idk how to explain this but his fingers are moulded for [redacted], feeling his thick digits deep inside my [redacted] oh yeah.... and those veiny godly hands ?? they pin me up while he [redacted] his cock in me
WARNING - I am assuming these events are canon, characters are fictional.
The sun filtered through the ornate lattice windows of the Baloch Haveli, casting warm, golden patterns across the spacious living room. The air was filled with the soft hum of family life, distant chatter from the kitchen, the occasional cry of a baby, and the faint scent of jasmine from the courtyard garden.
In the heart of it all sat Sara, cradling her five-month-old twins on a plush embroidered cushion. Little Aisha and Ahmed were the picture of chubby perfection, their round cheeks flushed pink, tiny fists waving as they gurgled contentedly. Sara's eyes, though, held a flicker of worry as she adjusted the blanket over them.
'I just… I was so scared when they were newborns,' Sara confessed, her voice soft as she glanced up at Ulfat, who was bustling in with a tray of fresh chai and sweets. 'They seemed so small, and I kept thinking, am I doing this right? Feeding them enough? Look at them now, pure chub! What if I overdid it?'
Ulfat set the tray down on the low wooden table with a knowing smile, her dupatta slipping slightly over her shoulder as she laughed, a warm, infectious sound that echoed through the room. 'Are mera bachha, don't you fret for a second. That chonkiness? It's straight from the Balochi men genes. These little ones are just carrying on the family tradition!'
Sara blinked, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. 'Genes? You mean… like Bhai and Uzair bhi?'
'Exactly!' Ulfat winked, settling beside her on the divan. 'Wait till you see the proof. I've got albums in the storeroom that could fill a museum. Naieem! Faisal! Come here, you two, help your Ammi dig out the treasures!'
From the adjoining veranda, where they'd been kicking a soft football around, Naieem and Faisal bounded in like eager puppies. At twelve and ten, the brothers were lanky now, but their faces still held the echoes of their baby roundness, cheeks that dimpled when they grinned. 'Albums? The baby ones?' Naieem asked, eyes lighting up with mischief. Faisal nodded vigorously, already dashing toward the storeroom door.
'Rehman! Uzair! Get in here!' Ulfat called out, her voice carrying through the haveli's arched hallways. Moments later, the two men appeared, Rehman, broad-shouldered and commanding even in his casual kurta, striding in with his usual air of quiet authority, and Uzair trailing behind, his sharp features softened by a reluctant smile.
'What's all the commotion meri jaan?' Rehman asked, dropping into an armchair with a grunt, while Uzair perched on the armrest beside Sara, gently tickling Ahmed's belly. The baby let out a delighted squeal, his chubby legs kicking in the air.
Ulfat clapped her hands together. 'Sara's been fretting over the twins' chub. I told her it's genetic, Balochi boy magic! Now, we're raiding the albums to prove it.' Uzair's eyes widened slightly. 'Albums? Bhabhi, no! Those are buried for a reason.' But his protest was half-hearted, already laced with the warmth of fond embarrassment.
Too late. Naieem and Faisal returned, arms laden with dusty, leather-bound books, their covers embossed with faded gold lettering. They dumped them on the rug with gleeful thuds, and soon the family was gathered in a cozy circle, twins propped up on cushions, chai steaming, and the albums splayed open like forbidden scrolls.
Ulfat started with the oldest one, her fingers tracing the yellowed pages reverently. 'Ah, here we go. The golden era of chonky Baloch babies. Look at this, Rehman at three months!' She held up a photo, a tiny Rehman, swaddled in a white shawl, his face a perfect sphere of pudginess, cheeks so full they seemed to spill over his ears. His eyes were squeezed shut in what looked like a milk-induced nap, a dribble of drool escaping the corner of his mouth.
Sara gasped, then burst into laughter, covering her mouth with her hand. 'Bhai! Is that really you? You look like a little dough ball!'
