Palke jhapakta hain mera asman

Lost in ghazals , ghungroos and gajras ✨🌙

[pyaar-ka-pinjra]

Sketched rehman and ulfat to heal my broken heart 💔💔💔 and sketched hamza (well cause I wanted to 😏😏😋😋😋)

DISCLAIMER : THESE ARE IN NO WAY RELATED TO ANY REAL LIFE PEOPLE THESE HAVE BEEN MADE ON THE MOVIE DHURANDHAR AND DHURANDHAR: THE REVENGE KEEPING THE MOVIE CHARACTERIZATIONS IN MIND

[luvvkk]

Dil To Pagal Hai ˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀

Prologue˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀

·········⋆༺❀༻⋆·········

Lyari didn’t raise children the way other places did. It raised them aware.

Aware of which streets belonged to who, aware of which turns were safe and which ones weren’t, aware of names, some spoken with respect, others with warning.

By the early 2000s, Lyari had already been split into pieces. Certain areas fell under Pathan control, run through names like Ashad Papu and Babu Dakit, while other parts belonged to Baloch factions under Rehman Dakit.

The divide wasn’t written down anywhere, but everyone knew it existed.

You could feel it in the atmosphere the second you crossed certain streets. Shops changed, faces changed, the way people looked at you changed. Even children understood where they could and couldn’t wander freely.

Aisha Wazir grew up in the middle of that awareness.

Her world wasn’t quiet, but it wasn’t chaotic either. It was controlled, structured. People spoke carefully, moved carefully, trusted even more carefully.

Conversations in her house were never just conversations, they were layered, half-said, always carrying meaning underneath.

As a child, she would sit just outside rooms where elders spoke, pretending not to listen while catching every word anyway. Routes, names, movements, problems, solutions.

No one officially taught her. She just learned.

And when she started speaking, really speaking, people noticed. Not because she was loud, but because she was right more often than she should’ve been.

At first, it was dismissed. A child and a female at that repeating things she’d heard. Then it became harder to ignore, she didn’t just repeat, she understood.

Still, none of that gave her a pass. If anything, it meant she had to prove herself more.

Aisha wasn’t the type to quietly accept things just because someone older said them. If she thought something sounded wrong, she said it directly. If someone made a weak decision, she pointed it out without softening the words first.

There was something naturally fearless about her, something sharp in the way she carried herself even when she was younger. She refused to make herself smaller just because rooms full of men expected her to.

Across Lyari, Uzair Baloch was being raised in a completely different way.

There were no quiet observations in his world. No sitting outside rooms listening in. You were either part of something, or you weren’t. And Uzair had been part of it from the beginning.

He learned early how to stand his ground, how to read a situation before it turned, how to respond before someone else got the chance. Respect wasn’t something you waited for, it was something you took, and once you had it, you didn’t let it slip.

There was no patience for hesitation. No tolerance for weakness.

Where Aisha’s world sharpened her mind, Uzair’s sharpened his instincts.

Even when he was younger, there was something calm and naturally commanding about him. He carried himself with a confidence that made people notice him without him asking for attention.

A teasing smirk often sat lazily on his face like he found the world slightly entertaining, even when situations were tense.

Tall for his age with broad shoulders and a presence that filled spaces easily, he moved through Lyari like he belonged to every street he stepped on.

But underneath that relaxed exterior was someone constantly paying attention. Uzair noticed details people assumed he ignored. He read people quickly, understood tension before it fully surfaced, and rarely reacted without thinking first.

There was a carelessness around him that felt almost natural, but it came from growing up in a world where fear had no real use unless you learned how to control it.

And the only thing in common about the way that both of them were taught things was, that the other side was not to be trusted.

————————————-

The first real clash between them didn’t happen in some planned meeting or formal gathering.

It happened where Lyari always exposed its real energy, on the streets of its own hub where both sides crossed paths out of necessity rather than choice.

It was late afternoon, the kind where the heat still sat heavy on the ground but movement in the area had picked up again, with groups drifting through the main hub in loose formation, each side aware of the other even when pretending not to be.

Aisha was moving with a small group from her side, walking with the kind of calm that didn’t invite attention but still held it anyway. There was no rush in her steps, no unnecessary hesitation, just a steady awareness of everything happening around her.

