I hate summers

If I could I would, but I can't, so I shan't

[mcdreamyshepherd]

https://www.instagram.com/reel/DcGrxNfxZAE/?igsh=ZmdxeGduYnpiMDly

continuing the saga...neend uda di meri (wdym im crying bc of an item song)

Godd!!!! Don't temp me to rewatch this movie. AGAIN.😭😭😭

I just want to gather hamza and aalam bhai in my arms🥹

[mcdreamyshepherd]

The baloch twins

(Thinking about some rehmat au where they have a daughter but not the way you think)

Sooo......ulfat just had naieem a month ago and they were taking him to the hospital for some vaccination. On the way back they got blocked by traffic. Rehman sent his men out to find out the reason and found that a 4 week old baby was found abandoned near a masjid. It was a baby girl and was barely breathing. People were waiting for the ambulance but Rehman quickly took the girl in his arms and they drove her to the nearest hospital. There she was treated and was to be kept in the NICU for the time being.

Ulfat, a new mother,was horrified and worried about this whole incident and wanted to stay with the baby but Rehman sent her home so that she and naieem can rest while he himself stayed in the hospital for the next 2 days. The whole while search for the baby's family was going on. 2 days later when she was to be discharged, the orphanage offered to keep her till her family was found but ulfat refused immediately, insisting that she would take care of the baby herself.

She honestly did not want to give the baby back to a family that abandoned her but Rehman wanted to search for the family just in case she was kidnapped and her family was genuinely looking for her. But when investigated, it was found that the baby's mother passed away in child birth and her father, a drunk, left her to die. Rehman was furious and it will be safe to say that the baby's biological father wasn't seen by the people of lyari ever again.

That night Rehman walked in on ulfat gently rocking the girl to sleep while simultaneously singing lullaby to baby naieem in his cradle. Her material love for not just her own baby but also for the abandoned girl brought tears to Rehman's eyes. Quickly wiping his eyes, he went to her and gently took the baby girl into his own arms. She blinked at him with her beautiful brown eyes, trusting him in a way that only babies do. Finally he looked at ulfat and asked her the question that he would later consider the turning moment of his life as father -

"Ulfat, kya tum is nanhi jaan ko apni banana chahogi?"

Ulfat looked at the baby girl and then at naieem and decided then and there that both her children will grow up sharing the same house, same parents and same love.

For the next 19 years, both of the kids grew up like twins. Similar clothes, same books, same classes, almost same interests and hobbies. It would always come as a shock when people would realize they're not actually twins, with them being so similar in everything but looks. They would always team up against their parents to get things done their way. While faizal had more bonding with uzair chachu, both being equally mischievous and have the same younger sibling energy, naieem and his sister had each other. There would prank tournaments between faizu-uzair and the older baloch twins which would go on for weeks and drive their parents mad. Rehman and ulfat always saw their family and couldn't help but be grateful for the decision they took years ago.

On the day of his friends walima, naieem's sister stayed home because she had a terrible headache and went to sleep after taking some pills. That night she was woken up to the sight of her brother's body being lowered on the same veranda floor where she used to play hopscotch with him. For the first time in 19 years she felt empty, like a part of her was ripped apart. She wasn't technically his twin, she wasn't even his blood, but the heart doesn't understand that. It only knew that the only person she shared a mother's embrace with was gone. There would be no more teams. No one would call them " the baloch twins", no more pranks, no more late night chats, no more teaming up against ammi and abbu, no more bonding, no more time, no more......

She never took headache pills ever again. No matter how much pain she had to endure, she never took a pill before sleeping. Years later, when she was married and just had a baby, the headache was killing her and by the doctor's insistence she took a pill, she dreamt of naieem's broken body that night. Woke up in the middle of the night and called her parents to her house immediately. Half an hour later found her crying in her parents arms like the 19 year old girl she once was. That night Rehman looked at his daughter break down in her mother's lap and remembered the promise he and ulfat made that day, of the two children sharing every thing equally, his own promise of never letting that little girl face abandonment ever again and found himself back in that same position of a father who failed to give both his children the same life, who failed the life of one kid while subjecting the other to a life of grief and emptiness.

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Tagging: @mehfil-e-random @nevereversaygoodbye @prahelika-fics @lilymodernfamily @pavbhajisupremacist @rehmanhatesdosa @cloudmast @dearlaharii @itsrebexxa @cocochanel04 @desigurlie @shippingtheshippers @sunxister21

Guys please please tell me if you want to get tagged OR untagged please don't be shy and please don't hesitate I really won't mind😊

[cocochanel04]

A Day in the Life of Rehman Dakait, Certified Menace:

Disclaimer: So obviously this goes without saying, this is a completely fictional work based on the characters from Dhurandhar. I'm not promoting any of the ideologies or situations shown in the movie.

A/n: This is a crackfic and is just fluff.

Pairing: Rehman Dakait x Journalist Ulfat

8:02 AM:

It started, as most disasters in that house started, with Rehman deciding he was going to cook breakfast without supervision.

Ulfat walked into the kitchen to find smoke curling off a pan, her husband standing over it with the calm of a man who had once talked down an entire rival crew with nothing but a cold stare, and absolutely no calm whatsoever about the omelet currently dying in front of him.

"Don't," he said, holding up a spatula like it was a weapon, "say anything."

"I haven't said a word."

"You're thinking it very loudly."

"I'm thinking that the man who once made a customs officer sign over an entire warehouse just by looking at him has been defeated by an egg." She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, thoroughly enjoying herself. "This is the best thing that's happened to me all week."

He turned the burner off with the aggression of a man losing an argument to inanimate objects, scraped the offending omelet into the bin, and rounded on her with narrowed eyes. "Come over and help me before I set off the smoke alarm and half my men storm the house thinking I've been shot."

"That would almost be worth it."

But she came anyway, nudging him out of the way with her shoulder the way she always did, and he didn't go far , just far enough to lean against the counter behind her, arms braced on either side of her, chin dropping onto her shoulder while she cracked eggs into a fresh bowl.

"You're crowding me."

"I'm supervising."

"You're breathing on my neck."

"That's a feature, not a bug." He pressed his mouth briefly to her shoulder, right where her dupatta had slipped, and she nearly dropped the egg she was holding, and neither of them commented on it, because commenting on it would mean admitting how easily he still managed that, six years in.

10:45 AM:

Donga appeared at the office door looking like a man who had personally been asked to walk into traffic.

"Bhai. There's a...situation."

"What kind of situation." Rehman asked, expecting the usual petty fights.

"The kind where a dog got into the warehouse and now nobody can get near the imported rugs."

There was a full three seconds of silence in which Rehman Dakait , a man who had once negotiated a truce between two rival gangs over a single cup of tea, stared at Donga with the face of someone recalculating his entire life's choices.

"I run a criminal enterprise," he said, mostly to himself. "I did not sign up to be defeated by a dog."

Ulfat, who had been listening from the doorway with a mug of coffee and zero intention of missing this, could not hold it together anymore. She laughed so hard she had to set the mug down.

"Oh, this is going in my notes. This is going in the notes tonight."

"You are not laughing at me during a crisis."

"I am absolutely laughing at you during a crisis. This might be the greatest crisis of your career." She wiped at her eyes, still grinning, and when he stalked past her toward the door, clearly going to deal with the dog himself out of sheer wounded pride, she caught his sleeve without thinking twice about it. "Wait. I'm coming."

"Absolutely not, it's a warehouse full of armed men and an angry dog."

"It's a warehouse full of your very silly employees and a dog that is, by Donga's own description, extremely fluffy. I want to see this. I'm your wife, I have rights."

"You have no rights regarding warehouse incidents."

"I have press credentials."

"That's not — that doesn't even apply here—" he tried to come up with an excuse only to fail miserably.

She was already grabbing her shawl off the chair, and he was already sighing the specific sigh that meant he'd lost, and grabbing her hand on the way out like it was the most natural thing in the world, lacing his fingers through hers as they walked, still muttering under his breath about dogs and dignity and the general unfairness of his life.

12:20 PM, Warehouse:

The dog turned out to be an enormous, deeply unbothered golden retriever that had wandered in off the street, made itself at home on top of an extremely expensive Persian rug, and was now being circled at a wide, respectful distance by six grown men with guns who looked more frightened of it than they'd ever looked of Rehman.

Rehman took one look at the situation, one look at his men, and put his head in his hands.

"You're telling me," he said slowly, "that none of you — six of you, six armed men — could handle one dog."

"Sir, it growled at SIyahi."

"I did not growl. It growled first." an offended voice countered.

"It's a golden retriever, Siyahi, it does not have the emotional range to growl first at anybody."

