himself another cup of chai.

Exhibit C: Manorama Mamiji and Her Terrified Husband.

Now, Manorama Mamiji was a frequent visitor. She had a very questionable grasp of English, an undeniable love for gossip, and a husband who existed in a constant state of polite fear.

Which is why, when Khushiji cornered Mamaji, her very scared-looking husband, with a bunch of marigolds and declared, “Go on, Mamaji! Give this to your beloved!” the poor man nearly fainted on the spot.

Mamiji, however, gasped in delight.

“Oooh-hoo-hoo, Khusiji! What a wonderphool ideaa!”

Mamaji hesitantly took the flowers. And, in an unexpected act of quiet rebellion, he did not hand them over.

Instead, very shyly, he tucked one behind his own ear.

Mamiji let out a dramatic gasp, clutching her heart.

"Oho! You naughty boy! What is this behavior, Jee?!”

The poor man turned a shade of red that should not exist in nature.

And Arnav, watching from behind the counter, exhaled. He had survived yet another day of Khushiji-induced madness.

Or so he thought.

Because later that night, after closing up, he found himself hesitating near Khushiji’s hotel.

She had worked hard today. Too hard.

And for reasons he chose not to analyze, he reached into his pocket… and pulled out a single, lonely rose.

A practical man would have just handed it to her.

Arnav Swami, however, was not a fool.

So he did the next best thing.

He placed it carefully on the hotel reception desk, not too obvious, not too hidden. Just enough.

And as he walked away, shaking his head at himself, he already knew…

No matter how foreign this day was to him…

He would probably end up frying more heart styled jalebis.

More decorations.

More heart-shaped confetti, even.

If Khushiji asked.

Of course, in support of business strategy.

Also on blog here and Wattpad here

[featheredclover]

CRIMSON SHADE

Chapter 32

Unfinished Business

So take aim and fire away

I've never been so wide awake

No, nobody but me can keep me safe.

-(song of the chapter is "On my way" by Alan Walker, Sabrina Carpenter and Farruko)

What the hell is she supposed to do now?

Her sobs have faded into silence, leaving her hollowed out, her body sagging into the passenger seat like a marionette with its strings cut as the car moves through the dark street.

The weight of the seatbelt presses against her as she draws her bare feet onto the seat, curling into herself. His coat around her is the only source of warmth as she burrows deeper into the fabric, inhaling the lingering scent, so unmistakably his.

She stays quiet, her fingers tightening around the coat's lapels as she rests her chin on her knees, making herself as small as possible.

Not to disturb him.

Any further than she already has.

He hasn't spoken. Hasn't even looked at her till his low, taut and lethal "Who did this to you?" has unraveled her.

The words sat heavy on her tongue, begging to be released, but she swallowed them down, muttering, "It's nothing." But she didn't fool anyone.

He didn't press, he didn't have to. The silence stretches, taut and unyielding, until the weight of it became unbearable. And then, despite herself, the words slipped free, hesitant at first, fragmented. But once she started, she couldn't stop, the dam breaking in sharp, uneven breaths as she spilled every detail while he listened in silence with fists clenched so tight his knuckles threatened to split.

She didn't stop, not until every last piece of it was out, until the weight of it lifted off her chest, leaving her breathless but lighter.

And now, she's regretting it.

She has witnessed rage in all its forms

-blazing, reckless anger, shouting matches that shook walls.

-violent tempers that cause fists to slam into flesh, shattering bones and egos alike.

-the quiet tremor of barely contained fury, fury laced with venomous words meant to cut deeper than any blade.

But never this.

Never a rage so quiet it feels like a ticking bomb, each second stretching unbearably, waiting for the inevitable detonation.

Never a rage so restrained it chills her skin. It doesn't scream, doesn't lash out-just lingers, cold and suffocating, like the calm before a storm that has no intention of passing.

This isn't the kind of anger that burns-it's the kind that corrodes, slow and merciless, eating away at everything in its path until nothing remains.

She glances at him, trying to breathe through the coils wrapping around her ribs as he just sits there, breathing hard through his nose, his jaw locked so tight she can hear his teeth grind.

His rage is thick in the air, not loud or explosive, but unmistakable, pressing into her skin like a phantom grip around her throat.

Her eyes trace the sharp angles of his wrist as he adjusts his grip on the wheel with a force that turns his knuckles bone-white against the dark leather. The dim glow of passing streetlights catches on the swallow inked into his skin.

Its wings frozen mid-flight.

Suspended.

Trapped in motion yet never soaring.

Just like her.

Stuck in this moment,

Caged in silence,

Unable to take flight no matter how much she wants to.

A sigh escapes her. He doesn't react.

Maybe that's the worst part.

His silence.

Fine. If he won't talk, she won't either. Let the silence stretch. Let it suffocate them both.

Outside, the world is eerily silent. The streetlights flicker, casting long, ghostly shadows on the empty road. The usual chaos of the city seems to have vanished, replaced by an unsettling stillness as if the world itself is holding its breath. And among the oppressive silence, the car moves at a pace so uncharacteristically his that her stomach twists into knots.

She has never been in a car with him before, but she knows, somehow, she just knows, this is not how he drives.

Not him. Not the ruthless, sharp-edged man who thrives on control, on power, on speed.

Something inside her twists, sharp and unexpected, the ache of it lodging itself deep in her chest.

Since the bump in the road jolted her a few feet back, drawing a quiet whimper, the speed has drastically reduced, dragging every second between them. Unbearably.

Maybe that's why his fury shimmers in waves-because he can't drive at the speed he prefers. And all because of her.

Or is it just a reflection of her own humiliation, making the air between them feel suffocating? The aftermath of the mess she made of herself, sobbing all over him.

Shame burns through her, curling deep in her gut. Just yesterday, she swore she was done with him. That she wanted nothing to do with him.

And yet, tonight, she has shattered. Utterly, violently.

And clung to him as if he were the only thing holding her together.

And now, what? What is she supposed to say?

She can't even muster the strength to curse at him. But she sure as hell can't thank him either. The limbo drains her more than anything else.

Her fingers curl into fists on her lap as she stares at the road ahead. She exhales slowly, forcing herself to steady her breathing.

She should pull herself together. Sitting in silence, drowning in shame, won't change anything.

Maybe she should just close her eyes, pretend he isn't here, or wait for him to break the silence first. Or maybe, just maybe, she should ask him the one thing that's been gnawing at her.

"Where are you taking me?" Her voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

She doesn't know if she wants an answer.

What is he supposed to do with her now? He can't possibly take her to his house, it would be a declaration of war. If her father finds out, if Mr. Jha finds out, bodies will drop like dominos in a ruthless game.