Across the space, Uzair was with Donga and Siyahi, both slightly behind him like they naturally defaulted to his pace without needing instructions. He wasn’t looking at her at first, but he felt the shift in energy before he even turned.

It started with Siyahi. A low laugh, barely even trying to be subtle, as he glanced toward Aisha’s group and said loud enough to be heard, “Yeh Pathan log ab yahan bhi ghoom rahe hain? Apne area mein enough control nahi hai kya?” His tone wasn’t just teasing, it was deliberately disrespectful, the kind of comment meant to provoke a reaction for entertainment.

Donga chuckled beside him, adding in without thinking much, “Lagta hai galti se aa gaye, bhatak gaye honge.” The two of them clearly expected it to pass like usual street talk, something that would get ignored or laughed off depending on who was present.

But Aisha stopped walking immediately.

She turned slightly, her expression shifting just enough for her group to notice the change in her attention. Then she spoke, her tone calm but cutting in a way that didn’t need volume to land.

“Agar tum logo ko apni jagah ka itna hi pata hota, toh dusro ke area mein bakwaas karne ki zarurat nahi padti.” There was no hesitation in how she said it, no softness added to make it easier to swallow. It was direct, almost dismissive in how little effort she put into it.

A few people nearby shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tone change instantly. Siyahi’s smile dropped slightly, but before he could respond, and Uzair had finally looked over properly.

His gaze landed on her, slow and controlled, like he was deciding something before speaking. When he did, his voice was flat, almost bored, but sharper underneath. “Zyada bol rahi hai tu.” It wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t meant to be. It was the kind of statement meant to reassert control in the conversation.

Aisha didn’t even blink. “Aur tumhare log kuch zyada soch rahe hain jo unke samajh se bhaar hai,” she replied immediately, matching his tone without raising hers.

That landed differently. Not because it was loud or aggressive, but because she didn’t hesitate to step into his space verbally. It wasn’t just a comeback, it was a refusal to step back.

Donga shifted slightly, glancing at Uzair like he was waiting for him to respond properly now. Siyahi’s expression tightened, clearly not liking how quickly the tone had flipped. Uzair’s jaw set for a moment, his gaze still fixed on her, studying her like she had crossed an invisible line that most people avoided without thinking.

He stepped half a pace forward without even realizing it, just enough to close the distance in presence. “Yahan baat samajh ki nahi hai,” he said, voice still controlled but darker now. “Yahan baat respect ke hoti hai, jo tere jaise logo ke paas nahi milte.”

Aisha let out a quiet breath through her nose, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Ajeeb baat hai,” she said, her tone almost mocking now. “Khud bakwaas shuru karo phir expect karo saamne wala tameez se baat kare?”

That was when the air really changed. It wasn’t loud. Nobody shouted, but the shift was immediate. People around them stopped pretending not to listen. Even movement in the background slowed slightly, like the space itself was adjusting to the tension forming between them.

For a moment, Uzair just looked at her. Not reacting, not speaking. Something in his expression had tightened, not anger exactly, but something closer to irritation at how easily she was holding her ground. Like it bothered him that she wasn’t folding the way most people did.

Then he let out a short, dry laugh, shaking his head slightly. “Theek hai,” he said quietly. “Bol le jitna bolna hai. Baad mein attitude halka ho hi jaata hai.”

It wasn’t a threat shouted loudly. It was worse than that. It was quiet certainty, the kind that stayed even after the moment passed.

Aisha didn’t respond to that. She just held his gaze for a second longer, expression unreadable again, before turning away like the conversation had already ended for her.

But for Uzair, it hadn’t.

Because it wasn’t the argument that stayed with him after that moment. It was the fact that she hadn’t flinched once. Not once.

And somewhere between that moment and the silence that followed after it, something ugly and unshakable rooted itself between them.

————————————-

After that day, nothing between them ever felt neutral again.

Years passed, but the tension only changed shape. Their paths crossed less directly as they grew older, yet somehow they became more aware of each other than before. Every move from one side eventually reached the other in some form. Every decision carried the possibility of response.

Uzair never forgot the way she spoke to him without hesitation.

And Aisha never forgot the look in his eyes when he realized she wasn’t intimidated by him.