Ulfat, standing just behind her husband, had her phone out and was filming the entire thing with the focused joy of a woman documenting the single greatest moment of her marriage.

"Put the phone away," Rehman said, without turning around, somehow always knowing exactly what she was doing.

"Never. This is journalism."

"This is blackmail."

"Same thing, different byline." She lowered the phone just enough to walk past him toward the dog, crouching down with her hand out, and the dog — betraying every single one of his men in one single instant — trotted straight over and flopped its entire enormous weight against her legs, tail going like a metronome having a breakdown. "See? He just wanted a friend. Unlike some people in this room, who apparently wanted an armed standoff."

Rehman watched his wife scratch a golden retriever's ears while six of his most feared men stood frozen at a distance, and something in his chest did the thing it always did when she made everything look easy that wasn't easy for anybody else, and he crossed the warehouse floor and crouched down next to her without a word, one hand coming to rest low on her back, steadying more than necessary, the dog immediately transferring its affection to him with total disregard for his reputation.

"Traitor," he told the dog.

"He has good taste." She glanced sideways at him, close enough now that her shoulder was pressed into his, and something in the moment shifted quiet and warm despite the audience of six deeply confused gunmen. "We're keeping him."

"We are not keeping a dog that infiltrated a smuggling warehouse."

"His name is going to be Jameel, I'll call him Jammy."

"Absolutely not, I have an actual Jameel, this is going to cause chaos at every single meeting—"

"That's the best part." she grinned.

4:15 PM, Home:

They came home smelling like warehouse dust and dog fur, and Rehman collapsed onto the sofa with the specific full-body drama of a man who had survived a war rather than a mild afternoon inconvenience, one arm flung over his eyes.

"I need a minute," he announced to the ceiling. "Today broke something in me."

"A dog broke something in you." she scoffed.

"A dog and my own men. Betrayed twice in one day."

Ulfat toed off her sandals and climbed onto the sofa beside him without asking, which was also not asking-required territory anymore, curling herself into his side, and his arm came down off his face automatically to wrap around her, pulling her in closer like it was reflex by now, like six years had worn a groove into him shaped exactly like her.

"Poor menacing husband," she said against his chest, not sounding sorry at all. "Defeated by golden retrievers."

"Mock me quietly. I'm recovering." he murmured, pressing his lips to her hair.

"You liked it." a smile curved at her lips.

"I did not."

"You held my hand walking to a warehouse standoff over a dog. That's the single most romantic thing you've done all month and you did it for a golden retriever named Jameel."

He was quiet a second, and then his hand came up to tip her chin toward him, and whatever smart thing she'd been about to add got lost entirely when he kissed her — slow, unhurried, like the whole ridiculous day had just been leading here anyway, like a warehouse dog and a ruined omelet were simply the tax he paid for afternoons that ended exactly like this. She melted into it without any of her usual smart commentary, one hand fisting loosely in the front of his kurta, and when he finally pulled back just far enough to rest his forehead against hers, he was smiling the small, unguarded smile that only ever showed up when it was just the two of them.

"I'd hold your hand through worse than a warehouse dog," he said quietly.

"That's disgustingly sweet for a man who threatened to rearrange a supplier's teeth this morning."

"I contain multitudes."

"You contain a golden retriever's worth of loyalty and the emotional range of a man who cried at his own wedding for four hours."

"I had something in my eye." he looked scandalized that she'd even bring it up.

"Sure you did." She kissed him again before he could argue further, short and warm, and this time he laughed against her mouth, low and real, and pulled her fully into his lap without breaking it, the two of them tangled together on the sofa while somewhere down the hall the dog they weren't supposed to be keeping was already asleep on the good rug, entirely unbothered by the chaos he'd caused, entirely at home.

[mehfil-e-random]

No Enemies Tonight

Rehman × Aslam

Masterlist

DISCLAIMER : This is a purely fictional work inspired by the electrifying performances of the actors on screen. It has absolutely nothing to do with real-life terrorists or such individuals.

A/N : This OS is for my queen @desigurlie and is heavily inspired by her idea of mpreg Rehman. Pardon me, this was my first proper attempt at writing an ABO fic, so please don’t judge me too harshly . The plot isn’t anything too khas , it's pretty simple and plain but I think you’ll enjoy it (hopefully).

And to that anon who asked for a complete Rehman × Aslam fluff fic without the whole “they’re bloodthirsty for each other” element... I’m sorry jaan, but honestly, they just feel incomplete without that part . But don’t worry, you’ll get to see plenty of their softer side here too. 💖

WORD COUNT: 5.5 K

WARNING: more fluff than smut, slightly sa angst, crack, mpreg.

SP Chaudhary Aslam did not deal in rumors, nor did he deal in soft, fragile things. His desk at the central precinct was made of solid, heavy teakwood, littered with thick case files, arrest warrants, and the endless bureaucratic paper trail required to keep the criminal underworld of the city from swallowing the streets whole. But the file that mattered most sat in his top desk drawer, under lock and key, hidden beneath his service revolver.

It was a confidential medical dossier from a private clinic on the outskirts of Layari.

Aslam leaned back in his heavy leather chair. He smoothed his thick moustache, his dark eyes fixed on the white and red police ledger before him. Outside, the rain was coming down in torrents, washing over the asphalt, but inside his head, there was only one name echoing over and over with the force of a stray bullet: Rehman.

Rehman, the unregistered Alpha turned Omega boss of the Northern Docks. The man who had put a six-inch switchblade through Aslam’s tactical vest two winters ago during a raid, only for Aslam to pin him against a damp brick wall by his throat and kiss him until both of their mouths tasted like iron and blood. The man who had eventually moved into Aslam’s house few months ago — not as a prisoner, but as a territory dispute that had spiraled into something far more dangerous: domestic cohabitation.

Aslam rubbed his jaw. Their relationship was built on a precise, volatile arithmetic. They fought like starving street dogs over the dinner table, argued over political bribes, threw brass paperweights at each other’s heads and then tore each other’s clothes off on the velvet rug in the parlor until the sun came up.

Then came the report.

Aslam opened the drawer, pulled out the sleek white envelope, and unfolded the paper for the tenth time that evening.

Patient: Rehman Baloch.

Status: Male Omega.

Gestation: 7 Weeks.

Blood Test: Positive.

Aslam let out a slow, deep breath, his broad chest expanding against the tight kurta from his shoulders. He was an Alpha, built like a brick wall, used to commanding armed squadrons and staring down cartel leaders without blinking. But staring at those neat, printed lines, he felt a strange, terrifying tremor run straight through his spine.

Rehman was carrying his pup.

The deadliest gangster in the whole layari , a man who could snap a snitch’s collarbone with his bare hands, was currently sitting in Aslam’s living room, harboring a tiny, beating heart that belonged to both of them.

Aslam stood up, grabbed his heavy dark raincoat, and locked his office door. The city could burn tonight for all he cared. He had a criminal to interrogate and tend to.

When Aslam unlocked the front door of his ancestral home, the scent hit him immediately.

It was the scent of damp earth, spicy cinnamon, tobacco and sweet, ripe milk-jasmine — Rehman’s natural scent, heightened tenfold by the surge of pregnancy hormones. But laced beneath that intoxicating aroma was something else that made Aslam’s instincts spike instantly - the sour, pitiful tang of distress and physical vulnerability.

Rehman Baloch had survived bullet wounds, gang ambushes, knife fights, and three years in maximum-security solitary confinement without uttering a single whimper. He was a man made of tempered steel, muscle, and absolute defiance.

Except when it came to the cold.

Rehman had a strange, almost absurd physiological flaw. The man could walk through a fire without flinching, but a five degree drop in temperature or a sudden monsoon draft transformed him into a completely pathetic, shivering mess. Cold was his ultimate, undefeated mortal enemy. And now, combined with the brutal morning sickness and immunological drops of early pregnancy, the sudden monsoon rain had reduced the terror of the docks to an incapacitated lump of misery.

Aslam stepped into the main bedroom, switching off his boots. The ceiling fan was off. The windows were shut tight, fogged over with condensation.

In the center of the massive king sized bed sat a gigantic, spherical fortress of heavy cotton quilts, wool blankets, and crushed velvet throws. Not a single inch of human flesh was visible. It looked like a small mountain of bedding had simply dropped onto his mattress.

He walked over to the bed, his bare feet sinking into the thick carpet.

"Rehman?" Aslam called, his deep, resonant voice cutting through the quiet hum of the rain outside.

From deep within the cavernous depths of the blanket fortress came a muffled, miserable groan that sounded like a wounded lion trying to curse.