Rehman leaned forward, squinting at the image, his stern facade cracking into a rare, sheepish grin. 'Yeh… that was a long time ago. Blame the birth-givers, they fed me like a prize buffalo.' But his ears were turning pink, and he shifted in his seat, crossing his arms as if to ward off the teasing.
'Haan haan bilkul' Ulfat teased, flipping to the next page. 'And here's Uzair at the same age, your mini-me! Look at those thighs, thicker than my bangles!' The photo showed baby Uzair, bald as an egg, grinning toothlessly at the camera, his arms and legs dimpled with rolls of baby fat. He was clutching a rattle, but it looked comically small in his chubby grip.
Uzair groaned, burying his face in his hands, but peeking through his fingers. 'Bhabhi, please! Sara, don't look, it's embarrassing.' Yet his voice was muffled with laughter, and he couldn't hide the mushy warmth in his eyes as Sara leaned against him, giggling.
'I think it's adorable!' Sara exclaimed, reaching over to squeeze his knee. 'No wonder our twins take after you. Ahmed's got your exact chin dimple, see?' She pointed to the baby boy, who was now gnawing on his own fist, oblivious to the family revelry.
Naieem snatched the album, flipping ahead eagerly. 'Wait till you see Abbu and Chachu as toddlers. Faisal, remember this one?' He held up a picture of Rehman and Uzair, maybe uzair being two years old, sitting in a sandbox. Both were gloriously round, covered in sand that clung to their sweaty, chubby cheeks. Rehman had a toy truck in one hand and a fistful of dirt in the other, while Uzair beamed beside him, his belly protruding like a little pot.
Faisal howled with laughter, rolling onto his back on the rug. 'Chachu, you look like you ate the whole truck! Aur Abbu, your face, pure gangster even then, but with extra padding!'
Rehman shot his sons a mock glare, but his lips twitched. 'Oi, you two. Enjoy it while it lasts, tumhari bhi baari aayegi beta.' His voice was gruff, but the blush creeping up his neck betrayed him, turning the feared Lyari boss into a flustered family man.
Ulfat wiped a tear of mirth from her eye, pulling out the second album. 'Speaking of which… Naieem and Faisal's reign of chub. Sara, you've only seen a few snapshots, these are the uncut gems.' The pages revealed baby Naieem, at six months, lounging in a bassinet like a tiny king, his arms folded over a belly that jiggled with every coo. Next to him, an even younger Faisal, caught mid-crawl, his diaper barely containing the rolls cascading down his back.
Sara's worry melted away completely as she traced the photos with her finger. 'Oh my god, they're identical to the twins! Look at those cheeks, Faisal, you could’ve been a pillow!' The boys didn't mind, in fact, Naieem puffed out his chest proudly. 'Yeah, but it made me strong! All that baby muscle.' Faisal nodded, striking a silly pose. 'And cute! Girls loved my dimples back in school.'
The teasing escalated from there, a whirlwind of laughter and playful jabs that filled the haveli like music. Ulfat turned to Rehman, waving a photo of him in a high chair, smeared with what looked like mashed bananas. 'Remember this? You threw a tantrum because you wanted more food. Chonky and demanding, even as a baby! Akhlaq told me this'
Rehman grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, his face a delightful mix of grumpiness and affection. 'Ulfat, you're killing me here. I was a growing boy.' But he couldn't stay mad, when Aisha let out a bubbly laugh from her spot on the cushion, he reached over and scooped her up, bouncing her gently. 'See? This one's got the family curse already. But it's a good curse.'
Sara joined in mercilessly, turning to Uzair with a photo of him in a tiny sherwani, looking like a stuffed teddy bear. 'Uzair, jaan, how did you even walk with all that fluff? No wonder you're so protective now, you were the chubbiest bodyguard in Lyari history!'