In Lyari, their names slowly started appearing together in conversations not because they worked together, but because they kept colliding against the same spaces, the same decisions, the same power structures.

And by the time they were older, people had stopped treating it like childish rivalry.

Because it wasn’t childish anymore. It had become something sharper. Heavier. The kind of tension that sat quietly in rooms before either of them even spoke.

But while that rivalry kept growing underneath the surface, Lyari itself was beginning to shift around them.

Especially on the Baloch side.

The tension between the Baloch United Force and the ISI had started bleeding into everyday life in ways people could no longer ignore.

Things that once felt stable suddenly didn’t. Trusted routes became uncertain. Familiar faces disappeared from meetings without explanation. Conversations lowered the second certain topics came up.

Nothing was being said openly yet. But everyone felt it.

Especially Uzair.

Because for the first time in years, Lyari no longer felt like a city divided between Pathan and Baloch.

It felt like something else was slowly moving into the cracks between them.

And neither side realized yet just how much it was about to change everything.

·········⋆༺❀༻⋆·········

Taglist:

@kamalkafool @mariaaysbusjs @warnermeadowsgirl @rini4everdreaming @sanpiece @tojisloft @obsessedwidskincare @nerdreader @draculauras-stuff @roses-and-iron @y0uneversawmehere @sparksfromhell @dc-reign @rehmandakaitswife @tanipartner @desi-daru @shadylovedhurandhar @zahraluvslilies @nervouscashrascalflowers @harrystyleskiwi9 @desi-brownie @losraire @perfectcherryblossomrebel @batata04 @between-smoke-and-roses @wevibing0w0 @so-arttt-deco @scentedwolfdragon @tessa-bl @mysoulbelongstobuckybarnes @yembarzal @mainyahaankyunhoon @bitchystxnk @written-in-ishq @kriti-ki-dulhania @angelicyuna @goldenharrysworld @goodnightkatherine @mrgrungusthefrog @buchanana00 @pixiiiiiiiiidust @cakiebleh @layss19 @santaklausbaby @kenkozkmg @anxiousbeeing @gulaabjamun08 @saniisinsane @obeythebutler @chai-aur-chaand @bobcuts-blog @barcelonaaababe @athena-roy

[roohafterdark]

A Lyari Gangster’s Guide to Romance

Uzair x reader

Haa, raat ke 2:30 baje upload karri hu kyuki chull hai mujhe. Patience hai nahi mere andar ki likh ke rakhlo. Toh saari duniya soyegi, main post krungi. Chutiya harkat.

Anyways, this is in 5+1 format. And it is a crackfic, logic matt dhundo. Have fun reading!

---

The Five Times He Tried...

The environment at the port was unexpectedly calm. Usually there would be hustle and bustle, people shouting at each other, some might even play football in between shipments, but today, everything was different. Why? Because Uzair said so. His exact words were “Hamza, I want to read today. If I hear one sound, all of you would be dead, including you.”

Uzair sat on his chair, with a book in one hand, cigarette in another. He went another step forward and put on his nose-cancelling headphones, listening to ‘beach waves for reading’.

Kamyab Shadi Shuda Zindagi ke Raaz 

(Secrets of a Successful Married Life)

He bought the book when he got a contract to kill the bookshop owner. If he still paid for the book. His logic was ‘Khuddaari bhi koi cheez hai’. (Self-respect is also a thing.) His plan was simple. He got married recently, a political marriage, and he wanted to make this work and he had seen his wife read a few times. So why not give it a try and follow a random man’s advice?

Tip 1: Munasib tashbeeh se apni biwi ki hausla afzai kijiye. 

(Encourage your wife using appropriate metaphors.)

He was sitting in his cabin when he heard your paazeb’s sound through the corridor. He hid his book behind his back. He didn’t want you to see him, well, learning how to be a husband. He looked at the door as you walked in with a tray in your hands, looking tired after a long day of dealing with the chaotic energy of the house and neighbourhood.

Usually, he would just grunt, nod or a small ‘shukriya’, and go back to his work. But the book- that cursed, hopeful book- demanded Khush-Guftari. It demanded "Sweet Words."