"Go away, you monster," the blanket mound muttered weakly. "If you step any closer, I’ll slit your throat while you sleep."

Aslam’s lips twitched upward into a small, fond smile. Even when dying of a mild sniffle, the gangster insisted on maintaining his street reputation.

Aslam sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning beneath his heavy weight. He reached out with his broad, calloused hands, gripping the top edge of the thickest quilt, and slowly pulled it down like a groom lifting the heavy velvet veil of his bride on their wedding night.

The blanket peeled back to reveal Rehman.

He was curled into a tight, defensive ball, wearing one of Aslam’s white cotton kurtas. Because Aslam was towering, built like a mountain and Rehman was a leaner, slightly shorter build, the oversized white kurta swallowed him whole. The hem reached past his knees, the sleeves completely covered his hands, and the wide neckline draped lazily off one of his smooth, olive-toned shoulders, revealing a pale expanse of skin marked by faint old scars and fresh bite marks left by Aslam’s teeth three nights ago.

Rehman’s pitch-black hair was a chaotic, soft mess, sticking to his forehead with faint sweat. His dark eyes were glossy, swollen, and rimmed with red, his nose pink and slightly running. He looked less like a feared crime lord and more like a deeply offended, beautiful young boy who had been abandoned in the rain.

"Look at you," Aslam murmured softly, his voice dropping into that deep, purring that always made Rehman’s ears twitch. "The so-called Sardar of Layari, hiding under four layers of velvet."

Rehman glared up at him through heavy eyelashes, his lower lip trembling slightly — though whether from the cold or sheer humiliation, Aslam couldn't tell.

"It’s an ambush," Rehman rasped, his voice thick and congested. "The air... the air is poisoned. It’s freezing. My bones are rattling. I'm going to kill your weather forecaster."

Before Aslam could answer, Rehman’s face suddenly distorted. His small nose twitched. He buried his face quickly into the long sleeve of Aslam’s white kurta.

"Achoo!"

A tiny, surprisingly soft sneeze echoed through the bedroom. Rehman immediately scowled, rubbing his nose furiously against the soft white cotton, looking thoroughly disgusted with his own body.

"God," Rehman grumbled, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling with tragic melodrama. "Kill me now. Put your service gun to my temple and shoot. It’s more humane than this."

Aslam laughed, a deep, warm rumble that vibrated through the bed. He reached out, pressing the back of his large, rough hand against Rehman’s forehead, then down to his flushed cheek and the side of his neck. His skin was burning hot, radiating a feverish, humid heat.

"You're burning up, Lalle," Aslam said softly, his playful tone softening into genuine concern. He ran his thumb over Rehman’s warm cheekbone, feeling the smooth skin. "Did you take the medicine I left on the nightstand?"

"It tasted like rat poison," Rehman spat, though he leaned his face into Aslam’s large palm, his eyes fluttering shut at the cool touch of his almost -husband's skin. "And it didn't work. Nothing works. My head feels like a gang war is happening inside my skull.”

"That's because you refused to eat your soup, you stubborn criminal," Aslam said. He shifted closer, crawling into the bed behind Rehman. He wrapped his massive arms around the smaller man’s waist, pulling Rehman back against his broad, solid chest.

Rehman didn't fight it. For all his posturing and lethal knife skills, the moment his fever hit a certain point, his Omega instincts completely took over. He melted back into Aslam’s heat, snuggling his face directly into the crook of Aslam’s neck, breathing in the comforting scents of sandalwood, gun leather, and cheap tobacco.

"You smell like the police station," Rehman muttered weakly against Aslam’s throat, though his arms crept up to wrap around Aslam’s thick bicep, holding him tight. "It's repulsive."

"And you smell like a sick garden," Aslam retorted, pulling the blankets back up over both of them, sealing them into a warm, dark cocoon. He buried his face in Rehman’s damp, dark curls, inhaling deeply. "Lie still. I'm going to make you that herbal brew my grandmother used to make. The one with ginger, crushed black pepper, and honey."

Rehman groaned in horror. "No. Absolutely not. That stuff tastes like liquid fire. I’d rather drink battery acid."

"You will drink every single drop." Aslam said, his voice taking on that quiet, iron-clad authority he used when commanding a tactical unit. "Or I will hold your nose, pin your wrists to the headboard, and pour it down your throat myself. Choice is yours."

Rehman lifted his head, his glossy dark eyes flashing with a sudden, wicked spark of his usual dangerous heat. He bit Aslam’s collarbone - hard enough to leave a red indent, but soft enough not to draw blood.

"Try it, SP Saab," Rehman purred rasply, his lips lingering against the bite mark. "I might just like being pinned down by you today."

Twenty minutes later, Aslam returned to the bedroom carrying a steaming brass mug. His wide, hairy chest peeking out and gleaming under the soft amber light of the bedside lamp.

Rehman was sitting propped up against a mountain of pillows, still wrapped tightly in Aslam’s oversized white kurta. He looked ridiculous and gorgeous, a lethal gang leader surrounded by fluffy white pillows, pouting aggressively at the steaming mug in Aslam’s hand.

"Drink," Aslam commanded, sitting beside him and extending the mug.

Rehman sniffed the air and immediately wrinkled his nose in disgust. "It smells like a torture device."

"It's ginger, cloves, turmeric, and honey. It will break your fever and clear your chest," Aslam said patiently. He blew gently over the rim of the mug, setting it on the nightstand, and then reached out to pull Rehman into his lap.

Rehman went willingly, straddling Aslam’s waist, his long thighs wrapping around Aslam's thick hips. The long hem of the white kurta bunched up around his waist, exposing his smooth, pale thighs. Rehman rested his forehead against Aslam’s shoulder, letting out a long, shuddering sigh as his body absorbed the radiant heat coming off the bare visible skin of Aslam’s chest.

"I hate being sick," Rehman mumbled, his lips pressing against Aslam’s skin. "It makes me feel weak. I hate it."

Aslam’s heart softened. He knew what it took for a man like Rehman — a male who had fought his way to the top of a brutal, bloodthirsty underworld to admit to feeling weak. In Rehman’s world, weakness meant a bullet in the back of the head.

Aslam wrapped his broad arms around Rehman’s waist, his large palms resting flat against the small of his back, holding him securely.

"You aren't weak, Lalle," Aslam murmured, his lips tracing the sensitive shell of Rehman’s ear. "You're growing our pup. Your body is busy doing something far more violent and miraculous than fighting street thugs. Let me take care of you for once."

Rehman went quiet. He pulled back slightly, his glossy dark eyes searching Aslam’s face. His face reflecting a raw, vulnerable warmth that only Aslam was ever allowed to see.

"It really is in there?" Rehman asked softly, his voice barely a whisper above the sound of the rain against the windowpane. He reached down, his fingers hesitating before resting against his own lower stomach — still flat, still toned, hiding the secret tucked within.

Aslam laid his massive, calloused hand over Rehman’s smaller one, pressing gently.

"It's in there," Aslam confirmed, his voice thick with emotion. "Seven weeks old. A little fighter, just like his mother."

"Don't call me his mother, you bastard," Rehman spat, though there was no real heat in it. A tiny, rare smile touched the corners of his lips. "I'm his father. The cooler, handsomer father who will teach him how to pick locks and bypass security alarms before you teach him your stupid police laws."

"Over my dead body," Aslam chuckled, picking up the brass mug again. "Now, drink your medicine before I lose my patience."

Rehman grumbled, but this time, he didn't fight. He allowed Aslam to hold the mug to his lips, taking slow, agonizing sips of the hot, spicy liquid. He grimaced with every swallow, his face twisting in dramatic agony, but he finished every drop under Aslam’s watchful, possessive gaze.

When the mug was empty, Aslam set it aside and wiped a drop of honey from Rehman’s lower lip with his thumb. Before he could pull his hand away, Rehman caught Aslam’s wrist, leaning in to kiss his thumb, his warm tongue darting out to lick the sweet residue off the skin.

Aslam’s breath hitched. The tenderness in the room suddenly shifted, thick with a dark, heavy heat.

"Rehman..." Aslam growled softly, his eyes darkening.

"You gave me my medicine, Aslam," Rehman whispered against his lips, his hands sliding up Aslam’s bare chest, his fingers tangling in the thick mat of dark hair covering the pectorals. "Now give me my reward."

The kiss that followed was slow, deep, and intoxicatingly possessive.

Rehman pulled Aslam closer, his mouth opening fully to welcome his tongue. He tasted of spicy ginger, sweet honey, and the faint metallic tang of fever heat. Aslam held the back of Rehman’s head, his large fingers tangling in the soft, dark curls, deepening the kiss until both of them were panting for air.