Uzair's cheeks burned crimson, but he pulled Sara close, planting a kiss on her temple. 'Stop it, both of you. I'm grumpy now, no chubby, happy?' His tone was mushy, though, laced with that soft embarrassment that made Sara's heart swell. He tickled Ahmed's foot, eliciting more giggles. 'But fine, if it makes you stop worrying… yeah, the twins are perfect. Just like their dad was.'
Naieem and Faisal were in stitches, taking turns holding up photos and narrating dramatic tales. 'And here's when Chachu tried to run, look at those legs churning! Like little pistons in a chub machine!' Naieem declared, while Faisal added, 'Abbu, you and the cake photo, remember? You dove face-first into it at your first birthday. Epic!'
Rehman chuckled despite himself, the sound deep and rumbling. 'You rascals. One day, when your kids come along, I'll have albums ready for payback.' But his eyes sparkled with joy, the family bond wrapping around them like the haveli's sturdy walls.
Ulfat closed the last album with a satisfied sigh, stacking them neatly. 'See, Sara? It's all in the genes. Balochi boys are born to be chonky, strong, and full of life. Our twins are thriving because they're loved, just like these boys were.'
Sara nodded, her earlier anxiety vanished, replaced by a glow of contentment. She leaned back against Uzair, watching as Rehman passed Aisha to Ulfat, who cooed at her while Faisal made funny faces at Ahmed. The twins babbled happily, their chubby hands reaching out, as if joining in the fun.
The afternoon stretched on in fluffy waves of chatter and chai refills. Uzair, still blushing from the teasing, whispered to Sara, 'Next time, we're hiding our babies' photos forever.' But his grin said otherwise, he wouldn't trade this mushy, grumpy moment for anything.
Naieem and Faisal, reveling in their own spotlight, started a game of 'Chonky Charades,' mimicking their fathers' baby poses to peals of laughter. Rehman pretended to scowl but joined in, hoisting Faisal onto his shoulders for a victory lap around the room. Ulfat and Sara exchanged glances, their teasing softened into pure, heartwarming delight.
In the Baloch Haveli, amid the echoes of gangster legacies and family lore, the chonkiness wasn't just a joke, it was a thread weaving them all together, cute and unbreakable.
Get enough sleep get enough fiber get enough iron wear sunscreen every moment of every day dont get dehydrated don’t slouch brush perfectly floss too keep your tires full of air get your oil changed check your brakes and alignment get new tires get your yearly inspection get your yearly pelvic exam remember your flu and covid shot research the candidates for district attorney take your recycling to the curb on the right day try to limit red meat, alcohol, ultra processed food, sugar and sitting down don’t use screens before bed exercise constantly you’re not socializing or being touched enough meditate daily make sure your clothes are constantly acceptable wash your hair before there’s even a hint of grease don’t have any unsightly hair anywhere don’t drink foo much coffee or sugary drinks or carbonated drinks or anything with citric acid or your teeth will rot change your sheets every few days and your pillowcases daily and you should be also throwing out your pillows every year or two apparently don’t use any kind of cutting board due to the unique drawbacks of each available kind walk 15 min after every meal don’t eat right after brushing but also don’t brush thirty minutes after eating yet somehow brush your teeth every morning and be on time for work also and make sure you’re weight training and make sure you’re doing everything you can to prevent eventual osteoporosis and arthritis moisturize your skin every day keep your prescriptions filled try to avoid being stressed at all costs because it’s the silent killer prioritize your mental health but don’t let any of these habits slip and don’t lose your important documents and keep the batteries in your carbon monoxide detector fresh and deep clean your fridge often and clean your entire house often and exchange pleasantries with every acquaintance and keep yourself polished and presentable at work and stretch before bed every night and buy new kitchen sponges when they wear out and make sure you have laundry detergent and dish soap and olive oil and only eat healthy fats and make sure you’re doing everything to prevent the skyrocketing rates of colon cancer in young people and soak all your berries so that they actually get clean and wash all your produce