He cleared his throat which sounded like a shovel hitting gravel. Did he always sound like this? He thought. He stood up, knocking his chair back slightly, causing his guards outside the door to reach for their holsters. He waved them off with a sharp flick of his wrist and turned to you. 

He tried to ‘soften’ his gaze for you. Although, to everyone, it looked like he was having a mild stroke or perhaps planning to bury a body, but in his mind, he was looking like the epitome of warmth. He walked towards her slowly, his eyes locked with hers with the intensity of his M200. 

“Suno,” he began, his voice dropping to a low hum that was meant to be romantic but felt more like an interrogation in a soundproof room. (Listen)

You froze, the tea tray rattling slightly. “Uzair? Everything okay?”

He didn’t answer immediately. He stood there scanning her face, searching for the munasib tashbeeh. He was thinking of places of things that brought him peace. A shipment clearing without any obstacle? Silenced weapon? Perfectly forged passport?

“Ma'shallah,” he finally took a deep breath, the sincerity easily detectable in his voice. “Aaj tumhara chehra... tumhari ye khoobsurti…” (Today your face… your beauty…)

You held your breath, expecting a line of poetry, or perhaps a mention of the moon over the Arabian Sea.

“Tumhara chehra bilkul police-clearance certificate ki tarah saaf lag raha hai,” he declared, his chest swelling with genuine pride. (Your face looks clearer than the police-clearance certificate.)

He looked at you expectantly, waiting for the ‘blooming garden’ the book promised. To Uzair, there was no higher praise. A clean record meant safety; it meant no lafda, no unwanted attention, and no stains. 

“Clean as a... police clearance?” you whispered, your brain trying to process the 'romance.'

“Bilkul,” he nodded solemnly, completely oblivious to the absurdity. “Ek dum clear. Koi kharcha nahi, koi panga nahi. Dekh kar dil ko sukoon milta hai.”

He stood there, towering over you, immensely proud of his linguistic breakthrough.

Tip 2: Zarooriyat-e-zindagi ki farahami mein biwi ka hath batayein. 

(Lend a hand in providing the necessities of life.) 

It was a casual evening, you were in the kitchen, sighing as you shook an empty carton. “Uzair, we’re out of milk. I will go get it, okay?”

Uzair didn't look up from his phone, but his eyes narrowed, “Go back inside, I will get the milk.” The book had warned him: solving her problems is the essence of love. He didn't want you wandering the streets. That was a security risk. More importantly, it was an insult to his book.

“Wait,” he said, his voice a low command. He stepped onto the balcony and made a single phone call. “Hamza. The dairy truck on the main road. Bring it. Now.”

Ten minutes later, the screech of heavy brakes echoed through the street. You ran to the window to see a massive commercial milk delivery truck parked sideways across your driveway, blocking all traffic. Four of Uzair’s ‘boys’ stood around it, looking bored but lethal. 

The driver was ushered to your front door, trembling so hard he nearly dropped his clipboard. He was apologizing profusely for his audacity of the milk not being at the house before you even asked for it. ‘Huh?’ You were confused.

Uzair stood by the door, arms crossed over his chest, watching as his men hauled three entire crates of chilled bottles into your kitchen. He looked at you, his face still set in that terrifyingly rigid ‘soft’ expression he had practiced.

“Dekho,” he said, gesturing to the mountain of dairy now occupying your counter. "Khidmat ho gayi na?" (Service has been done, right?)

You looked at the terrified driver, then at the hijacked truck, then at your husband. 

Tip 3: Tohfa de kar ehsas dilaein ke wo aap ke liye kitni qeemti hai.

(Give a gift to make her feel how valuable she is to you.) 

Uzair had been staring at Tip 3 for twenty minutes. He frowned. He didn't understand the point of jewelry. If you wore a gold necklace in Lyari, someone would just snatch it, and then he’d have to spend his whole Sunday tracking down the thief and breaking his shins. It was inefficient.

No, he needed a gift that provided security.

You were sitting in your living room, doomscrolling reels when you heard some noise from the main door. You looked up from your home and saw four men dragging a rusted, industrial-grade iron safe. They put them down right in front of you, leaving deep gouges in your flooring. Uzair stood behind them, looking like he’d just won a war. He dismissed the men, who fled the room as if the safe was about to detonate.

