Aadatein | An OS Collection

1- Marham

Hey guys,

So this OS is placed in an alternate universe aka the story that the serial follows is not followed here. I have just taken Armaan and Abhira as characters and placed them in a story of my making. 

I was getting fed up with this Ruhi nonsense so wanted to write something only on Maahira. There has been a story idea in my mind but I really don't have the time to write it completely. So I took that idea as the backstory and came up with this one shot. I may one day write the actual story so I will not be continuing this or revealing the backstory. 

This is not exactly 18+ but I would call it mature. Because it alludes to certain disturbing things in their respective pasts.

Please do share your opinions on this. 

_

"And the skeletons in both our closets

Plotted hard to f*** this up"

(Cowboy like me, Taylor Swift)

"Tune chua zakhm ko mere

Marham marham dil pe laga"

(Pehle Bhi Main, Vishal Mishra)

_

Her touch is soft, like the brush of wind against the greying leaves of autumn. It feels cool against the shivering heat of his skin, soaked in primal fear that only ever expected for a touch so intimate to be the precursor of endless hurt. He looks into her eyes, chocolate pools of warmth and empathy, glistening with tears she's held at bay even as her shaky hands caress over the planes of his chest before moving steadily upward. He sighs, his hands slowly wrapping around her bare waist and he lets it linger, caressing, soothing the ugly knots of the scar. She stiffens, eyes searching his  even as her shaking hands stop their exploration. He can see the fear in her eyes that his words and efforts still haven't been able to mitigate. He looks deep into her eyes, assurance and love, pure, raw, rising in his eyes even as he takes her hand with his own shaky one and places it on his sides. The scars are just as mottled there, years of the whip falling on the same bruised skin. She holds his gaze, her fingers placed on the scar now slowly caressing, uncertain but still gentle. He can see when her fear falters, when her tears finally slip down. He smiles at her then, his own tears falling down.

It is a stormy, windy night outside but they're oblivious, cocooned in this room only illuminated by the light of the fire in the hearth. The bed is soft and the drapes are pulled. She is on his chest, her saree and his shirt on the ground. Her blouse covered chest breathes unevenly, resting prettily against his own naked one. She begins her exploration again, brushing against the faded purples and reds on his chest. He is still shaking beneath her but his eyes hold his assent and cascading desire. Desire that isn't just the burn of passion but is also the thirst of healing. It is something she knows is mirrored in her eyes as well. Her hands reach his face, caress every contour and then brush against his lips, all in a feather's touch. 

She leans down further then, her bosom now pressed completely against his hard chest and feels his hands tightening around her waist, till her lips land on his in a kiss. She tastes like distilled apples and pecan pie and he tastes like coffee and cigarettes. The kiss starts slow, gentle till his hands move over her back and one reaches her hair, tugging lightly and she can't hold back anymore. She deepens the kiss, insistent, determined despite the quivers that rock both their bodies. The shift feels palpable in the air, his lips now move against hers frantically. 

His other hand breaks away the hook of her blouse gently before he pushes it away. The hook of her bra is next. His calloused palm moves against her velvety skin, hot and soft and she cannot muffle the sound that escapes her throat. They break the kiss then, burning for oxygen yet craving more of each other, prompting her to place her swollen lips in a wet kiss against his cheek, trailing down till she reaches the crook of his neck. The scent that is so distinctly him, hits her in that instant and she nuzzles into it, earning a moan from him. They stay like that for a moment, her lips buried in the crook of his neck, his arms running up and down her bare back, their legs entwined. The moment feels tranquil, the quivers seem to calm a bit while outside, the rain keeps pouring.

"Abhira"
he whispers her name like it's a prayer. She lifts her head and looks into his eyes, a plethora of feelings reflecting in them like specks of constellations in the night sky. 

They don't need words to communicate what they have to say. They are attuned, in a language of their own. 

She lifts up completely to shed the rest of her clothes. He does the same. 

The rhythm of the caresses and lingering touches is at a steady, heady pace. She is on the bed now while he looms over her. It is not terrifying like she thought it would be because he is Armaan, her Armaan, soft, gentle and with the same if not worse scars as hers. He will never hurt her, not when he's placed his trust in her to never hurt him. 

His lips find the path on her body that she found on his, a few moments back. He marks her as his with every kiss even though it does not leave a physical mark. 

He retraces the path back to her lips, feels her shifting and the brush leaves them both gasping.

What follows is an intimate dance, a union in its very sense. And as they move together, they finally find the solace they have been searching for, through all the pain and agony and grief. They finally find the healing they've been yearning for. 

-- the end --

Love,
Pratyusha