Rehman broke the kiss with a soft gasp, his face flushed, his chest heaving beneath the oversized white kurta. He shifted his hips, grinding his core directly against the thick bulge growing beneath Aslam’s trousers.

"Careful, gangster," Aslam rasped, his hands gripping Rehman’s hips to hold him still. "You're sick. You need rest."

"Fuck resting," Rehman growled, his dark eyes flashing with shameless, filthy intent. He grabbed the front of his own oversized kurta and pulled the wide neckline open further, exposing his collarbones and the upper swell of his breast. "Look at me, Aslam. Look at what your pup is doing to me."

Aslam’s breath trapped in his chest.

Because of the early hormone surges, Rehman’s body was already undergoing subtle, tantalizing changes. His chest usually lean and firm had softened significantly over the past two weeks. The pale skin of his chest was warmer, fuller, and his nipples were noticeably darker, swollen, and sensitive to the air.

Aslam’s eyes darkened into a shade of pitch black. His Alpha instincts, primitive and fiercely territorial, raged at the sight. His mate’s body was preparing to nourish his offspring, and the sheer sight of those swollen, softening breasts drove him completely out of his mind.

"You like them, don't you?" Rehman purred, leaning down so his mouth was brushing against Aslam’s earlobe. "You dirty cop. You can't take your eyes off them."

"Rehman..." Aslam growled, his voice dropping an octave, sounding like grinding stones.

Aslam didn't wait another second. He grabbed the collar of his own white kurta on Rehman’s body and ripped it down the center with a loud, tearing sound, completely exposing Rehman’s breast to the warm lamplight.

Rehman gasped at the sudden exposure, but before he could tease any further, Aslam leaned down and took one of his swollen, sensitive nipples directly into his mouth.

"Ahh!" Rehman arched his back violently, his fingers clutching at Aslam’s shoulders as an intense, burning wave of pleasure shot straight to his core.

Aslam didn't pull back. He sucked heavily, his warm tongue swirling over the hard, dark peak, his beard scraping against the soft, tender mound of flesh surrounding it. The combination of gentle suction and rough beard burn sent Rehman into immediate sensory overload. His thighs trembled where they clamped around Aslam’s waist.

"Aslam...Khuda ke liye...it's too sensitive!" Rehman cried out, half-pleading, half-demanding more. His nails dug deep into the broad muscles of Aslam’s back.

"It belongs to me," Aslam muttered against his skin, moving his mouth over to the other breast, treating it with the same brutal, possessive devotion. He bit down gently on the peak, feeling Rehman shudder uncontrollably in his arms. "This body...this chest...this pup...all mine. Tell me, Rehman. Whose property are you?"

"Yours, you bastard!" Rehman sobbed out, throwing his head back as Aslam’s hand slid beneath the torn white kurta, cupping the warm, soft belly before reaching lower, sliding between his damp thighs. "I'm yours....now put your hands on me properly!"

Aslam didn't need to be told twice. He gathered Rehman in his arms, turning him over onto his back against the soft mattress. The torn white kurta bunched around his waist, framing his flushed, sweat-glistening skin. Aslam hovered over him like a giant shadow, his dark hair falling over his forehead, his jaw set in an expression of possessiveness.

He reached down, stripping off his pyjamas, and aligned his thick, hot length with Rehman’s drenched, desperate opening. Rehman reached up, pulling Aslam down by his neck, opening his legs wide to welcome the man he loved and hated more than life itself.

"Go slow," Rehman whispered, his dark eyes vulnerable for a brief, fleeting second. "The pup..."

Aslam’s expression softened instantly. He kissed Rehman’s forehead, his cheek, and then his lips with a tenderness so deep it made Rehman’s heart ache.

"I've got you," Aslam promised softly, his breath a warm, steady murmur against Rehman’s damp skin. "I'll take care of both of you."

He eased himself in with deliberate slowness, feeling every quiet wave of resistance give way beneath his touch. He placed his cock at his entrance , slowly pushing in , stretched hom open inch by inch, filling him with a heavy, throbbing warmth that drew a long, shuddering sigh of pure relief from deep within Rehman’s chest. The friction was smooth and intoxicating, every fraction of an inch settling into a deep, comforting full bodied ache.

Once he was buried completely, Aslam resisted his usual harsh, violent urge to conquer. Instead, he established a slow, rolling rhythm deep, powerful and mesmerizingly thorough.

He would push all his length out and thrust deep in him, even though he promised he’ll go slow , but he can't control much when Rehman is whimpering this softly.

Rehman held his shoulder for support, digging his nails in it, strong enough to draw blood from it. The dark stain was visible on the pristine white kurta, Aslam felt it. Usually , he would have punished Rehman for staining his kurta like this — by not allowing him to walk properly for a whole week, but this time he fought with every cell of his to not to get much worse with him. He kept the pace slow, instead he captured Rehman's nipples in his mouth sucking hard making him cry due to oversensation. “Ahh fuck, don't use your teeth , you dawg.” Rehman carried out and Aslam nibbled on his nipples. Rehman felt tension coiling in his lower abdomen.

Small, needy whimpers escaped Rehman’s parted lips, his breath coming in shallow, feverish gasps that fanned over Aslam’s collarbone.

Rehman reached up, his fingers tangling tightly into Aslam’s dark, damp hair, pulling him down to capture his lips in a deep, lingering kiss. He tasted the salt of sweat and the warmth of their shared breath, completely melting beneath Aslam's steady weight.

As the last of his tension snapped , Rehman came with a breathless whimper, his walls clenching around Aslam's cock , with three more harder thrusts than before he came and filled him again with his seed.

Aslam gently took the brunt of his weight onto his forearms and elbows, protecting the softness of Rehman's stomach. He buried his face into the damp, dark curls at Rehman's neck, his chest trembling as the quiet wave of completion washed over them both, sealing them together in the gentle warmth of the night.

The pregnancy was progressing rapidly, and with it came the glorious, chaotic nightmare of the second trimester.

It was six o'clock on a Tuesday morning. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting pale blue light across the marble floors of the kitchen.

Aslam, dressed in his full, immaculate white kurta and trousers, was standing near the stove, carefully frying eggs and making fresh chai.

Suddenly, the kitchen doors burst open with a loud BANG.

Rehman walked in, looking like an absolute storm cloud. He was wearing yet another one of Aslam’s crisp white kurtas — this one stretched tightly over his now visibly rounded, firm pregnant belly. His hips had widened slightly, his posture carried a subtle, heavy sway, and his chest...his chest was gloriously, scandalously full, straining against the thin white cotton fabric like two heavy, ripe melons.

He was holding an empty silver glass in his hand like a weapon.

"You," Rehman rasped, his dark eyes glare-locked on Aslam’s back. "You absolute criminal."

Aslam turned slowly, holding a spatula in one hand. He took one look at his almost-wife and felt his throat go completely dry.

Even angry, sick, and heavily pregnant, Rehman Baloch was the most breathtaking creature Aslam had ever laid eyes on. The white kurta stretched over his bump made him look soft and domestic, but the deadly grip he had on that silver glass reminded Aslam that this was still a man who commanded fifty armed hitmen in the docks.

"Good morning to you too, lalle," Aslam said calmly, turning down the flame on the stove. "How are we feeling today?"

"I feel like vomiting your entire lineage into the kitchen sink!" Rehman snapped.

Without warning, Rehman’s face paled. He slammed the silver glass onto the marble counter, spun on his heel, and sprinted as fast as a six-month pregnant gangster could sprint toward the downstairs bathroom.

Aslam dropped the spatula and moved instantly.

He reached the bathroom just as Rehman dropped to his knees in front of the porcelain toilet, dry-heaving violently. Aslam knelt beside him on the cold tile floor, completely unbothered by the fact that his immaculate, ironed trousers were getting wrinkled.

Aslam pulled Rehman's hair back from his face, while his other large palm rested flat against Rehman’s lower back, rubbing soothing circles over his spine.

"Let it out," Aslam murmured gently, his deep voice . "I'm right here."

Rehman retched a few more times, tears of frustration gathering in the corners of his dark eyes, until his stomach finally settled. He leaned his head back against Aslam’s broad shoulder, panting heavily, his face pale and slick with sweat.

"I hate your child," Rehman whimpered rasply, closing his eyes. "He’s an assassin. He’s trying to destroy me from the inside."

"He’s just active," Aslam chuckled softly, reaching for a clean hand towel from the rack. He wet it with cold water and gently wiped Rehman’s mouth, cheek, and forehead. "The doctor said morning sickness in the second trimester is normal for strong Omegas."

"The doctor is an idiot," Rehman grumbled, though he let Aslam wipe his face like a child. "And so are you."