She doesn't have to wonder much longer. Because the moment the familiar house comes into view, she knows exactly what he's decided.

Her breath stutters as the car rolls onto his driveway. Something feels off. The silence is different. The main gate and garage door opens automatically.

No guards.

Huh?

She barely has time to process it before he pulls into the garage, cutting the engine with a decisive flick of his wrist.

Her fingers fumble with the seatbelt, clumsy, her limbs sluggish as if her body isn't entirely her own. The moment she shoves the door open and tries to stand, pain lashes through her like a live wire. Sharp, unforgiving, merciless. A hiss escapes before she can swallow it down.

He's there in an instant.

Before she can think, before she can protest, before she can force the words past the tight knot in her throat, she's in his arms.

"Put me down. I can walk myself," she mumbles, refusing to look at him, her eyes stubbornly fixed on the sharp line of his Adam's apple above his tie.

"Hmm. Right."

The dry acknowledgement is all the response she gets before he moves, carrying her inside with effortless ease. Her protests, weak and meaningless, are dismissed as though they hold no weight, no consequence. And though her words are weak, she feels the weight of her resistance dissolve in the heat of his proximity.

Her fingers betray her, tightening involuntarily around the fabric of his undercoat. The warmth of him seeps through, solid, unyielding, and it takes everything in her to ignore the way it steadies something deep inside her that she doesn't want to name.

"Why aren't there any guards at your gate?" The question leaves her lips on its own, still avoiding his eyes, still unwilling to meet whatever storm brewing in his gaze, afraid of what she might see...or maybe afraid of what she's hiding in her own.

She feels the shift, the subtle tension in his frame, the flicker of something unreadable just beneath the surface.

"I asked them to clear this area for a few minutes. They'll be back soon."

"Why?"

Her fingers move absently, tracing idle, meaningless patterns over the fabric stretched across his chest. She doesn't even realize she's doing it, her body moving without her, drawn to him in a way that makes no sense.

But he notices. He always notice.

The weight of his gaze presses down on her, heavy, expectant. She can feel it on her skin, a burn in her chest, but she doesn't look up. She can't.

"I don't want them to see you like this."

The words are low, rough like something raw bleeds into it and leashed with a fury that simmers just beneath the surface, restrained but barely.

She swallows, but she doesn't linger on the meaning behind them much longer. Doesn't let herself dwell on the quiet intensity in his voice, on the unspoken implications curling in the space between them. Her mind is too frayed, too exhausted, too worn thin to process anything more tonight.

Her fingers tremble against his chest, and for a moment, she considers pulling away. But she doesn't. Instead, she stays there, caught between the force of his presence and the quiet havoc that rages inside her.

His grip is firm, yet there's a quiet carefulness in the way he lowers her onto the couch in the first-floor sitting area.

Not uncertain, nor hesitant.

Just measured, controlled and precise.

And that, somehow, unsettles her more than anything else.

A blur of fur and boundless energy barrels toward her, a force of nature with no regard for restraint.

Ryuk.

The overgrown ball of excitement launches himself at her, all clumsy limbs and unfiltered joy, ready to smother her with bear-like affection. But before he can, a firm hand catches his collar, halting his momentum with effortless control.

"Easy. Sit."

Ryuk whines in protest but obeys, his tail thumping against the floor with barely contained impatience, his bright eyes fixed on her, waiting. Expecting.

Her throat tightens unexpectedly.

At least, for once, someone in this world is happy with just her presence.

She reaches out, and Ryuk inches closer, sensing the shift in her. He rests his massive head on her lap, warm and solid.

She strokes his fur in slow, absent motions, finding strange comfort in the simple act. The steady rise and fall of his breaths, the soft weight of him against her, the silent understanding in his eyes. No questions. No expectations. Just presence.

The man looming above them lingers for a moment, watching. His gaze is unreadable, heavy in a way she refuses to acknowledge.

And then, without a word, he turns and disappears into the house, leaving her alone with Ryuk.

A few moments later, the sound of water running from the taps echoes through the still house, followed by the sharp slam of a door and curses muttered under breath.

She watches from the corner of her eye as he exits the guestroom she stayed in the other night, before disappearing into his own room after a moment.

Then silence.

Sighing, she walks toward the guest bedroom, her shoulders slumped beneath the weight of the night. Each step is slow and heavy. The exhaustion isn't just physical, it sits deep in her bones.

Ryuk follows her all the way, his heavy paws making soft thuds against the floor. He trots over to the bed, unbothered, and with the kind of entitlement only he can manage, leaps onto the mattress. Settling into the pillows without hesitation and curls into a ball.

She lingers in the doorway, eyes tracing the rise and fall of his breathing. With Ryuk here, the room feels less like a place that doesn't belong to her.

But her thoughts drift elsewhere.

Is he angry at her for coming to him like that?

Was he busy? Somewhere, doing something important before she threw herself into his arms?

And now-now he can neither ask her to go nor ask her to stay?

But?

Arnav Singh Raizada isn't the kind of man to do something simply because it's the gentlemanly thing to do. If he didn't want her here, he would tell her to her face. Cold, sharp, utterly bland.

He isn't someone anyone forces into doing what he doesn't want.

At least, he hasn't turned her away.

She doesn't know if she could have borne the humiliation of that on top of everything else that had unraveled tonight.

A faint glow of the bathroom catches her attention. The door is open, the light spilling into the dimly lit bedroom.

She steps closer, peeking inside. She's been in this bathroom before. So there's nothing new for her to see.

The cream tiles are a soothing sight for her sore eyes, as her gaze drifts to the most prominent feature of the bathroom.

The massive tub, which is now almost calling to her, with steam curling from a freshly drawn bath.

Two neatly folded towels are kept on a stand beside the tug along with a large black T-shirt and a drawstring pant. Not the ones she wore last time. These are different. Larger than the previous.

She glances back at the bed, where Ryuk is sprawled out, oblivious to the worries of the world.

The sheets are fresh, tucked in with precise folds. A neatly folded duvet rests at the foot, its corners aligned, as if someone had carefully placed it there, prepared but unused. The quiet order of it all feels deliberate, neither inviting nor dismissive, simply waiting.

It's the duvet's colour that catches her attention. A deep purple, just like in her room. Different from the last night she spent in this room when it was navy blue.

Was it a routine change, or had someone deliberately chosen this?

She stands frozen, her vision blurring as sudden tears sting the backs of her eyes.

Her battered, confused, and aching heart can't make sense of this man, nor can it decipher whether his actions are deliberate or merely coincidence.

He has no reason to care. She is the daughter of his enemy. He has already taken what he wanted from her. He should be over this. Over her.

Shouldn't he?