and buy organic so you aren’t ingesting four million pesticides and avoid animal products but also eat a lot of lean meat and dairy for the protein and eat 30g of protein at every meal and prioritize whole grains and complex carbohydrates and moderate your sugar intake and replace your toothbrush every six months and your running shows every 90 miles clean your car out often and make sure no one smashes your tail light in the parking lot and keep a printout of your up to date proof of insurance in your glovebox even if you don’t own a printer and put a sizeable portion of each paycheck into retirement portfolio replace your windshield wipers and close your kitchen down every night and eat two servings of dark leafy greens per day and do all of this and still get enough rest so that you’re able to give the 40 hour workweek your all. And if you fail to do any of these things you’re a disgusting failure slob
Author's Note: We are back with some adorable Ghazal!! If you have sent me a request, please know I am slowly making my way through them while also working on the next part of Mujhse Pehli Si Mohabbat and a few of my own ideas! Let me know which you'd like to see first! And please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist! Much love to all my loves 💋
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The Haveli was draped in the heavy silence of the 3:00 AM hour, a profound stillness that usually signalled the complete shutdown of the bustling household. Inside the master suite, the air was cool and cocooned, smelling faintly of the crisp lavender laundry detergent Zaara insisted upon and the lingering, toasted warmth of two bodies tangled together in deep, unguarded sleep.
Uzair was sprawled across the vast canopy bed, a man who occupied space with the unthinking confidence of a king. His massive frame claimed at least three-quarters of the mattress, his long legs tangled with hers, effectively pinning her to the sheets. He had long ago decided that Zaara was his personal, plush pillow. His heavy head was resting squarely against the soft rise of her chest, his breathing rhythmic and deep against her collarbone. His arm was draped over her waist like a lead weight, a possessive, subconscious habit he’d developed within weeks of their marriage, ensuring she was exactly where he left her. It was hard to believe this was the same tough, unfeeling man who paced the city streets. Here, in the quiet of the night, he was just a man who needed the heartbeat beneath his cheek to feel complete.
The silence was broken by a sound so faint it barely registered, a rhythmic, hesitant tap-tap-tap against the thick oak door.
Zaara’s eyes flickered open. She blinked groggily at the shadows dancing on the high ceiling, her brain sluggishly trying to determine if the sound was a remnant of a dream or a reality creeping into her sanctuary. Then, it came again. A soft, persistent, and distinctly frantic knocking.
She shifted, the movement restricted by the giant pinned to her side. She felt the dead weight of his arm tighten instinctively as she moved, his nose brushing against her neck in his sleep. “Uzair,” she whispered, her voice raspy and thick with the haze of sleep.
He didn't even stir. If anything, he let out a low, rumbling groan of annoyance, nuzzling deeper into the soft fabric of her cotton shirt as if trying to hide from the noise. He let out a long, contented sigh, his entire posture softening into a deeper level of hibernation.
“Uzair, uthein!” she tried again, more urgently, nudging his broad shoulder with her chin. “Dekhein koi darwaze pe hai. Koi knock kar raha hai.”
“Shhh, Zaara,” he grumbled against her skin, his voice a gravelly, incoherent vibration that traveled right through her ribs. “Sapna hoga...sojao.”
Zaara rolled her eyes, a small, exasperated huff of disbelief escaping her. She felt the heavy, immovable warmth of him, a man who could survive a standoff in the alleys of Lyari but couldn't be roused from a mattress by anything less than a direct order from the universe. With a shift of her limbs and a careful shimmy, she managed to wriggle out from under his heavy, dead-weight arm and legs.
“Koi keh sakta hai ke yeh janab gang chalate hain?” she muttered under her breath, watching him settle into the space she had just vacated. Uzair Baloch was a lion of the streets by day, a man whose word could shift the balance of power, but by night, he was a hibernating grizzly who seemed physically incapable of acknowledging the world outside his own REM cycle.