Aslam didn't argue. He wrapped his strong arms under Rehman’s thighs and back, lifting the pregnant gangster effortlessly into his arms.

"Hey! Put me down, you brute!" Rehman yelled, his arms instinctively wrapping around Aslam’s neck anyway. "I can walk!"

"You're dizzy and your feet are swollen, Rehman. Shut up and let me carry you," Aslam commanded, carrying him out of the bathroom and over to the dining table. He set Rehman down gently onto a cushioned armchair.

Rehman sat there, pouting, pulling the hem of Aslam’s oversized white kurta over his knees. But as he settled, his eyes drifted over to the stove, where the smell of cardamom tea and fried butter was filling the room. His stomach let out a loud, traitorous rumble.

Aslam smirked, walking back to the counter. He poured a large mug of sweet, steaming chai, placed two buttered toasts and fried eggs on a plate, and set it down in front of Rehman.

Rehman looked at the food, then up at Aslam. "I didn't ask for this."

"Eat before I feed you myself," Aslam warned softly, leaning down to press a firm kiss onto the top of Rehman’s dark head.

Rehman picked up a piece of toast, took a small bite, and then immediately began devouring the food like a starving wolf. Aslam watched him with absolute adoration, leaning his hip against the counter, sipping his own tea.

As Rehman ate, the tight fabric of the white kurta pulled taut over his chest. Aslam’s eyes drifted down, mesmerized by the clear, heavy curve of Rehman’s breasts beneath the white cotton. Because of the pregnancy, Rehman’s glands were working overtime, making his chest remarkably soft, heavy, and full.

Rehman caught him staring. He paused mid-bite, a slow, dangerous, seductive smirk spreading across his lips.

"Enjoying the view, huh?" Rehman teased, running a broad hand over his own swollen chest, deliberately pressing down to accentuate the heavy curve beneath the thin kurta. "You know, if you keep staring like that, people might think you're a pervert instead of a high-ranking officer of the law."

Aslam didn't blink. He set his teacup down on the counter with a soft clink, took three slow, deliberate strides forward, and stood directly in front of Rehman’s chair.

He leaned down, placing both hands on the armrests of the chair, trapping the gangster between his massive frame and the wood.

"I am a pervert for you, Rehman," Aslam growled softly, his voice thick with raw, shameless desire. "And if you don't stop testing me, I'm going to lock the kitchen doors, lift this white kurta over your chest, and spend the next two hours drinking you dry right here on this dining table."

Rehman’s breath hitched. A dark crimson flush spread across his cheeks, but his eyes sparkled with pure delight. He reached out, his fingers hooking into the front of Aslam’s kurta , pulling him down until their lips were almost touching.

"Threatening a citizen, SP Saab?" Rehman whispered, his tongue flicking out to trace Aslam’s lower lip. "That sounds like an abuse of power."

"Try filing a complaint," Aslam murmured, and then his mouth slammed onto Rehman’s, drowning the gangster’s soft gasps in a deep kiss that tasted of sweet tea, butter, and forever.

Rehman still managed his dock empire from a leather armchair in Aslam’s study, surrounded by encrypted satellite phones, contraband ledgers, and prenatal vitamin bottles. Aslam still led armed police raids during the day, but every evening at six o'clock sharp, the formidable SP returned home without fail, carrying bags of fresh pomegranates, organic goat milk, and soft cotton swaddling clothes. It was a strange yet beautiful - a gang boss and a police chief building a nest out of bulletproof vests and baby blankets.

One late evening, Rehman was sitting on the porch sofa, wearing a thick black woolen shawl wrapped over Aslam’s white kurta. His belly was massive now, round and heavy, resting comfortably in his lap. He was peeling an orange with a small, sharp pearl-handled folding knife, a habit he refused to give up, much to Aslam’s constant anxiety.

The front gates opened, and Aslam’s heavy police SUV pulled into the driveway.

When Aslam stepped out of the vehicle, Rehman’s eyes narrowed instantly.

Aslam wasn't walking with his usual confident, posture-perfect stride. His dark hair disheveled, and across his left forearm, a dark, crimson streak of wet blood was soaking through the white fabric of his kurta’s sleeve.

Rehman stood up instantly. The heavy woolen shawl fell to the floor, forgotten.

"Aslam!" Rehman called out, his voice sharp and lethal as a whip.

Aslam looked up, holding his wounded arm. "It's nothing, Rehman. Stay there—"

"Shut the fuck up!" Rehman snarled, waddling down the porch steps as fast as his heavy body allowed. He reached Aslam, grabbing his right shoulder with surprising strength, forcing him to lean down so he could inspect the wound.

It was a graze, a bullet had sliced through the meat of Aslam’s forearm during a shootout with a local smuggling cartel. It was bleeding heavily, but it wasn't deep.

Rehman’s face transformed into an expression of pure, terrifying rage. His dark eyes burned with a murderous heat that made even the police officers stationed at the gate shudder.

"Who did this?" Rehman hissed, his hands trembling with a mixture of rage and territorial terror. "Tell me the name, Aslam. I swear on the child in my belly, I'll burn their houses to the ground!"

Aslam looked at his pregnant mate — standing there in an oversized white kurta, heavily pregnant with their child, eyes flashing with lethal gangland vengeance, holding a tiny orange-peeling knife like a bayonet.

And Aslam felt so deeply, helplessly in love that his chest physically ached.

"Rehman," Aslam said softly, using his uninjured right hand to cup the side of Rehman’s flushed face. "Calm down. The syndicate is already in custody. I arrested the chief myself."

Rehman stared at him, his chest heaving, his dark eyes searching Aslam’s face. Slowly, the murderous rage melted away, leaving behind raw, terrified concern.

"You idiot," Rehman whispered, his voice cracking slightly as he pressed his forehead against Aslam’s chest, right over his beating heart. "You reckless, arrogant, stupid police officer. You can't die. Do you hear me? If you die, who am I going to fight with? Who’s going to make my stupid ginger tea?"

Aslam wrapped his good arm around Rehman’s waist, pulling the heavy, pregnant man tight against his body, resting his chin on top of Rehman’s dark curls.

"I'm not going anywhere, gangster," Aslam murmured deeply, his scent flaring warm and protective, washing over Rehman to soothe his distress. "I have too much to live for. Now come inside. Clean my wound."

Aslam sat on the edge of the large porcelain bathtub, his kurta removed, his bare, muscular chest exposed. Rehman sat on a wooden stool in front of him, meticulously cleaning the bullet graze with antiseptic and cotton balls.

Despite his swollen fingers, Rehman’s hands were steady and incredibly gentle. He wiped away the blood, applied antibiotic ointment, and wrapped a clean white bandage around Aslam’s arm, securing it with precise, practiced skill.

When he finished, Rehman didn't pull away. He rested his hands on Aslam’s knees, leaning forward to press his cheek against Aslam’s bare chest, directly over his heart.

Aslam reached down, his large, calloused hand sliding beneath the white kurta to rest flat over the tight, round curve of Rehman’s bump. As if sensing his father's presence, the pup inside gave a hard, sudden kick right against Aslam’s palm.

Aslam’s breath caught. "he’s kicking."

Rehman let out a soft, tired laugh against Aslam’s skin. "he’s been kicking my ribs all afternoon. I think he inherited your stupid aggression."

"he’s going to be strong," Aslam said proudly, his thumb gently stroking the stretched skin of Rehman’s belly. "Strong like his father."

Rehman lifted his head, looking up at Aslam through long, dark eyelashes. The ambient light of the bathroom reflected off his glossy dark eyes, making him look breathtakingly soft.

"Aslam?"

"Hmm?"

"When he comes..." Rehman hesitated, his lower lip twitching slightly. "Will you still look at me like this?"

Aslam frowned, surprised. "Like what?"

"Like I'm the only thing in the world that matters to you," Rehman whispered, his voice small, vulnerable, stripped of all gangland pride. "My body is changing. I'm softer now. I'm not….I'm not the terrifying terror of the streets anymore."

Aslam’s heart smashed against his ribs. He gripped Rehman’s chin with his fingers, lifting his head up so their eyes locked with intense, uncompromising honesty.

"Listen to me very carefully, Rehman Baloch," Aslam said, his voice dropping into an iron-clad growl that echoed off the bathroom tiles. "You are the most lethal, terrifying, beautiful creature I have ever conquered and the only man who has ever conquered me. Whether you're carrying my knife wounds or my pup, you are my mate. I will love you, thirst for your blood, and worship your body until the day I die. Understood?"

Rehman stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then, a slow, radiant, arrogant smile spread across his soft lips , the true smile of the gangster who owned the Superintendent of Police body and soul.