Pursing her lips, she steps into the bathroom, stripping off her pyjamas and underwear in swift, detached motions. The fabric pools at her feet, forgotten as she turns sideways, catching her reflection in the mirror above the sink.

Blue and purple bruises weave across her torso, a tapestry of neglect, whispers of every unspoken word, every silent punishment endured. They scatter across her skin like the dying stars, fading but never gone, the remnants of an unloved soul.

Love has always eluded her, slipping through her fingers like water.

She was never enough for it.

Perhaps she never would be.

She squeezes her eyes shut as if she could banish the weight of that truth and dips a toe into the bath. The water is perfectly warm, a quiet invitation, a rare kindness. Gripping the edges of the tub, she lowers herself in, inch by inch, until the heat cradles her weary body.

A soft groan escapes her lips as she sinks further, the heat wrapping around her aching muscles, seeping into her skin.

Tears of relief slide down her cheeks, dissolving into the steam. The exhaustion and the sorrow both melt away, carried into the rising mist.

She lets the silence of the bathroom wrap around her, muffling the noise in her mind, drowning out the world beyond these four walls.

The weight of the night still clings to her bones, but for the first time in hours, she can breathe.

She closes her eyes, merging the curve of her jaw with the water's surface and lets herself float in the stillness. She lets herself be swallowed by the quiet and forgets everything that haunts her.

Just for this moment. Just for now.

For a brief moment, everything fades, the pain, the confusion, the memories. Only the gentle rise and fall of her breath remains, mingling with the ripple of water.

And in this fragile pause, she dares, however foolishly, to believe that maybe, just maybe, she could be something more than broken.

But even in the silence, her thoughts press in like an unrelenting tide.

Her father never raised a hand on her. But his cruelty was always quieter, sharper than any fist, a slow, insidious poison that seeps into her bones, which has ultimately banished her from her own house.

And now, she is here, in this house that belongs to a man she should fear. A man who has torn apart the control she fought so hard to keep, who has undone her defences with nothing but his presence. Yet, wrapped in warmth that isn't hers, surrounded by a care she cannot understand, a dangerous warmth stirs within her.

Safe.

The word drifts through her mind, unbidden, curling around her heart like a whisper of treachery. It's a dangerous feeling, insidious in its quiet promise.

Because, despite everything she feels safe in the house of that one man she should run far away from.

Despite everything,

She trusts that one man she shouldn't.

A man who can take advantage of the situation.

She grips the edge of the tub, her nails digging into the cool granite as she exhales sharply, forcing the thought aside. Later. She'll deal with it later.

For now, in this fleeting moment, she allows herself to take what little comfort remains.

As the water begins to cool, she pulls the drain, watching the last remnants of warmth swirl away, leaving her skin bare and exposed to the night air. A shiver runs through her, though she isn't sure if it's from the cold or the exhaustion clawing at her bones.

She reaches for the towel, wrapping it tightly around herself. The fabric is unfamiliar yet soft, but it does little to keep the lingering chill at bay.

Slowly she slips into the clothes left for her. His scent clings to the fabric, faint but undeniable, mingling with the clean sharpness of detergent. It wraps around her like something she shouldn't let herself want, something that feels too much like comfort. Too much like care.

The loose fit engulfs her, swallowing her whole, and yet, for the first time in what feels like forever, she doesn't feel like she's drowning.

She feels... lighter.

The bathroom door creaks open, and the dim light of the room greets her, casting long, restless shadows along the walls. But her gaze is immediately drawn to the bedside table.

A plate with a sandwich.

A glass of orange juice.

And a single, small white pill.

A lump rises in her throat as she walks over, sinking onto the bed, her fingers trembling slightly as she reaches for the sandwich, hesitating for just a moment before taking a bite.

The sweetness of the jelly melts into the rich peanut butter, and suddenly, she's starving. She devours it like she hasn't eaten in days, like this is the first real thing she's allowed herself to taste, to need.

She swallows the painkiller down with a sip of orange juice, the bitterness of the pill quickly washes away by the tangy sweetness of the juice.

By the time she pulls the covers around her, her body feels heavier, yet somehow, weightless all at once.

Ryuk nestles close, his warmth pressing against her side. She buries her fingers in his fur, holding on.

Her lashes flutter, exhaustion pulling her under. At some point, sleep takes her. A deep, consuming slumber where exhaustion outweighs thought, where the world fades just long enough for her body to surrender.

And in that hazy space between dreams and wakefulness, she feels it, light fingers ghosting across her cheek. A touch so fleeting, just barely there, yet impossible to ignore.

A featherlight brush.

At the corner of her lips.

Right where a cut mars her skin.

A pause.

Two rough words,

Spoken low in her ear.

Gravel-edged. Unmistakable.

She stirs, her mind clawing toward consciousness, grasping at the moment like sand slipping through her fingers.

But before she can fully wake before she can even begin to understand...

It's gone.

Dissolving into the depths of sleep once more.

The next time she opens her eyes, the first thing she registers is silence.

She's alone in bed. Her fur buddy has abandoned her.

Slowly, she blinks, wincing despite the dimness. The curtains are drawn, but dim light seeps through, painting the room in muted shades of grey. A dull, insistent ache hums through her ribs as she shifts. It's bearable, but a sharp reminder of the night before.

Her fingers reach instinctively toward the bedside table.

Empty.

Her brows knit together. Her phone should be there. She remembers placing it there.

Sliding out of bed, she moves carefully, bare feet soundless against the floor. That's when she hears it.

The low murmur of his voice.

Deep, husky, steady.

She doesn't need to see him to know.

A pulse of unease slithers through her exhaustion. As does the dread.

The dread of Arnav Singh Raizada.

Dread of facing him.

Dread of seeing those caramel brown eyes.

Khushi Sen Gupta is not a woman easily scared.

She grew up in a house full of snakes and learned to recognize their hiss before she even learned to walk. And she never feared them. Not when she saw their guns. Not when she saw the mayhem they were capable of with her own young eyes. Not when the bright colour of blood splattered across the pristine white walls, only to be scrubbed away and covered before the day was over.

But him...

She is scared of him. More today than ever before.

Right now, he is the most terrifying man in her world. More than her father. More than death itself. And yet, he's also the only person she trusts with her life.

And that's the real danger, isn't it? Because despite the fear, he makes her want things she shouldn't. Things that feel reckless. Things that feel like a betrayal of everything she's built within herself to survive.

It would be easier if he were just another monster. If she could hate him, fear him, keep her distance.

But she's standing on the edge, and she knows, deep down, that falling for Arnav Singh Raizada might just be a death sentence in its own right.

A punishment, slow and inescapable.

And fuck, if she isn't falling.

Hard.