As she slid off the edge of the mattress, Uzair let out a disgruntled, high-pitched moan at the loss of his ‘soft pillow.’ His hand blindly swiped at the empty space beside him, his fingers clawing at the duvet where she had been a moment before. “Zaara! Kahan ja rahi ho?” he mumbled, a protest lost in the fuzziness of his dreams.
“Darwaza kholne, aap apni beauty sleep puri karein,” she whispered sarcastically, leaning back to tuck the blanket around his broad, bare shoulder. The instant, heavy silence that followed told her he was already dragged back into the depths of dreamland, his hand flopping limp onto the mattress.
She turned away, shaking her head at the sheer irony of it all, and began to pad toward the door to answer the call of the night.
As she padded toward the door, a tiny, muffled “Mama…” reached her ears. Zaara’s heart did a soft somersault. She quickly unlocked the heavy door and slid it open.
Standing there, looking impossibly small against the sprawling, shadowy expanse of the grand hallway, was Ghazal. She was a tiny, fragile figure, swallowed by the sheer scale of the Haveli’s architecture. She was barefoot, her little toes curled against the cool marble floor, and her floral-print pajamas were slightly twisted from her fitful sleep. Her two pigtails, which had been so neatly tied for bed, were now a chaotic, adorable bird’s nest of tangles, frizzy strands standing up in protest from hours of restless tossing and turning.
In her arms, she clutched Mimi, her little stuffed bunny, with a white-knuckled grip that spoke of a deep, childhood need for comfort. The bunny’s velvet fur was worn thin in spots, a testament to how many ‘monsters’ it had already warded off on nights like these.
Her tiny face was scrunched up into a deeply serious, miserable frown, her little eyebrows drawn together in a way that made her look like a miniature version of a world-weary traveler. The moment she caught sight of her mother, the brave, stoic front she’d maintained while walking down the hall completely crumbled. Her chin began to wobble, a frantic, rhythmic movement that signalled a storm about to break. Big, fat, crystalline tears welled up in her dark, long-lashed eyes, shimmering under the soft moonlight, before they began their slow, heartbreaking trek down her round, flushed cheeks. She looked like a little lost princess, completely undone by a dream that had felt too real.
Zaara immediately knelt, her cotton pajama pants pooling around her on the cool floor as she gathered the trembling, pajama-clad girl into the warmth of her arms. Ghazal felt so small, her heart hammering against Zaara’s chest like a trapped bird. “Kya hua meri jaan?” Zaara murmured, her hand smoothing down the chaotic tangles of the girl's ‘bird’s nest’ pigtails.
“Mujhe bura sapna aaya, Mama,” Ghazal whispered. Her voice was a broken, fragile thing, interrupted by a sharp, rhythmic hiccup that made her small shoulders jump. A fresh wave of tears leaked out, clinging to her long, dark lashes before spilling over. Her lower lip jutted out in a wobbling, heavy pout, a look of such pure, concentrated misery that it could have brought the toughest man in the Haveli to his knees.
“Aw, meri jaan,” Zaara cooed, her heart aching at the sight of that trembling chin. She leaned down, the scent of lavender and comfort enveloping the toddler, and placed a lingering, tender kiss on Ghazal’s right cheek. She pressed her lips right into the salty, wet path of a tear, literally kissing the sadness away, before moving to the left to repeat the ritual. With every kiss, she felt the tension leave Ghazal’s small frame, the girl’s frantic grip on her neck loosening just a fraction.
Ghazal leaned her heavy, sleepy head on Zaara’s shoulder, her breathing still hitching in little, jagged aftershocks. She smelled like baby powder and the lingering warmth of her own bed. “Main aapke saath reh sakti hoon?” she asked, her voice muffled against Zaara’s neck, the question carrying the weight of a desperate plea for safety.
“Bilkul, meri jaan,” Zaara said softly, her voice a soothing anchor in the dark. She stood up effortlessly, hoisting the girl onto her hip and shielding her from the shadows of the hallway with the warmth of her own body. With her free hand, she pushed the heavy oak door shut, the click of the latch sounding like a final seal against the monsters of the night.