“Uzair?” you asked, eyeing the hunk of metal. “Is there... a person in there?”

“Open it,” he commanded, though he tried to add a ‘romantic’ tilt to his head that made him look like he was spotting a target.

You knelt, struggling with the heavy dial until the door creaked open with a groan of neglected hinges. You expected gold, or perhaps the family heirlooms of a rival. Instead, you found a stack of laminated documents tied with a rough rubber band.

“It’s the title deeds to the petrol pump on the main bypass,” he announced, his chest swelling with pride. “The owner decided he wanted to retire. Suddenly. Today.”

You looked at the papers, then back at his scarred, expectant face. “A petrol pump, Uzair? Most people give flowers on their anniversaries.”

He scoffed, a short, sharp sound. “Flowers die. Petrol prices only go up.” He stepped closer, his shadow looming over the safe. He reached out, awkwardly patting the cold iron of the box as if it were a bouquet. “Ye chhota sa nishana hai meri mohabbat ka. Agle mahine se commission tumhara.” (This is a small token of my love. From next month, the commission is yours.)

For Uzair, nothing said "you are precious to me" like granting you the territorial rights to high-octane fuel and 24/7 convenience store profits. In his world, romance was an investment.

Tip 4: Duniya se be-khabar ho kar apni poori tawajjo biwi par rakhein.

(Ignore the world and keep your full attention on your wife.)

The port was eerily quiet again. Uzair had canceled the weekly ‘collection’ meetings and told Hamza that if anyone called about the disputed territory in Shershah, they should be told he was ‘busy with a higher priority.’

You were sitting on the sofa, trying to enjoy a Pakistani drama, and your dear husband decided to accompany you today. You were now wondering if your definitions of a co-watch were different. Uzair was sitting bolt upright in an armchair moved exactly three feet from yours, his noise-canceling headphones around his neck, staring at you. 

Not at the screen. 

Not at his phone. 

Just at you.

Every time you reached for a popcorn kernel, his eyes followed your hand with the precision of a CCTV camera. When you adjusted your cushion, his head tilted in sync. It had been forty-five minutes of unblinking, predatory silence.

“Uzair,” you finally snapped, pausing the TV. “Why are you looking at me like I’m a suspicious package? The drama is over there.”

He didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper where he’d scribbled notes from the book, and checked it once.

“The TV is a distraction,” he muttered, his voice sounding a bit strained, like he was trying way too hard to focus. “The book says the world must disappear. Right now, there is no Lyari. There is no port. There is only one target... I mean, there is only you.”

“It’s creepy, Uzair. You look like you’re waiting for me to confess to a crime.”

He leaned in closer, his shadow engulfing your half of the sofa. “Kitab mein likha hai... tawajjo sirf tum pe honi chahiye,” he muttered, quoting the text like a religious mantra. “I am giving you 100% surveillance. I mean, attention. Don't move. I’m ignoring the world.”

You let out a sigh, looking at the man who had neutralized entire rival factions but couldn't figure out how to sit on a couch normally. “Uzair, if you don't look at the TV in the next five seconds, I’m calling the Rangers to come and arrest me just so I can get some privacy.”

He paused, his brow furrowing as he processed the threat. He slowly turned his head toward the TV, but his eyes remained cut sharply to the side, still tracking your every move. You slumped back, realizing that to Uzair Baloch, ‘Quality Time’ was basically just a high-intensity stakeout where the suspect was his wife.

Tip 5: "Shafqat se hath thamna taluqaat mein garma-joshi paida karta hai." 

(Holding hands with compassion creates warmth in a relationship.) 

Uzair was sweating, actual, physical sweat that had nothing to do with the humidity. He had survived gang wars and military operations, but this tiny Urdu book was currently kicking his ass. He flipped to the last page he’d bookmarked. Tip number 5. 

He stared at his own hands. They were huge, calloused, and mostly used for things people didn't talk about in polite company. How the hell was he supposed to do compassion?

He saw you standing by the window, looking out at the port lights. This was it. 

He walked up behind you, his boots heavy on the floorboards. He wanted to give you one of those comforting pats on the back the book mentioned. But Uzair didn't have a gentle setting. His muscle memory was stuck on ‘Good job, soldier’ by default after a successful raid.