She straightens her shoulder. Khushi Sen Gupta is not a woman easily scared.

She follows his voice, moving carefully with stiff muscles.

His steady, controlled voice is mixed with another exasperated one.

Aman?

"Keeping her here is a risk," Aman's voice is edged with warning. "You know that, right?"

"Hmm." The other voice replies in an impassive tone.

"You aren't seriously thinking of keeping her here, are you?" Aman's voice turns low, edged with unease now. "We can make another arrangement."

"I've already made arrangements,"

he replies, barely lifting his gaze from his phone, as if they're discussing the weather. His finger traces slow circles around the rim of his coffee cup, the motion almost languid, like he's got all the time in the world.

"The mayhem it will create if the Serpents find out.....if Mr. Rathore finds out...." Aman's voice getting even more exasperated with each passing moment.

A pause.

"They won't." His response is maddeningly nonchalant as if the thought doesn't even warrant concern.

A phone call interrupts their conversation. Aman exhales sharply, frustration bleeding into the breath. But he stills when his gaze lands on her.

She stiffens.

She can't look that bad, can she?

"Hey."

"Hi," Her voice is rough and uncertain as she steps further into the kitchen.

Her gaze shifts past Aman to the man perched on a kitchen barstool, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in a smooth, fluid, business-like voice in a foreign language....what is it?...Arabic?

But his eyes are on her.

Unblinking. Assessing.

She looks away.

Aman clears his throat. "Haven't seen you in the office for a while. How've you been?"

Her lips part, then press together. The air thickens, heavy with something unspoken.

"I don't work there anymore." She forces the words out, crossing her arms. "I completed the assignment. Found the hacker."

Aman's brows shoot to his hairline. He glances between her and the man who is now occupied with a second phone on the counter, his fingers moving over the screen, while still talking on the other phone.

"Oh, I see," Aman says slowly.

Silence.

Uneasy. Stifling.

She shifts, fingers curling and uncurling at her sides, unsure what to do with them. Aman bids her a quick farewell and moves swiftly down the stairs. "See you around, Khushi. Take care."

She nods, ready to retreat, ready to disappear back into the guest room when something stops her cold.

Her phone.

He's looking at his phone.

Her breath leaves her lungs in a sharp rush.

A slow, simmering anger curls in her gut, cutting through the exhaustion like a blade.

Her feet move before she can think. She storms toward him, snatching the device from his grasp. He doesn't stop her, doesn't even blink, just disconnects the call with an infuriating laziness, his gaze never wavering.

"That's my phone." Her voice trembles, a razor's edge between fury and disbelief. "How dare you?"

"Checking if you still know how to look at me," His words catch her off guard. Oh, he's noticed.

Her pulse thrums wildly in her chest, as his caramel-brown orbs lock with her hazel ones...and it all crashes into her at once...the previous night... her crying on his lap, the car ride, the bath, the duvet, the sandwich, his voice in her ears....He's been here. In her room. Watching her sleep

She can feel her glare softens as his lips curls at the edges, before adding smoothly, "And by the way, good morning to you too."

She slumps down onto another barstool opposite him. "You've given me shelter, doesn't mean that you can look into my phone," she says looking anywhere but at him.

"Mr. Gupta has launched a witch hunt to find you." His tone remains maddeningly calm, unaffected by the restlessness brewing in her chest. "I couldn't risk your phone leading them here."

Her grip tightens around the device. Her stomach knots as her eyes connect with his, again.

"My phone is untraceable."

"Hmmm." His lips quirk in a side. "Well, not that untraceable. I did trace it. But you did a good job."

Of course, you did, she mutters in her head, Not everyone’s a super-hacker like you.

A beat. "Hungry?"

She blinks, thrown off by the casual shift, "What?"

"I meant breakfast," he says it like a secret joke, making crimson to bloom on her skin.

Insufferable Asshole.

The faint sizzle of eggs fills the silence while the aroma of freshly brewed coffee curls in the air.

And she watches him, rather intently move about the kitchen with the natural grace of an apex predator, lithe, controlled and certain of his victory.

The jacket of his suit hangs off a chair while he owns the space with his crisp, immaculately tailored white shirt stretched taut across his broad shoulders, loosened tie, and sleeves rolled up, exposing his corded forearms etched with ink and carved with strength.

Every subtle shift makes the ink ripple as he moves the frying pan with one hand and sprinkles in seasonings with the other.

Heat blooms to her cheeks.

Because now she knows.

Knows how he feels in between her thighs,

Knows how he fills her, stretches her, how he moves inside her.

Knows how his breath hitches when she digs her nails into his skin,

Knows how his jaw tightenes when her inside clenches around him.

Knows how he looks like when he comes.

And the hunger grows, looks like she's hungry for more than one thing.

Her gaze flicks to her phone.

12 PM.

She's slept for hours.

"Why didn't you wake me up?!"

"Why should I?" he replies casually.

Her gaze moves back to him again, like a magnet. She watches transfixed to the way his back muscles flex with each lazy, practiced flip of the omelette and her fingers itch to feel them under their tips.

She watches his fingers working the spatula with infuriating skill and feels the ghost of them tracing down her spine. Her eyes move lower and land on his ass, that taut, firm ass and wonders what it'd feel like under her teeth.

She shifts on the stool, uncomfortable, her bruised body still aching from the night before.

Yes, he is the most terrifying creature in the mortal world, that makes her not to care about anything and everything except him and the heat she creates in her.

Something seriously wrong with you, Khushi. Not one day ago, you've fucked him in your desk. Recklessly. Your body shouldn't be reacting like this....not so soon. Come on.

Her teeth grind together as she swallows the frustration clawing up her throat. "Why aren't you at work?"

At least then, she could have a moment of peace. Some alone, Arnav-free time.

He shrugs, completely unbothered. "Ryuk was missing me. Thought I'd drop by," he says, setting an omelette and toast in front of her, along with two cups of coffee, like it's the most natural thing in the world and not a surreal moment where The great ASR is serving her breakfast and coffee.

Her jaw clenches, as she picks the fork up. She hates this. Hates the way he moves so easily in his space, how he sits across from her like this is just another morning, like her entire world hasn't just shifted the night before.

But it's also the most normal activity she's done since then. Sitting in a kitchen bar, eating breakfast.

She stares at the omelette and toast, then at the two cups of coffee. He has made one for her too.

Like it's second nature.

Like he's done this before.

For whom else?

Her grip tightens around the fork. She's sure he has a plethora of beautiful women to serve breakfast and morning coffee to-after a wild romp the night before.

She huffs. She's just woman at his table. Another morning before he moves on, unbothered, unaffected, and she'll do the same.