"Good answer, SP Saab," Rehman purred dirty. "Now lift me up and take me to bed. Your son wants his father to cuddle him, and I want my husband to kiss my chest until I forget how much my back hurts."

Aslam laughed a loud, booming sound of pure joy and gathered his pregnant gangster into his broad arms, carrying him out into the bedroom where their fortress of blankets, love, and domesticity waited to keep them warm forever.

Fin.

Let me know if you want to get tagged/ untagged

Tags : @shippingtheshippers @pavbhajisupremacist @tanipartner @sparksfromhell @harrystyleskiwi9 @tojisloft @delusionpromaxxsubhu-99 @vakalatnelagadiye @erenfox @rini4everdreaming @scentedwolfdragon @sanpiece @pleasetagmejaaneman @chunkychocosblog @cloudmast @obsessedwidskincare @gulaabjamun08 @tere-naal-nachna @lakshana-ke-lakshan @layinglowkey @shadylovedhurandhar @geometric-circle @ch3rrycok3s @dukh-dard-peeda @cholebhaturesupremacy @rehmanhatesdosa @debsreads21 @snihrayy @akshayes @moonxinthesky @neverkhushialwaysgham @maroonphase @unicornxkeep @faebutterflygayaf @rosiasthings @theuselessdaydreamingidiot @mainyahaankyunhoon @lilymodernfamily @thandicoffee @heavenlit-34 @itstiaofficial @sunxister21 @prahelika @mcdreamyshepherd @ishq-e-rehman @pearls456 @dearlaharii @writrsblu @staticshadowblaze

[mcdreamyshepherd]

पगली

पगली

कभी तू ने सोचा रस्ते में गए मिल क्यों

पगले

पगले

तेरी बातों बातों में धड़कता है दिल क्यों

कभी कुछ कहती है कभी कुछ कहती है

जरा नज़र को संभालना

हाल कैसा है जनाब का

क्या ख़याल है आपका

तुम तो मचल गए ओ ओ ओ

यूँ ही फिसल गए आ आ आ

[mcdreamyshepherd]

@mehfil-e-random @desigurlie khaas aap logo ke liye🎁

[mcdreamyshepherd]

पगली

पगली

कभी तू ने सोचा रस्ते में गए मिल क्यों

पगले

पगले

तेरी बातों बातों में धड़कता है दिल क्यों

कभी कुछ कहती है कभी कुछ कहती है

जरा नज़र को संभालना

हाल कैसा है जनाब का

क्या ख़याल है आपका

तुम तो मचल गए ओ ओ ओ

यूँ ही फिसल गए आ आ आ

[mcdreamyshepherd]

सितारे झिलमिला उठे

चराग़ जगमगा उठे

बस अब न मुझको टोकना

न बढ़के राह रोकना

अगर मैं रुक गई अभी तो जा न पाऊँगी कभी

यही कहोगे तुम सदा के दिल अभी नहीं भरा

जो खत्म हो किसी जगह ये ऐसा सिलसिला नहीं

अभी नहीं अभी नहीं

नहीं नहीं नहीं नहीं

अभी न जाओ छोड़कर के दिल अभी भरा नहीं

[mcdreamyshepherd]

Ulfat was the most well informed woman in lyari. She would know every news of the town even before the police or the news channels or even rehman got any idea . She would be the most exciting guest at every party as she would have unlimited stories and secrets. She would know if your brother is trying to take over your land or if your son is planing to elope with a girl even before you do. Whenever asked how she knew everything, she would reply "I have my sources"

Her sources :

Ulfat would invite rehman's gang members for evening tea every day to discuss the latest gossip of lyari. 6pm to 6:30pm even rehman would not be allowed in the room. Just ulfat and her informers. But rehman being rehman would not be able to stay away from his wife, so he'll spend the next half an hour with his ear pressed tightly to the door just so he can keep hearing her voice even if he can't see her.

Uzair ofc will be too busy finishing the kheer his bhabhi made to distract him.

Rehman hearing the latest tea

[tojisloft]

crying about faizal again so i won’t suffer alone

[lilymodernfamily]

Back with another one.

As promised, Independence Day special 🇮🇳 mediocre edit 🤧.

[Made it quickly don't know how it turned out, chalo atleast Independence Day khatam hote hote post kar payi😭🙏]

Big respect to all the unknown heroes and soldiers out there We get to roam around freely today because of their unimaginable sacrifices. We can never thank them enough. 🫡❤️

Lieutenant Dharamvir Singh Bhan, Lieutenant Balwant Singh and Major Hanut Singh 🇮🇳

Tags: @mehfil-e-random @averypretentiousreader @mcdreamyshepherd @hottspaghetti @pavbhajisupremacist @desigurlie @tojisloft @sanpiece @nevereversaygoodbye @prahelika @vakalatnelagadiye @cloudmast @jkdaddy01 @ppinkitten @winterisfortaehyung @heavenlit-34 @gloriouspurpose01 @sunf1over

Guys, pls do let me know if any one of you wants to get removed.

[mcdreamyshepherd]

Look @lilymodernfamily

One of us can be the mango and the other watermelon😁🤭

He's wondering which one if us to choose🤔😝

[mcdreamyshepherd]

"हतो वा प्राप्स्यसि स्वर्गं जित्वा वा भोक्ष्यसे महीम्। तस्मादुत्तिष्ठ कौन्तेय युद्धाय कृतनिश्चयः॥"

"Yeah, my father raised me a winner

I would kill for my people, it don't make me a sinner"

[mcdreamyshepherd]

Yk kya hua kal main SpiderMan dekhne gayi apni special spiderman wali tshirt pehen k jo specially maine yeh movie dekhne k liye khareed hi thi, shaam k 7.30 baje ki show thi ghar se 6 baje nikal gaye kyunki jahan pe dekhne wale the woh thoda dur tha coz Imax 3D screens are not available near my house. Saale bsdk the traffic was so fucking shit that we reached at 8.20 pm 🥲. And as expected, couldn't attend the show but instead watched this

My reaction

Aaaaaaaa you watched odyssey!!!!! How was it?!!!!

Yk opposite happened to me...I wanted to watch odyssey in IMAX only and I was supposed to visit Delhi 2 weeks later, so I didn't watch it in my city but then my plan got cancelled last moment and by then it was removed from my city's theater😭😭😭

Humari kismat dekho, movie discuss karne ka socha to dono nw wo movies dekhi jo dusre ne na dekhi ho😭

[mcdreamyshepherd]

Babu : look at my face and tell me you're not my son, we have the same features.

Rehman : what face?

---------------------------------------------------

Akhlaq : look at my hands, do you think they can poison a child's food?

Hamza : well now they can't...

---------------------------------------------------

Arshad : mujhe pehle rehman ka sar chahiye, phir lyari chahiye

Uzair : you said?

[prahelika-fics]

hifazat

A day in the life of Sorayyah Baloch, the middle child of Rehman Baloch's three children -- sorry, two children.

If you asked her, the crowded lanes of the old city were pure theatre. Sorayyah walked a half-step ahead of her father, eyes darting from copper smiths to embroidery stalls, drinking in the noise. Even the lack of sleep last night was not enough to take away her excitement.

"Baba, if you walk any slower, the call to Asr will catch us right here in the grain alley," she said, tossing her braid over her shoulder the way Ammi sometimes did. She shot him a sidelong glance, her lips twitching with mischief. "And then I will tell Ammi that you made me late for my music class because you spent forty minutes debating the quality of dried figs."

"The figs were dry as bark, meri jaan," her father replied, his voice carrying an easy warmth that belonged only to her. And her brothers. Maybe. Brother, now, not brothers, a nasty voice whispered in her head. She ignored it.

"And your mother would agree with me. Unlike you, she understands that patience is a virtue, not a punishment."

"Ammi would have bought the figs ten minutes ago just to stop you from lecturing the shopkeeper," Sorayyah fired back without missing a beat, turning around to walk backward for two paces just to grin at him. "Aap to anjeer khareedte waqt bhi aisi harkatein kartein hai jaisi bandookon ke liye mol-bhaav kar rahein hain."

A laugh rumbled in Rehman's chest. He reached out and caught her shoulder, gently tugging her back beside him so she wouldn't trip over a broken basket lying on the road. "Turn around, meri jaan. Watch your step."

She turned, but she leaned her shoulder lightly against his arm as they walked. She was normally sharp-tongued and quick to ignite, but with him, there was an unshakable sweetness. She knew—with the absolute certainty of a beloved only daughter—that the man who made grown men tremble across the district would tear the world apart before letting a shadow fall across her path.

