Love Me ...Husband (Half Smut)
bahti hwa sa tha vo ~
Me ~ yours
it's my second story
Me ~ yours
the first one is ok ok
Me ~ yours
but let's focus here,
Me ~ yours
don't leave my story half or I curse you to have A horniest man as your husband who gonna ruin your little -Ahem
I’d never seen myself blush this much — not even when Tanuj called me his sunshine for the first time. Six months… and it still felt unreal that I was marrying him.
My hands trembled slightly as the makeup artist fixed the last pin on my lehenga dupatta. The red was heavy, but it felt like a promise — his favorite color. Ma said brides glow on their wedding day; maybe that’s why my heart kept racing.
Outside, people were laughing, music echoing through the courtyard. Every sound felt like it belonged to me. To us.
Tanuj had sent a small note this morning — “Don’t be late, sunshine. I’ll be waiting by the mandap.”
I’d read it five times already.
I didn’t know the world could end with fire too.
The room smelled of roses and sandalwood. Soft shehnai drifted in from the courtyard, brushing against my heartbeat. I kept staring at my reflection, hardly recognizing the girl in red and gold. Heavy jewelry, eyes lined with kohl, a shy curve on her lips—she looked like every dream I’d ever whispered to myself.
For six months, Tanuj had been my certainty. The one who smiled through my doubts, who sent coffee on rainy mornings, who listened when I rambled. I didn’t know if it was love at first sight, but it was steady… safe. And today, it was forever.
Ma entered, eyes wet but smiling.
mahira Agrawal {Misha's mom}
“You’re glowing, Mishu.”
Misha Agrawal/Srivastava
*laughed softly* “I’m terrified.”
mahira Agrawal {Misha's mom}
“Good,”
*said, adjusting my veil*
“Every bride should be a little scared of how happy she is.”
The baraat drums began outside, echoing against the marble walls. My chest tightened. He was here. My Tanuj.
When the time came, I walked through the corridor — the scent of incense and jasmine garlands filling the air. Lights shimmered on the floor like stars had fallen just to guide me. Guests turned, smiling, phones flashing, everyone watching.
And yet, I only looked for one face — the man waiting near the mandap, his silhouette outlined by the sacred fire.
I smiled.
Every step felt like walking toward forever.
I sat beside Tanuj, our hands trembling slightly as the priest began chanting mantras. The air was thick with incense and warmth, the fire between us glowing softly. Every syllable from Pandit ji’s lips felt like a heartbeat — measured, sacred, infinite.
Tanuj glanced at me once, eyes smiling beneath the garland. I lowered mine quickly, feeling that quiet rush — the one that had lived in my chest ever since he’d held my hand during our engagement.
The priest asked us to rise for the pheras.
My bangles clinked as I stood, holding the end of Tanuj’s dupatta. The sacred cloth joined us — two colors tied together, two lives ready to circle the fire.
The first phera began — blessings for food, strength, peace. I could barely hear anything beyond my heartbeat.
The second — for harmony.
The third — for love.
Pandit ji’s voice faltered.
A hush spread.
Someone screamed.
And a fast thing cut across — just inches away from me.
I flinched, but before I could even breathe, I felt Tanuj’s grip loosen around my hand.
Finally freed...
I looked at him.
He was on the floor — a bullet in his head.
My eyes blurred out. My throat burned.
And all that came out was his name —
Misha Agrawal/Srivastava
T...TANUJ !!!!
Me ~ yours
v.. viewers....!!!
like it
marriage
Tanuj’s mother screamed first. The sound tore through the hall, piercing the drums, the mantras, the laughter that had filled the air moments ago. In seconds, everything dissolved into chaos.
Misha collapsed beside him, pulling Tanuj’s lifeless body into her arms.
Misha Agrawal/Srivastava
“W–wake up… please…”
Her voice cracked. “See, you can’t leave me like this… please…”
Tears streamed down her face, blurring the red and gold of her bridal veil into nothing but color and pain.
Then—rough hands grabbed her arm, yanking her back. She fell, stunned, as a boot struck Tanuj’s body, kicking it down from the mandap like it was nothing more than cloth and dust. Gasps filled the hall. Some tried to fight;
Others just froze in horror. But the men in black had already filled the place—faces cold, guns raised, movements precise.
he stepped forward through the smoke and screams, his presence heavy, unreadable. He leaned close, voice low and unhurried.
Neel Srivastava
“A marriage can’t take place without a groom~”
He twisted her wrist behind her back, pulling her roughly against him. Misha’s body was limp, trembling, her mind refusing to catch up with what her eyes were seeing. He wiped the tears from her cheek with the back of his hand—almost tender, but not quite—then bent, scooping her up as if she weighed nothing.
Neel Srivastava
pandit...
Mantra bol ❄️
The pandit’s voice shook as he began chanting again, hands trembling over the sacred fire. No one moved. The air reeked of fear and burning ghee.
Neel started taking the pheras—slow, deliberate steps around the fire.
Misha’s eyes followed him, wide and vacant. Her hands weakly pushed at his chest, but he didn’t even flinch. His voice brushed her ear, quiet but heavy enough to break something inside her.
Her family watched helplessly, faces pale, trapped between the guns and the horror. Guests tried to move toward the exit, but the rifles turned, freezing them in place.
And through all of it, the fire kept burning—its crackle the only witness to a wedding built on blood and silence.
After the seventh phera, Neel stopped. The hall was silent except for the crackle of fire and the faint sobbing of Tanuj’s mother. He made Misha sit beside him, her movements numb, her gaze lost somewhere between disbelief and death.
Neel reached for the mangalsutra. The priest didn’t dare speak — his lips moved in silent prayers instead. With one hand, Neel lifted the black-beaded chain and looped it around Misha’s neck, the metal cold against her skin. The click of the clasp sounded louder than any gunshot.
Then he took the vermillion, poured it into his palm, and pressed it harshly into her parting. The red streak smeared down her forehead, dripping onto her cheek and lehenga like blood.
Misha didn’t move. Her eyes were red — not from crying anymore, but from something beyond tears.
Empty.
Frozen.
And as the sacred fire dimmed, the woman who had come to marry her love sat beside his killer — bound to him by fate, fear, and fire.
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