Her gaze flicks to his figure once more. Calm. Unbothered. He doesn’t understand. No one does. How could they? How could he? To him, this might be just another morning, another moment. But to her, it feels like too much too fast. He doesn’t know the way her heart races when he’s near, or how her thoughts scatter into chaos when his eyes meet hers, like fire and ice colliding.

She needs to leave before all of these consume her, before he consumes her.

And there’s no return.

She has to leave...and soon.

No more of this. No more of him.

"I'll be out of your hair as soon as possible. Just let me-"

Shit.

She doesn't have money. Heck, she doesn't even have clothes.

She needs money. Just enough to get away. But where would she go?

Going abroad isn't an option. Not now.

"Where's my car?"

"In the garage," he answers sipping his coffee, while typing away God-knows-what on his phone. "And it's confiscated."

Her eyes narrow. "Give it back."

"Why?"

She doesn't answer, just keeps eating in silence, chewing more aggressively than necessary. Is it because he made it? Is that why it tastes so damn good? It shouldn't. An omelette shouldn't taste this good.

"Where do you plan to go?"

"Away," she mumbles in between bites while her brain comes up with millions of escape plans.

His reply is instant. Flat. Unshakable. "You won't even make it past the next police checkpoint."

Of course.

Her father doesn't make empty threats.

"Mr. Gupta has your photo in every airport, every police checkpoint. Your ID is already flagged," he continues, his voice infuriatingly impassive, as if he's narrating the stock market. "He's planning to lock down your bank accounts-not that there's much to freeze. He's found your fake ID. And the cash you stashed under your bed?"

Her breath falters.

But she forces herself to keep breathing.

Anyways, she's expected these.

"But all of these are happening under the radar," he finishes with a look, making it clear why she needs to tread carefully.

She knows why her father is keeping things discreet. This is the perfect opportunity for enemies to strike. If the Serpents can't even control their own daughter, how can they command respect from the rest?

And it's not like they only have one enemy. The Eagles are just the loudest.

The omelette sits heavily in her stomach. Sighing, she gathers the plates and walks toward the sink. It's only fair she washes the dishes

"And you know all of this how?" She scrubs the plates with unnecessary force, her frustration pouring onto the poor porcelain. "You have spies in the Serpents or something?"

Online intel-fine, he can probably access that with a tap of his finger. But the rest?

Silence.

That makes her pause.

Carefully, she sets the plate on the rack before turning to face him.

One brow rises..she wants to arch just one....like he does, but both betray her. Still, she holds his gaze, daring him to answer.

But he doesn't. He just looks at her.

She can't read his expression, but she can read his eyes. And what she sees makes her throat tighten, heat licking at her skin.

Then, finally, he speaks, "Where don't I?"

A taunting glint sparks in his gaze, sharp and knowing as amusement curls at the edges like smoke.

Then, with a slow, lazy smirk, he adds,

"I am the devil, after all."

Of course.

He's seen her phone. Knows exactly what she's saved his number as.

Good for him.

He steps closer, placing his cup in the sink. At the same time, his body cages hers against the counter, leaving no space to escape.

Her fingers clutch the hem of the t-shirt she's wearing, a futile attempt to shield herself.

Leaning in, he murmurs, "Besides, you can't leave. We have unfinished business."

Her heart slams violently against her ribs.

"We don't. The business between us regarding TheShadowMonster is done." She breathes the words out, her voice a soft tremor while her eyes dance in between his, trapped in those dark abysses.

She knows exactly what he means by business... and it's not that. But she refuses to entertain the thought. No. Nada.

His lips curve, dark amusement flickering in his gaze. "I was talking about our business," he whispers, each word deliberately slow, teasing her as it tightens the knot in her chest.

Her breathing hitches, and her throat goes dry. She gulps, licking her lips, trying to steady herself before speaking. The words are firm in her mind, yet when they leave her mouth, they're little more than a whimper, a soft plea wrapped in defiance.

"We are done as well."

But...they are not.

She's supposed to...

She's supposed to be done with him. But with every inch of his presence, every breath he steals from her, it feels like she's failing.

She's supposed to get him out of her system. But here he is, looking at her like he wants to devour her all over again.

And worse...she might let him.

Again.

God, they are nowhere near being done.

Her mind screams to shut him out, to lock herself in the guest room, to put as much distance between them as possible.

But her body isn't moving.

She's caught. Caught in the piercing depth of his caramel-brown eyes, in the heat of his gaze, in the silent, suffocating pull between them. And she doesn't know how to break free.

She forces herself to straighten, forces her voice to stay even.

"Thank you for the meal, Mr. Raizada."

The words are polite, dismissive, everything she's trying to be. But they hang in the air between them, as fragile as her pulse thrumming in her ear.

And...

He doesn't say a word.

Just tilts his head slightly.

It's nothing.

Just a fraction of movement.

Barely anything at all.

And yet, it shatters her.

A raw, unexplainable panic grips her chest, And for a second, her heart forgets how to beat.

Then, with quiet, stubborn resolve, it kickstarts again and before she even realizes what she's doing, she slips past him, turns on her heel and walks out. Fast. Too fast.

She doesn't care if it's obvious. Doesn't care if he sees it for exactly what it is. She just needs to get away.

Reaching the guestroom, she presses her back against the door, breath shuddering past her trembling lips as she struggles to steady herself.

Why is she letting him get to her like this when she's spent years perfecting the art of indifference?

Her fingers quietly lock the door before crossing the room in a daze, sinking onto the edge of the bed. Her gaze fixes on the floor, unseeing.

She can't stay here anymore.

She should've turned around from him a long time ago. Should've resist the temptation of him a long time ago.

Because now she knows, knows with an

unbearable certainty that...

He's not out of her system

Not even close

If anything, he's burrowing deeper, sinking into her like ink on skin, like poison in the bloodstream.

And that?

That is far more scarier than any impending mob war her presence could cause between the eagles and the serpents.

Author's note:

Long time, no see.

Did you miss me?

<previous> | <next>

@featheredclover @arshifiesta @phuljari @bigfatreader

[featheredclover]

CRIMSON SHADE

Chapter 28

Crazy In Love

Disclaimer: Here it is. The most awaited chapter! Make sure you’re all set with the essentials: coffee, crackers, your favorite drinks, and your significant others. 😉

Extreme condolences for the single souls. 🫣Let’s dive in!

18+, Mature Content.

Your love's

Got me looking so crazy right now.

- (the song of the chapter is 'Crazy In Love' by Beyonce.)

Heartbeats.

Heartbeats throb in her ears as she feels his stare on her, writing his name on her skin. Blood rushes through her body, fueling the heat, his stare kindling it higher and higher.

Each cell of her body speaks of desire, boundless and unguarded, as the silence stretches like the calm before the storm.

