OOPS I DID IT AGAIN.
I'm on a freaking roll here.
1.54k of I don't even know I'm so sorry people.
Not proofread as I am in a car and will be for the next bazillion days and it is freaking bumpy, not at all suitable to write stories, 0/5, would not recommend.
RAGE
(bc I'm sleepy and cant think of a better title)
Sanam is pathetically easy to break.
She is made of bones that are brittle and do not bend, that break and shatter underneath pressure or tension or weight. There are soft muscles and tissue that can be torn, that cushion veins which are easily punctured and drained. She is covered in skin that is stretched thin, that rips and shreds like muslin to scissors. Her body is a vessel easily overtaken, easily broken, and it heals slowly and tentatively and sometimes not at all.
There is strength of will in her, that can't be quantified or measured, but it is wasted in a surrounding weakness it cannot exist without.
There will be bruises forming under her eyes, deep crescents the colour of the midnight sky, and they will fade slowly achingly so, only to come back the next day. There are small ragged cuts pressing incessantly on her frail wrist- courtesy of a wayward potato peeler - a twitch away from puncturing absurdly fragile layers of skin, and the press of the blade can feel the movement of her veins, the solidity of the bones holding her together.
For all her frailty, Sanam is surprisingly strong.
The hitch of a breath in her throat, surprise and excitement, a hint of resentment, is louder in Aahil's ears than it has any right to be. The beat of his own heart is deafening, matches in time to the slow flush spreading across the back of Sanam's neck, and it sounds like war drums that are pounding their way up and down his own veins.
Whatever breeze there had been, rolling in through the open window, may as well not exist. The room is sucked dry of its chill, pushed abruptly into stifling heat, and there is air in his lungs but Aahil cannot breathe. He feels a pulse underneath his hands that might as well be his own. There is fear there- fear from the uncertain, from the unknown, fear that has no right to exist; Aahil can bruise and threaten, but it would be easier to sever a limb from his own body than to cause harm to the breakable woman in his hands.
It is the bruise on Sanam's arm shaped like the curve of fingers, that starts this all- that makes Aahil see read. Sanam is the one who is fragile, who is easy to bend and break, but it is Aahil who feels as though he is being wretched apart limb by precious limb. This mark may as well be seared into his own skin for how he feels it, for how it burns into his eyes, into his mind, and it's just a precursor to the worst of it all.
There is an aura of a smell around her that Aahil cannot place, something strong and foreign and masculine, something that is holding him tightly, clenching itself around his lungs, and it makes him choke with anger he is desperately trying to control.
"What- what are you doing?" Sanam manages, swallows thickly, and shifts underneath his grip without really trying to break away.
"What are you- I didn't do anything- I - Hai Allah, you've finally snapped, haven't you? Don't- don't kill me - you don't know Haya, she - she needs me and what about-"
Aahil's free hand slides over a warm and open mouth, tenses as though out of his control, and he growls, low, "Shut up, Sanam,"
Her eyes are wide, hands at her sides even though they twitch with the urge to move, and Aahil can hear her heart pounding-
Its impossible to leave now, its impossible to walk away with this eating him like it is, impossible to let it fester any further. He leans forward, hand flying from Sanam's mouth to grab her wrist, to pull her arm and its dark purple addition into view, and he manages to hiss, "Who did this?"
"W-what? What is your problem-"
Aahil's grip tightens before he can stop himself. "This."
Sanam pulls away, tugs at her arm, and Aahil lets her have it. She stays crowded against the door, held their by the pressure at her hip- his hand- and she looks away, looks confused and embarrassed.
"Nothing, its old. You probably didn't notice it."
It is hard to bite back a snarl; hard not to snap at that, because Sanam is not stupid enough to think a lie will work. Because the bruise stands out against her pale skin like a beacon, like a taunt from someone Aahil has never even met, and it is not old. It is fresh and dark and embraced by the scent of someone else's body, someone else's hands.
"Who," he asks, slow and tenuous, "did this?"
Sanam purses her lips, expression steeled, determined, in a way that clearly broadcasts her reluctance to say anything further. She is looking away, strangely quiet for a moment in a way that seems normally incapable for her, and it makes something churn unpleasantly in Aahil's stomach; it makes Aahil want to find the thing whose fingers fit that bruise, that makes him want to tear each and every one of those fingers out of their brittle sockets one by one.
The bruises on her knuckles are almost too pale faded to see, almost too faded to notice, but Aahil does notice. He notices the bruises there, like the impact of her fist into someone's face, and he notices the small tear at the corner of her lip disguised under pink lipstick, the imprint of fingernails underneath those finger shaped bruises, and it is all so violently fresh that it feels like an insult.
"Does it matter?" Sanam asks, flustered and still not meeting his gaze. "Its not a big deal. I took care of it- I can take care of myself, in case you haven't noticed how well I've been doing for the last twenty years. Why do you care anyway? Only you're allowed to throw me around, is that it?"
It's that comment that does it. Aahil feels his control like a single thread, being pulled tight across the room. His body feels like a live wire, tense and dangerous with barely contained anger, something indescribable boiling just underneath the surface. There's static in his head, in his ears, and he wonders if Sanam is thinking that- if she is thinking that Aahil would dare-
"If you said no," Aahil says, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw aches, and his voice gets lost in a low growl that he can't control. Words make it worse; makes it harder to keep himself focused. "I would never even think of touching you."
His heart beat the only thing he can hear in his ears, the sharp intake of her breath the only thing he feels for a long minute-
"No," Sanam manages, so tense it feels like he might snap in two, and that single word is like a punch to the face that pushes Aahil's breath out of his lungs. He removes his fingers from Sanam in sudden, jerky motions, like they're made of stone and impossible to move. He takes one step backwards and he can't unclench his jaw when Sanam reaches out, almost desperately, and grabs the front of his shirt.
"I mean, no, no I wont say that," Sanam says in a rush, free hand making several aborted gestures, and she is looking to the side, unable to meet Aahil's gaze, when she adds, "I didn't mean it like that, I know you wouldn't- I mean, I trust you, I - if it was you, if it was you then-"
And it's so close to permission that Aahil's body reacts almost out of his control. He surges forward, the intention of meeting her lips, but then stops, head moving towards the juncture of her neck and shoulder instead, and presses his cheek against supple skin and breathes.
Sanam is tense against him, hands flattening against his shirt as if to stop him, but she doesn't attempt to push him away. She doesn't attempt to do anything, - doesn't move, doesn't breathe, does nothing but stand stock still against Aahil, hands up but unmoving - and then, with a momentary twitch of hesitance, those hands curl around Aahil's t-shirt like they're grounding him.
He thinks he could find whoever had their hands on Sanam, thinks that he could find one way or another, he is Aahil Raza Ibrahim for all, and it brings him a small measure of calm. Their circumstances are moot, their intentions irrelevant; he sees the imprint of their fingers on skin that doesn't belong to them, isn't theirs to touch, and he files it away in his head- for another time, a time when he doesn't have Sanam pliant against him.
"Then say yes," Aahil says, breath ghosting down Sanam's neck, hard and fast with a nameless fear- fear that he did something wrong- that he went off script- because this didn't happen to people like him.
"Sanam-" please "say yes."
"Not you," Sanam says, voice surprisingly firm. "You don't have to ask."
And Aahil is stronger, is faster, but he finds that, when Sanam pulls him closer, when it is Sanam's mouth that presses against the weary lines of his forehead, he is also incredibly weak.
I'm so sorry people, like Jesus I am.
PMs another day, its sleepy time for me 🤣
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