WHAM.

The pat landed with the force of a falling sandbag. You stumbled forward, the air leaving your lungs in a pathetic little wheeze. You grabbed the windowsill just to stay upright, your vision blurring for a second.

“Ya Allah! Uzair!” you gasped, clutching your chest. “Are you trying to be nice or are you trying to crack my ribs?”

Uzair froze, his hand still hovering in the air. He looked genuinely panicked, his tough-guy mask slipping for a split second. “Maafi... galti ho gayi,” he muttered, sounding like a kid who’d accidentally broken a window. “The book said 'warmth.' I thought I was being light.”

“Light? I think I have a handprint bruised into my soul,” you groaned.

He looked so defeated that you felt a pang of pity. Seeing him look so lost, you reached out to take his hand. But the second your fingers touched his, Uzair’s brain flipped back into tactical mode. His fingers locked around yours in a vice-like grip, his thumb pinning your knuckles down with the exact pressure used to keep a prisoner from pulling a hidden knife.

“Uzair... meri jaan... you’re cutting off the blood flow,” you winced, looking at your fingers turning a vivid shade of purple. “I’m not going to run away.”

He didn't loosen the grip. Instead, he leaned in, his face inches from yours, his expression so intensely focused it was almost scary. “Kitab kehti hai sukoon milega,” he whispered, his voice gravelly and dead serious. “I am holding you. You are safe. Just... feel the sukoon, okay?”

You looked at your trapped hand, then at his sweating, determined face, and realized that for Uzair, love was a 24/7 security detail you couldn't escape even if you tried.

...And the One Time She Did.

Tip 6: “Shohar ki thakaan utaarne ke liye unka saath dein.” 

(Accompany your husband to relieve his exhaustion.)

This was the problem with reading a book written for ‘normal’ people. By the time Uzair got to Tip 6, he was exhausted, and you were just confused. You had managed to pry the book from his desk while he was busy ‘securing the perimeter’ (ordering a second milk truck because he thought the first one looked lonely).

The book suggested a quiet walk in a park or perhaps listening to his ‘roze-marra ki baatein’ (daily talk) over a cup of tea. You figured if he was trying this hard, you could meet him halfway.

You found him in his office, brooding over a map of the docks.

“Uzair,” you said, leaning against the door. “The book says I should accompany you to help you relax. You look tired. Let’s do something together.”

Uzair’s head snapped up. He looked at you, then at the map, then back at you. “The book said that? About me?”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes. It says I should be part of your world for a bit. So... what’s on the schedule?”

Uzair stood up, a slow grin spreading across his face. “The book is wise. Come. Hamza! Get the car. And the heavy vests.”

Ten minutes later, you were sitting in the back of a bulletproof sedan, sandwiched between Uzair and a crate of what looked like tax collection notices. 

“Uzair,” you whispered. “I meant like... a stroll. Or a movie.”

“Nahi,” he said, checking the magazine of his pistol with a rhythmic click-clack that he clearly found soothing. “This is my 'roze-marra.’ Tumhe meri thakaan mitaani hai na? Help me look for the white Hilux. If you see it, tell me.” (No)(You wanted to help me get rid of my tiredness?)

He leaned back, looking more relaxed than you’d seen him all week. He even reached over and did that secure hand-hold again, pinning your hand to his knee like he was protecting a precious asset.

“This is nice,” he muttered, closing his eyes as the car sped through the narrow streets of Lyari. “I usually have to do this with Hamza, and he talks too much about football. You are much better.”

You looked out the window at the blurred streets, then at your husband, who was finally relaxing because he had successfully turned his wife into his tactical lookout. 

“You're welcome, Uzair,” you sighed, leaning your head on his shoulder. “But if we get into a chase, I’m charging you extra for the 'supportive spouse' role.”

“Zaroor,” he murmured, half-asleep. “Aglay mahinay se... ek aur petrol pump tumhara.” (Of course… From next month… another petrol pump is yours.)