Her eyes meet his, with a glare as cold as steel, a futile effort to tame fire with ice.

She swipes everything off her desk. Jewellery, makeup, perfume bottles, and books all crashing to the floor like a war cry.

''I have conditions,'' she bites out, turning her gaze back to him, his voice is steady compared to her chaotic pulse. "Don't ruin my makeup. I have a function to attend."

She watches as his eyes narrow, darkening to something feral, her words adding fuel to an already raging flame.

His lips are pressed into a thin line. Her eyes trace their shape, her own growing heavy with the ache to feel them against her, to taste them, to sink her teeth into them.

But this is a one-time thing.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

No need to complicate things any further.

"And keep your mouth away from mine," she adds, tilting her chin, a brittle calm masking the storm underneath.

Supporting herself with her hand, she perches on the edge of the now-cleared desk. She hikes up her lehenga just enough to expose the smooth curve of her thighs. ''This is what you want, right?" A tremor lingers under her sharp words. "Get it over with then."

He studies her with those damn eyes of his, the infuriating calm in them trying to hide the flame beneath while he moves toward her.

His hands land on her bare thighs, heavy and calloused, chasing all the air out of her lungs. She clenches her teeth, she can look as controlled as he is.

The heat of his fingers trails upward, gathering the fabric of her lehenga as they go. The roughness of her palm sends a ripple of heat through her flesh.

With a sharp tug, He jerks her forward, forcing her legs to part as he steps between them, his body fitting seamlessly between her legs. She succeeds in containing a gasp, her hands instinctively clutching the edge of the desk.

"Is it only me who wants it, hmm?" He asks, leaning toward her as his nose nudges her chin upwards. His voice is a low dangerous hum, sinking into her like a drug.

"Clearly not as much as you do," her breathy voice is foreign to her own ear.

She can feel his smirk on her skin as his lips ghost over her chin, trailing to her ear before descending to the curve of her neck, causing her head to lull backwards. The rough scrape of his stubble against her sensitive skin leaves goosebumps on its path.

Oh God.

"Ah... I see." His teeth sink into the delicate flesh of her neck. A punishment. The sharp string is soothed immediately by his tongue. She shudders, heat pooling low in her belly.

"Then why..., "he drawls, dark and sinful, as he presses his next words into her ear, "....are you so wet for me, huh?"

His hand glides to the apex of her thighs, tracing her underwear over her throbbing core, the fabric already damp. A quick single snap, and it tears in his hand as if it were nothing. A gasp finally escapes her lips, before she can stop it.

"You are already dripping..." His fingers slide along her slick fold, teasing, but never quite giving her what she wants. "And I've barely even touched you..."

Her breath comes in shallow, uneven pants as she bites down on her bottom lip, refusing him the satisfaction of a reply.

Oh God, what was she thinking? She won't survive him.

"Your mouth says one thing", he chuckles, the sound low and dangerous, "but your body? Your body tells a different story.'' His tone is taunting, every word dripping with wicked amusement. "No need to lie, Khushi. You hate liars, remember."

Ahh...and...I hate you. You arrogant, insufferable, self-absorbed asshole.

His eyes lock onto hers, watching her pride warring with her treacherous body in her hazels. The smirk curling at the corner of his lips tells her she has said it aloud. His dark eyes alight with triumph. Dangerous, knowing and smug, a predator savouring his victory.

"For someone who hates me," he rasps, dragging her closer with another rough tug, her bottom barely balances on the edge of the desk, "you're awfully eager."

A deep moan slips past her lips as he presses his arousal firmly against her aching core, undeniable, solid and heavy. "Hate me all you want," his tone shifting to something darker, more primal, "but you'll love every second of the way I'm going to fuck you."

Her eyes flutter close as his words sink in along with the deliberate and maddeningly precise pressure in her groin, fanning the heat pooling between her thigh.

This is madness, her mind whispers. But her body shushes her mind. No, it's heaven, it purrs, basking in the heat of his body.

Her hips begin to move against his, instinctively matching his slow, torturous grind. Layers of fabric do little to dull the fire coursing between them. Her hands let go of the desk clutching the fabric of his undercoat.

His lips, warm and wet, hold her neck prisoner, sucking and grazing along the sensitive skin. His lips descend further, leaving a trail of searing heat in their path. Reaching her collarbone, his teeth graze her skin, striking a match to the gasoline of her veins.

She can vaguely feel his fingers tugging at the strings of her blouse before another wave of fire engulfs her. His hand, unapologetic and shameless, slips beneath the fabric, seeking her bare skin. His rough palm kneads her breast, thumb circling and pinching her hardened nipple, teasing her mercilessly.

With a deft pull, he solves her blouse away sliding it down her arms along with her bra and the dupatta, baring the soft skin of her chest to his hungry gaze.

The cool air barely brushes her skin before his mouth is on her, and she's lost in the frenzy of teeth and tongue.

His mouth is fire and fury, heaven and hell as they descend upon her flesh. The soft touch of his tongue unravels her as his lips close around her nipple and suck lightly before his teeth sink in. A sharp cry and he immediately soothes the ache with the languid stroke of his tongue, like he has all the time in the world to savour her.

His lips and the brush of his stubble against her skin turn the blood of her veins into liquid lava, making her weak in her knees even though she isn't standing

Her hands find their way into his dark hair, tangling in the thick strands as he feasts on her, devouring every inch of her skin offered to him.

She can almost taste the release she craves, the pleasure simmering just out of reach. He senses it too, his hand tightening on her breast as his mouth trails up to her ear.

"You'll come," he whispers hotly, voice impossibly rough, "but not until my cock is buried deep inside your beautiful pussy, Khushi. Not before that."

And why the fuck should she listen to him? But her body does. That bitch locks down, refusing to give her the satisfaction of letting go. She huffs in frustration, her pulse spiking in fury.

He steps back, prying her clutching fingers from his hair. She watches him with drunken, hooded eyes. The front of his trousers bulges out, unashamed and unapologetic, the fabric taut with his desire. She quickly averts her gaze when she sees him watching her, feeling the heat rising in her cheeks despite her current carnal position. Then she remembers.

''You have a condom, don't you? Don't think of getting anywhere near me without one.''

He just smirks causing her to blush even more. Without a word, he pulls a foil packet from his wallet, tossing it onto the desk.

The caramel-browns tangle with her hazels as the sound of zippers being pulled down fills the silence. She doesn't look down, neither does he.

One of his dark eyebrows arches, a silent challenge in his gaze. Her eyes narrow. Letting her pride get the better of her, she lets her gaze drop.