Near the corner of the bookbinders' lane, Rehman paused before a dimly lit shop. "Yahan, Raya." Rehman said softly, nodding toward the dusty glass case inside.

Sorayyah’s eyes widened. Beneath the glass lay a leather-bound journal, its cover dyed a midnight indigo, intricately embossed with gold vines that coiled around a metallic silver clasp which closed the book shut. She had mentioned wanting a new notebook for her poetry and sketches nearly three weeks ago—a fleeting remark over breakfast that she had long forgotten.

"Baba..." she breathed, melting into pure delight as the old shopkeeper brought it out and Rehman pressed it into her hands. "It’s beautiful."

"The paper is thick enough for your ink," Rehman murmured, watching the flush of joy light up her face, his thumb brushing lightly over her cheek. "No more scribbling in the margins of my shipping manifests."

"I only did that once! Aur woh bhi saat saal pehle ki baat hai." She protested, laughing, hugging the heavy book tightly against her ribs. It had been his fault, anyway. She hadn't been sleepy, and Ammi had been busy with that stupid baby Faizal, so she had gone to find her father who had been discussing accounts or something with Chachu. It wasn't her fault that Baba had positioned her in his lap at the perfect height to pick up his pen and start scribbling.

They stepped out of the shop into the sunlit mouth of the alleyway, where the black SUV was idling a few paces away. Donga Chachu was standing by the rear door, while Siyahi Kaka kept a low, vigilant watch near the fruit stalls.

Then, her world shattered.

A deafening crack echoed off the walls, instantly followed by the screech of a bike tearing into the street. Two masked men, clad in drab pathanis, leveled pistols straight toward Rehman’s exposed back.

"Bhai!" Donga roared, drawing his weapon as the first volley of bullets sparked violently against the walls.

Rehman’s instincts fired in a split-second—his arm came around like an iron shield, shoving Sorayyah behind him toward the recessed doorway of the bookshop. But as Rehman pivoted to draw his own firearm, the second gunman lunged from the blind side of a spice stall, raising a heavy steel tire iron aimed directly at Rehman’s temple to break his guard.

Sorayyah didn't think.

With the wild, reckless fire passed down into her blood, she threw herself forward, swinging her heavy leather-bound notebook with all her strength directly into the attacker’s wrist. The ridges on the metal clasp were sure to hurt.

The book deflected the blow, but the steel bar violently clipped her arm on its downward arc. A sickening snap-crack tore through her right wrist. A blinding, white-hot agony flared up her arm, ripping a ragged gasp from her throat as she stumbled to her knees.

The distraction was all Rehman needed.

A terrifying roar tore from the Sher-e-Baloch’s throat. He seized the attacker by the throat, slamming him into the stone wall with enough force to shatter bone, while his free hand brought his sidearm up, putting two clean shots through the chest of the motorbike driver.

BANG.

A third gunshot cracked from the alley corner. Rehman’s massive frame shuddered. A dark, wet bloom instantly erupted across the linen over his left shoulder.

He didn't make a sound. He didn't even flinch. He simply turned, his jaw set in a terrifying mask of absolute death, and fired once more, dropping the final shooter dead on the cobblestones.

Silence slammed back down over the alley.

Donga and Siyahi rushed forward, weapons raised, securing the perimeter in seconds. Donga took one look at Rehman’s bleeding shoulder and reached for his arm. "Bhai—"

"Kuch nahi hua," Rehman said, his voice terrifyingly calm, though his breathing was shallow and rough. He didn't look at his own blood. His eyes were anchored entirely on Sorayyah, who was sitting on the ground, cradling her swollen, rapidly bruising wrist against her chest, tears of sheer physical shock pooling in her eyes.

Rehman crouched before her. His large, blood-stained fingers gently checked the angle of her wrist. When she whimpered at the touch, a muscle in his jaw ticked violently.

"Donga," Rehman ordered, without looking up. "Take the sedan. Drive me to the hospital. Siyahi, put her in the SUV. Take her straight home to her mother."

"No!" Sorayyah choked out, scrambling to her feet despite the sickening throb in her arm. Terror for him eclipsed the pain in her bones. "Baba, you’re bleeding! Aapko goli lagi hai! I’m coming with you—I'm not leaving you!"

Rehman stood up to his full, towering height.

He looked down at her.

Sorayyah froze. In all fifteen years of her life, she had seen Rehman Baloch angry at enemies, stern with overseers, and unyielding with strangers. But she had never, not once, seen that look directed at her.

His eyes were completely devoid of warmth. They were dark, cold, and hollowed out by a terrifying, suffocating disappointment that cut infinitely deeper than the bullet in his shoulder.

"Yeh sahi nahi tha, Sorayyah," Rehman said.

His voice was barely above a whisper, flat and utterly merciless in its quietness.

"Baba—"

"Get in the car," he said, turning his back on her without another word. He stepped into Donga’s vehicle, his hand clamping over his bleeding shoulder, and the car sped away into the traffic.

Sorayyah stood on the pavement, trembling violently, her chest heaving as if all the oxygen had been drained from the world. Siyahi gently guided her into the back of the SUV, holding a clean cloth against her swelling wrist, but she felt none of it. Her ears were ringing. He didn't even — Every time, every single time Sorayyah had gotten hurt, whether by accident or by her own fault, Baba had always held her and soothed her. But not this time.

The moment the SUV crossed the heavy iron gates, Sorayyah didn't wait for Siyahi to open her door. She pushed it open with her good hand and ran straight through the courtyard, up the steps, and into the living quarters.

"Ammi!" her voice broke, jagged and shrill, as she burst into her mother's study.

Ulfat was standing by the window, already holding a wireless handset—the news of the ambush had reached the haveli minutes before. At the sight of her daughter’s pale face and cradled wrist, her breath hitched, and she crossed the room swiftly.

"Raya!" Ulfat caught her by the shoulders, her sharp eyes scanning the girl from head to toe. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"He’s at the hospital—he got shot in the shoulder, Ammi, but he was walking, he was talking—" The words tumbled out of Sorayyah in a frantic torrent as the tears finally spilled over her cheeks. "They came from behind him with an iron bar. I used the notebook. I hit the man's arm so he wouldn't strike Baba's head! I saved him, Ammi... I stopped the hit! But Baba... unhone mujhe aise dekha jaise ki wo mujhse nafrat kartein hain! He wouldn't even let me ride in the car with him!"

Ulfat’s hands moved with efficiency, inspecting the broken angle of Sorayyah’s swollen wrist, her expression tightening with a mixture of immense relief and profound sorrow.

She pulled Sorayyah against her chest, letting the girl sob into her kurti for a long moment before she gently, firmly pushed her back by the shoulders to look her in the eye.

"Raya. Listen to me," Ulfat said softly. Her tone was tender, but beneath it ran the strict, unbending steel of a mother who understood the brutal arithmetic of their world. "Do you think your father was angry because he hates you?"

Sorayyah sniffled, her chin trembling. "He looked at me like I committed a crime."

"You did," Ulfat scolded her gently, her thumb wiping a hot tear from Sorayyah's cheek with an aching firmness. “Jaan, you know this…tumhara bada bhai humse bahut door ja chuka hai. What would it do to us to lose another child?”

The shock of the statement stopped her sniffing instantly. “Ammi -”

"Your father is the wall that stands between this family and the bullets, Raya. His entire life - our entire life - is to bleed so that you don't have to. When you stepped in front of that weapon, you did not save him—you terrified him. You broke your wrist, you made yourself a target, and scared both yourself and him."

Sorayyah’s throat closed up. Ulfat’s eyes softened. "A father cannot bear to see his daughter offer her bones to save his skin. You were reckless, meri jaan. You forgot your place as his child."

The words struck Sorayyah like a physical blow.

She pulled back from Ulfat’s touch, her chest tight with a crushing sense of betrayal. This isn't fair.

"I was trying to keep him alive," Sorayyah choked out, her voice hardening with that familiar, stubborn Baloch fire even through her tears. "I didn't do anything wrong."

Before Ulfat could call for someone to see her wrist, Sorayyah turned on her heel and ran down the corridor. She reached her bedroom, slammed the door shut with her good arm, and violently latched the bolt.

The afternoon light faded into long, bruised shadows across the floor of her room. Sorayyah remained curled against the foot of her bed, the steady, sickening throb in her right wrist radiating all the way up into her shoulder. Every pulse felt like a hammer striking bone, but she refused to call for help.

A soft, hesitant knock rattled the cedar wood.

"Aapi?"

A small, muffled voice drifted through the keyhole. It was Faizal, ten years old and constantly trailing in her shadow.