---

@hloeveryone123

Taglist: @shadylovedhurandhar @cloudmast @araasa @dumbassdictionarysds @harrystyleskiwi9 @scentedwolfdragon @legendmoonstone @tehmam @faebutterflygayaf @goldenharrysworld @manjari08 @iamadelusionalwriter @bobcuts-blog @ai-manre @carmenred28 @mainyahaankyunhoon @velvetdakait @pleasetagmejaaneman @rehmandakaitswife @buchanana00 @yembarzal @niyadarealart @marlena-marlena @laal-pari @shadyalpaca13 @riddhi-on-break @sea-breeze-in-my-hair @yetunekyakiyaa @pixiiiiiiiiidust @gulaabjamun08 @kriti-ki-dulhania @thirteensome @idonthavechatpateusernamed @prettyprettypleaseplease @granddynamonovajbvgjjj @lakshana-ke-lakshan @rini4everdreaming @savagedrama @bitchy-bi-trash @debsreads21 @love-me-not27 @lcvjun @tanipartner @sincerelyemmekay @psychicpandadefendor @sassytroopersurvivor @judespoision @jayayayaya @nilishaaa @ppinkitten @crimsontraditiongolem

[miraclejin1204]

Danish for Brut India

He is aware that he is called Pookie Gangster on the streets 🎀💗😁

🔗 https://www.instagram.com/reel/DX3WYsYInI5

[nevereversaygoodbye]

Basically all Rehmat scenes together 😚 excuse my editing lol not good at it, idea came to me on my run last night cuz the song came on shuffle

Tags: Tags: @goodasaysboo @leftmakerpaperpie @dc-reign @kamalkafool @sanpiece @subhu-99 @qalamband @pleasetagmejaaneman @sparksfromhell @jacqueline-17 @adityami

[cvclee]

PEAK FEMALE CONTENT :)

[cupcaketulips-deactivated202604]

AUKAT KE BAHAR VALE CRUSH😔🥰🥀

[rehmandakaitswife]

for @between-smoke-and-roses 💗

[pyaar-ka-pinjra]

Gehra Hua cover

Gehra hua made me feel something

Something which cannot be explained by mere words...perhaps it transcends me into a reverie

Maybe a deep heart-wrenching pain

Or an overwhelming burden of something unfulfilled...

[tojisloft]

Dhruandhar (2025) // Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan on November 16, 1581 (1885)

[lakshana-ke-lakshan]

This because UZAIR IS SO HOT AHHHHHHHHHHH-

Oh ya, and that's definitely an engagement ring😭😭

EITHER WAYS, SO HOT-

THE EYES, THE KAJAL- THE VENGEANCE AHHHHHHHH

(bro if someone has that clip of him playing footie with pappus head, please send🙏🙏)

[goth-queen]

[shippingtheshippers]

Akshaye be like: How dare you to hugged my onscreen wife like this....now let me show you who can kiss her openly😭✋

Akshaye husband mode got activated. I can imagine his expressions. Afterall she is his Ulfat jaan 🙈

[dreamboatt]

[cloudyparadoxqueen]

Need every person in this place to remember this !!

Country first always and everytime.

[angelicyuna]

Uzair Baloch 🌚🤌✨🛐

[kissmebeforecourt]

[iamnotmeantforthisworld]

No one’s daughter but still there

[maystella]

Happiest birthday to one of the best actor and human being!!!

Honestly, bollywood do not apperciate him much. Like he is one of the most talented actor to ever exist and what i have come across is that he is one of the cutest and sweetest person. From himalya putra, taal, kudrat, deewangee, border, dil chahta hai, naqab, aakrosh, ittefaq, hungama, 36 china town, hulchul, shaadi se pehle, mere baap pehle aap, mom, sab kushal mangal to dhurandhar! His range needs to be studied. He is A grade actor. He just enjoys and loves his own space, he is very straight-forward, and have absolute clarity in his life.(that after dhrandhar, he disappeared somewhere, he didn't gave us single glimpse of him🥹) and i just love him sm! no matter how hard my days gets or how hectic and tiresome it becomes, his interviews always manages to make me smile like crazy, he is my thereapy, my healing, comfort-zone. The fact healing is hearing him!! I will forever love him and support him. After dhurandhar, i am so happy that he is finally getting all the love he deserves! Again, happiest birthday to our AK! may god always bring him happiness and all the things he deserves and he wants🥹