She bites her lips to stop the whimper as her eyes stop on his thick hardness. She watches, transfixed as his hand moves up and down along his length in an almost hypnotic move. Her palm itches to do the same, and without further thought, she reaches for him.

A rough rumble resounds in his chest, half-groan, half-growl as her hand wraps around him.

She has nothing to compare him to, not really. She's never seen one up close and personal or just for real, but he's seriously indescribable.

He feels heavy in her palm, bigger than her hand, bigger than she can grasp all at once, and her walls clench on air, hungry to be fed.

She feels him kissing the side of her head as he removes her hand from him. He tears the foil wrapper with his teeth and her breaths comes out in soft pants completely beyond her control now.

The first brush of him against her arching core sends her spinning as he coats his shaft in her wetness.

Too hard.

Too hot.

Too overwhelming.

One of his hands goes to the back of her neck while the other to her waist before murmuring, "You are so beautiful like this...so ready for me... completely mine."

His caramel-browns hold hers captive as they share the same breath, so close to feeling his warm breath caressing her face, flirting with her lips.

"You need to stop calling me yours. You can have me for this one time. But I'll never be yours," her words barely comprehensible.

"Never, huh?" He just chuckles, "I must warn you, I'm not familiar with that word." His length keeps gliding against her entrance but not penetrating yet. "You won't want anyone else after this. I'll make sure of it."

His words set her loins on fire, fanning the flame the longer he brushes against her. Her nails dig into the wood of the desk as her body starts to shake.

"You accept it or not, but you want to be mine too. You want to fuck me as much as I want to fuck you." he breathes out, barely pushing his tip between her swollen nether lips, making her cry out. "If not more." He says, punctuating every other word with a shallow thrust into her delicate folds.

"F-fuck.." she stammers, her pelvis raising to meet his teasing thrusts, seeking more.

"Hmm...tell me that you want me to fuck you." He dips an inch inside of her warmth, making her moan out helplessly while she inwardly curses him for having so much control and for making her so desperate in need to be a borderline maniac.

"Don't make me ask twice," one dark eyebrow arches as he whispers the words and taps her clit with the head of his cock, and he knows he has her exactly where he wants her, as her mouth hangs open in a soundless cry.

Her body arches, an offering, a surrender and a plea all at once as she utters the damned words he wishes so much to hear. "I want you to f-fuck me..."

Her face flushes red and then she can't stop a long moan from escaping her now parched lips when he drives a few inches farther into her core, her flesh all too naturally yielding to him.

"How much...." she wonders if she shouldn't just kill him now for being so mean, but her mouth seems to follow her deprived body and take a mind of its own because before she can censure herself, she's all but grunting at him.

"As much as you do...now do it... just... take me... f-fuck me already..." she glares at him before adding another clearly pissed now 'fuck me', but she hasn't even finished the last word that she finds herself fighting to take in her next breath when he rocks his hips into hers, burying himself inside her completely in one stroke.

The fire that has been simmering erupts into an inferno, consuming her completely as he claims her, stretching her to the full, marking her from the inside. Her wetness wraps around him as every ridge of his hardness drags along her sensitive flesh where no one has been ever before.

Her thighs quiver as she tries to adjust to him, and it hurts. But the hurt turns into liquid heat as he pulls out before she even feels him entirely and drives right back into her.

"Fuck.." he grits her teeth, looking down to where they're connected, every muscle in his body pulled taut. "You are so tight, little bird."

That's the first time, he calls her 'little bird' tonight.

Barely giving her a second to adjust to his size, he withdraws, then hits right back in again and again without waiting for another breath, and she has no choice but to hang on for the ride of her life.

Clench and release.

Clench and release.

His body commands and she follows.

Every inch of her hums.

Restless and impatient.

Her hands give up the impossible battle to keep her upright and her back flattens against the desk while he continues to take her. Hard, relentless, unapologetic and without mercy.

Her breasts bounce with his punishing rhythm while her breaths come faster and faster, her heart beats wilder and wilder, and she's getting wetter and wetter with every thrust.

Her mind blurs and she stops thinking about anything other than the way he's making her feel.

Wild.

Untamed.

Absolutely insatiable.

The wet sound of his body fucking hers fills the room, along with the smell of her arousal and the sinful spicy scent of his. Her fingers claw at the surface of the desk, nails scraping against the polished wood, leaving faint trails of her desperation behind.

He captures her wrists in an iron grip pinning them above her head as he leans in to give a command in his dangerously sinful voice. "Don't hurt those pretty nails. Keep them here."

One by one, he lifts her legs over his shoulders and all remaining thoughts, coherent and incoherent, scatter like leaves in a storm as her mind succumbs to the havoc he unleashes in her body.

Feeling dizzy, her eyes flutter close. She wonders whether or not his eyes will be alight with gloating triumph and his face etched with a smug smirk. But she doesn't get to see anything but stars behind her eyelids as he breaks her apart and reshapes her into something fierce, primal and raw.

His fingers wrap around her throat as he jerks her upright with a sharp tug, lowering her legs from his shoulder to wrap them around his waist.

Dark, hungry eyes meet the other dark, hungry eyes. And she moans. No, his eyes are not gloating, they are hungry, feral.

"Eyes on me, when I'm fucking you," he growls, daring her to look away while she struggles against the overwhelming pleasure to keep her eyes open.

She can feel his hunger becoming hers and hers becoming his. An endless tide ebbing and crashing between them.

It's raw, punishing, unrelenting.

Lava courses through her veins, flowing through her every nerve ending, and God forgives her, she never wants this to end.

She whimpers, her own hips rolling into his, meeting him thrust for thrust. Her eyes are intensely focused on his mouth as his teeth sink into his lower lip. She wants them to sink into hers. Desperately. The need claws at her insides, driving her to the brink of madness.

She wants to pull his head down and feel his tongue against her throbbing lips. She aches for the wet heat of his mouth, the rasp of his stubble grazing her cheek. But she can't. She can't break her own rule. Instead, she digs her nails into his shoulders.

Her toes curl as the tension in her body coils tighter and tighter. Then, all of a sudden, her muscles clamp down on him without warning.

"Fuck, you're coming already," he growls, his voice rough and feral as he pounds into her without pause, riding the wave of her orgasm.

Her head feels weightless, light exploding behind her closed eyes as the world around her dims, her vision threatening to blacken entirely.

"Shhh.... just breath, Khushi."

His voice is a dark, grounding tether and she has no choice but to gasp loudly at his command as her body trembles. A sharp mewl follows, helpless and needy as her walls keep clenching and unclenching to match his wild rhythm. So do her hands on his back.

Grasping her wrists, he bends her arms behind her back, pinning them firmly as he leans in closer, his teeth sink into her neck. "You have dangerous hands."