"Aapi, darwaza kholein na... Siyahi Kaka said you got hurt. Is Baba okay?"

A sharp ache twisted inside Sorayyah’s chest, far worse than the pain in her wrist. Ever since Naieem’s death a year ago, she had made an unwritten rule in the haveli: her door was never, under any circumstance, locked to Faizal. Whenever the grief grew too heavy or the quiet corridors felt too hollow, the boy would wander in and sit by her window without saying a word.

Her fingers twitched toward the door, but the raw humiliation and rage choked her. She couldn't face anyone—not even him.

"Faizal, abhi jao yahan se," she choked out, her voice ragged and thick with tears. "Go to Ammi. Please. Just leave me alone."

Silence hung on the other side of the door. Then came the soft, dragging shuffle of his slippers moving away down the corridor. Sorayyah pressed her forehead into her knees, sick with self-loathing. Nearly an hour passed before heavier, slower footsteps stopped outside. A low tap sounded against the panel.

"Shehzaadi?" It was Siyahi, his rough, gravelly voice softened to a careful plea. "Darwaza kholein. I have the splints and the tincture with me. Your mother has sent me, and if Bhai returns and sees your arm looking like a swollen melon, he will have me skinned alive. Rehem karo mujh par."

Sorayyah swallowed down the lump in her throat. She knew Siyahi wasn't entirely joking; if her father returned to find her neglected, the entire haveli would bear the brunt of his fury.

Slowly, using her left hand, she stood up, unlocked the heavy bolt, and pulled the door open.

Siyahi stepped inside without a word, guided her to the low divan, and set to work. He was remarkably gentle, the way all her father's men were, setting the cracked bone and wrapping her wrist in tight linen.

Once he finished securing her wrist, he reached under the medical kit and retrieved the embossed leather notebook from the morning. He placed it carefully on her lap.

"I picked it up from the stones after the shooting," Sorayyah looked down. The midnight-indigo leather was intact, but across the intricate gold embossing and the polished silver clasp, a smear of dark, dried blood had crusted into the metal. Her father's blood? Or the attacker’s?

She turned her face away, unable to look at it.

By dusk, the haveli’s gates groaned open, signaling the return of the vehicles. Sorayyah heard the quiet commotion in the courtyard below, the low murmur of men’s voices, and her mother’s hurried footsteps.

She did not leave her room. She sat rigidly by the window, her arm resting on her lap, staring out into the twilight with a stormy, defensive fire brewing in her chest.

After a while, familiar footsteps approached her room. The door opened wider, and Rehman stepped inside.

His left shoulder was heavily bandaged beneath his kurta, his arm resting stiffly against his side. His face looked weary. How badly is he hurt?

He closed the door behind him and walked slowly toward her. "Raya."

The sound of his voice snapped the fragile thread holding her fury together. Sorayyah shot to her feet, her eyes blazing through a sudden rush of fresh tears.

"Why are you here, Baba?" she snapped, the words flying like sparks. "Kya dekhne aaye hain? Have you come to scold me like much? Did it hurt your pride that much? Itni takleef hui aapko ke aapki beti ne aapki jaan bacha li?" She didn't know why she was shouting. She wanted to ask if he was hurt, if he was angry. But she couldn't stop herself.

Rehman stopped two paces away. He didn't interrupt. He simply stood there, an immovable mountain of patience, letting the storm break over him.

"You treated me like a criminal on that street!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "I saw that man with the iron bar! He was going to split your skull open! Main kya karti? Was I supposed to stand there like a useless coward and watch you die? Aapko lagta hai main chup-chaap tamasha dekhti?!"

Blind with rage, Sorayyah stepped forward and violently shoved his chest, trying to keep away from his shoulder. Her wrist stung from the sudden movement.

Rehman swayed slightly with the impact, but his feet remained planted. He didn't raise his voice. "Chot lag jayegi, gudiya," he murmured quietly, his deep voice carrying no edge of anger. "Watch your hurt hand. Don't strain it."

The care in his tone only infuriated her more. "Don't tell me what to do!" she cried, lunging forward to shove him again. "Mujhe aapse baat hi nahi karni—"

Before she could strike his chest a second time, Rehman’s uninjured right arm reached out.

He didn't grab her with force. His warm hand caught her left wrist gently, halted her movement, and pulled her smoothly into his chest. He folded his heavy arm completely around her back, tucking her small, trembling frame securely against his side, carefully sheltering her injured arm against his ribs.

The moment her forehead hit the warm linen of his kurta, all the fire went out of her.

A jagged, broken sob tore from her throat. Her knees gave out, and she would have collapsed if his iron grip hadn't held her aloft. She buried her face into his neck, weeping uncontrollably, her good hand clutching the fabric of his shirt as if she were drowning.

"Bas, meri jaan... bas," Rehman whispered, his rough voice breaking slightly as he pressed his lips into the crown of her hair. He rocked her slowly, his hand rubbing a steady, comforting circle across her back. "Shh... Baba yahan hai. I am sorry, gudiya. I am so sorry I frightened you on the street."

Sorayyah choked on her tears, her voice muffled against his skin. "You looked at me like... like you hated me, Baba… mujhe laga…"

"Nahi, meri jaan, kabhi nahi," Rehman breathed, his chest heaving with a deep, shuddering sigh. "When I heard the bone crack under that iron, my soul left my body. Mera dum nikal gaya tha. If that blow had landed an inch higher, or if a bullet had caught you..." His hand tightened around her, holding her so close she could feel the heavy, frantic thrum of his heartbeat. "I could not bear to lose you. Meri jaan nikal jaati, gudiya."

She sniffled loudly, resting her chin weakly against his collarbone, the fight completely drained from her marrow. "Aap... aap mujhse naraz nahi hain?" It was such a childish thing to say, but she couldn't help it.

"No, I am not angry with you," Rehman said softly, kissing her temple. Then, his tone settled into a quiet, firmness that always made her listen. "But you cannot do something like this ever again, Raya. Promise me. Yeh tumhara kaam nahi hai."

Even through her tears, the stubbornness flared. She pulled back slightly to glare up at him. "I won't promise that! Jab bhi aap par aanch aayegi, main bachaungi. Aapko kya lagta hai, do you think I'll just stand by and watch?"

Rehman looked down at her fierce, tear-streaked face. A smile touched the corners of his mouth.

"Toh phir mujhe tum par har waqt nazar rakhni padegi," he replied softly, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Because I will not let you throw yourself into the fire for me."

Sorayyah wanted to pout. She wanted to pull away and maintain her wounded dignity, but the sheer, furnace-like warmth of his chest and the steady rhythm of his breathing were impossible to resist. The exhaustion of the day and the dull ache in her arm finally caught up to her. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she let her head sink back onto his shoulder, completely pliant in his hold.

"Baba..." she murmured drowsily, her words slurring with impending sleep.

"Hmm?"

"The notebook you bought me..." she whispered against his collar. "Us par khoon lag gaya hai. The metal clasp is all bloody."

Rehman tightened his arm around her, lifting her easily and carrying her toward the bed, settling her against the soft pillows while keeping his right arm hooked under her shoulders to hold her close.

"Then I will buy you another one tomorrow," Rehman said gently, pulling the warm quilt over her shivering frame with his free hand. "Sau kitabein la kar doonga. Go to sleep now, gudiya."

Sorayyah let out a defeated sigh, her small fingers curling weakly into his sleeve. She didn't want to fall asleep. She hadn't fallen asleep in Baba's arms since she was fourteen. Not once. Well, except for that one time. And then maybe that other time… whatever. She could just close her eyes for a few seconds.

When she slept, for the first time in months, she did not dream of Naieem.

tagging: @tanipartner @rehmanhatesdosa @hamzakamehroomkurta @gulaabjamun08 @debsreads21 @gehra-hua @tobitoooo @thandicoffee @mcdreamyshepherd @desigurlie @mehfil-e-random @donewithmath @tojisloft @cloudmast @shadylovedhurandhar @carbonaramarinara @sanpiece @secretlyfloatinghex @pavbhajisupremacist

[lilymodernfamily]

Loved how this 1 straight min of the entire 10mins long song was dedicated solely to him.

Dharamvir 🇮🇳❤️‍🩹🫶

Guys, the love you all have showered on both of my brainrot edits 🤧, I am grateful 🥹🫶.

I still have some resting in my editing app's drafts. They just need a little brush up. Should I post them as well??

I have an Independence day special edit which i'll post tonight😁

[vaari-javaan]

Happy Independence day guyss!!! 🇮🇳🇮🇳

P.S.- F*ck all the "Are we really indipendent?" reels cause yes we are.

JAI HIND JAI BHARAT