Her back arches, pressing her breasts flush against him. The faint snap of glass reaches her ears, her bangles shattering and cutting into her skin, Yet the sting barely registers.

She buries her face in his neck, muffling her cries against his heated skin as her body pulsates uncontrollably around him. He only fucks her harder, each thrust a declaration of possession.

Holding her wrists together in one firm grip, his other hand tangles in her hair, pulling her head back. He inhales the length of her exposed neck before stopping at her pulse point.

"You feel this?" he rasps. Punctuating the words with a punishing thrust that steals her breath. "Now say it." Another hard thrust. "Say. You. Are. Not. Mine."

Before she can answer, he hauls her up with his hands gripping her ass, lifting her effortlessly. And then he lets her fall back onto him hard, on repeat. She whimpers, biting into his shoulder as her nails rake over his back.

Her mind blanks. The friction turns unbearable and exquisite. She can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but feel his brutal thrusts shaking her to the bones.

She hasn't even recovered from the first and here she's spiralling toward another release. Almost.

And he slows down, holding her there, just on the brink of  her release. Her broken moan spills into his neck, a plea wrapped in a whimper.

"Shh.... just a little bit more," he grunts, his teeth grazing the delicate skin of her earlobe before sucking it into his mouth, drawing out another desperate gasp from her trembling lips

And then there's another sound.

No. A knock

Fuck.

Her eyes fly towards the door as his cock turns completely still inside her for the first time, throbbing with a pulse. Her walls clench tightly around him.

The knock comes again, making her blink.

And awareness comes tumbling towards her. There's a house full of people, politicians, police force, mafias, guards and she's sitting on her desk, in her room, in her father's house, getting fucked by Arnav Singh Raizada.

The enemy of her family.

Holy expletives of fucking expletives.

"Khushiji," a woman's voice. "Your father has asked you to come downstairs. The program will start soon."

She clenches her eyes shut.

Not now.

Oh God. She's close. So close.

She needs her release.

He drops her slowly back on the desk. She draws a deep breath to prepare herself to respond to the door, the motion causing her inner muscles to grip him tightly, causing a surge of heat and wetness pool around his hard cock.

And he pulls out suddenly, thrusting in just as hard.

What the..!!

Her mouth opens to release a cry, but a hand claps over her mouth, muffling the sound. Her eyes widen on his, too stunned, too bewildered.

There's a person right outside the door. Waiting for her. Is he insane?

As though in reply, he snaps his hips into her sharply by bending his knees, the angle hitting the spot inside her that made her eyes roll back into her head. Her cries are muffled against his large hand, as he supports her head with his other hand behind her neck.

The sheer strength in which he's pistoning inside her, the feral speed, the raw friction alongside the thrill of being fucked while the whole serpent is down the hall, are eccentric, electric.

He pounds into her again and again, and a roar of wildlife starts its journey from her toes, travelling up and up her legs, to where he's drilling and drilling into her, to her spine and pools where he holds her by her neck.

It's raw, forbidden, visceral.

It's heated, wild, insane.

It's basic, primitive, carnal.

It's making her scream against his hand. It's making her body shatter like glass under the weight of a thousand suns.

From the inside her body is molten fire and but in the outside her body is taut muscles, head thrown back and hip lifted off the desk, and her mouth opened in silent scream under his hand.

The knock comes again.

But he keeps moving.

In and out.

In and out.

Hitting the same magical and devastating spot inside her.

Again and again and again.

It becomes too much for her. She tries to shake her head but his hands doesn't let her move. She tries to pry his hands away but her own fingers are frozen into tight, trembling fists clutching his clothes.

He keeps moving.

And she keeps exploding.

All her whines, wails and whimpers are swallowed by his hand.

She sinks her teeth into his hand hard enough to draw blood. But he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t even flinch. His hand stays exactly where it is, unrelenting, as if daring her to try harder.

Then one punishing last thrust, and he stills, expanding inside her as he bites on her shoulder. With a shudder, he finishes inside her. Her walls quiver around him stunned by his stillness.

Their breaths mingle, ragged and

uneven, matching the erratic beats of their hearts. He takes her trembling body in his arm, slowly rubbing his hand along her bare back while softly nipping on her neck.

Her body is done, completely spent. She can't move, can't even feel her limbs. The world feels distant and unreal as if everything has narrowed to just the two of them.

She looks at him, undeniably shy, all of a sudden. Her hands rise instinctively to cover her bare chest. He steps back, the loss causing her to gasp, a soft whimper escaping her lips.

She sits on the desk for a moment to collect herself before sliding down, her hunched-up lehenga falling into place.

Her legs almost buckle, the lingering heaviness between her thighs threatening to bring her to her knees. She's sore. God, she's so sore.

She feels devoured, used, bruised and completely, utterly, totally fucked.

Her eyes catch her reflection in the mirror. She looks thoroughly ravaged. Drunken eyes, wild hair, flushed skin. Heat rises to her cheeks.

God, what was she thinking?

She has let him fuck her, completely and thoroughly.

And she has enjoyed it. Every single second. Every single kiss. Every single thrust. She didn't want him to stop. If his hand didn't muffle her mouth, she would have been screaming his name. If he didn't silenced her, she would have cried out for more, shamelessly, carnally like the wanton woman he turns her to be.

She turns around, quickly sliding her arms down the earlier discarded blouse. Her breath hitches as she feels his fingers on her back, tying the strings deftly with precision one at a time.

She feels his lips on her shoulders as he whispers, "There won't be any party tonight. "

Crinking her eyebrows, she looks at him sideways, wondering what he's talking about.

“You’re hurt,” he says softly, reaching for her hand. Only then does she notice the angry red cut on her ring finger, a thin line of blood standing stark against her skin.

She immediately tries to snatch her hand away but he holds it tightly. "Let me see."

"You should go." She says instead.

“Shh…” he hushes her, retrieving a handkerchief to carefully dab at the blood around the cut. “Where’s the first aid box?”

Obediently, she nods toward her dresser. He moves with purpose, retrieving the supplies and tending to the wound. Once the cut is cleaned, he wraps it securely with gauze.

"Why do you wear glass bangles. They keep breaking."

“Maybe they don’t like you,” she whispers, still avoiding his gaze. “They always break in your hand.”

“Your bangles are as stubborn as you.”

Another knock.

“Khushi, bitiya! Are you okay? Open the door!” It's Buaji.

His caremel-browns smile as they gaze into her hazels, thousands of words are exchanged without uttering a single one.

And then he’s gone, leaving nothing behind but a soreness in between her legs and a bandage wrapped around the ring finger of her left hand.

Author's note:

Hehe, see you soon.

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[featheredclover]

They really did eat with arnav's theme