As they moved toward the looming silhouette of the canopy bed, Ghazal pulled back slightly. She looked up, her brows furrowed into that serious V-shape of genuine concern as she hoisted her stuffed rabbit up by its long, flopping ear, presenting him like a silent petitioner. “Aur Mimi bhi?”
Zaara chuckled softly, the sound like a gentle, rhythmic bell echoing in the quiet room. She looked at the tattered rabbit, the same one Uzair had once clutched as a boy, and felt a wave of domestic peace wash over her. “Haan meri jaan,” she whispered, booping the rabbit’s velvet nose, “Mimi bhi. Hum sab saath soyenge.”
Zaara’s gaze lingered on the tattered, well-loved rabbit clutched in Ghazal’s small fist, and for a moment, the weight of the room seemed to shift. That bunny, with its matted velvet and drooping ears, was an extension of Ghazal’s very soul, but its history was a heavy, silent thread that stretched back into the shadows of a much darker past. On the day Ghazal was born, amidst the sterile white lights and the sharp scent of the hospital, Uzair had appeared with a relic in his hands that had made Zaara’s breath catch. He hadn't bought it from a boutique or a toy store, instead, he had gone deep into the forgotten corners of the Haveli’s storeroom, digging through old trunks that hadn't seen the sun in decades.
It had been his own rabbit as a child, one of the few, precious fragments of a childhood that had been fractured and stolen from him. It was a singular, physical legacy left by his parents, a quiet witness to the days before he had to become the man the world feared. By tucking that rabbit into Ghazal’s cot next to her swaddled, sleeping form, Uzair hadn't just been giving her a toy, it was his silent, desperate way of bridging the impossible divide between the dead and the living. He had been performing a silent, sacred handoff. He was offering her the only piece of himself that remained unscarred and soft, wanting the purest part of his history to stand guard over the brightest part of his future. In the quiet of that nursery, he imagined his parents’ hands, once steady and strong, lingering over the bunny, bestowing a blessing upon their granddaughter that he could never truly articulate. It was his way of ensuring that even if they would never see the light in her eyes or hear the chime of her laughter, they would still be the ones watching over her dreams, keeping the darkness at bay long after he was gone.
As the bed dipped under the added weight, the bear finally stirred. Uzair’s eyes cracked open, the heavy fog of his deep hibernation clearing the instant he registered the small, sniffling silhouette in Zaara’s arms. The transition was jarring, one second he was a dead-weight sleeper, and the next, the sharp, jagged edge of his protective instinct had sliced through the haze. He sat up on one elbow, his broad shoulders casting a protective shadow over the mattress.
“Kya hua?” his voice was a low, gravelly rumble, thick with sleep but laced with an immediate, grounded concern.
“Baba...mujhe bura sapna aaya,” Ghazal whimpered, her voice small and trembling as she reached out a tiny hand toward him.
The sight of her tear-streaked face acted like a physical blow to Uzair’s chest. The man who could stare down a barrel without blinking felt his features melt into a look of absolute, unconditional softness. He reached out a large, steady hand and wrapped it around her outstretched wrist, leaning down to press a kiss to her little palm before lifting his arm, using his thumb to tenderly brush a stray, salty tear from her wet cheek.
Zaara moved with a quiet, practiced ease, placing Ghazal right in the centre of the bed. She shifted her own plush pillow toward the centre so the three of them were a huddle of dark hair and soft breathing.
“Chalo, Mama aur Baba ke beech so jao,” Uzair murmured, his voice dropping into that warm, private register he reserved only for the people within the Haveli. He reached down, his large hands guiding her small frame under the heavy duvet, tucking her into the warmth that still smelled of him and Zaara. “Yahan koi bura sapna nahi aayega.”
Ghazal sniffled, her eyes darting toward the dark corners of the ceiling where the shadows of the canopy bed loomed. “Agar phir monster aaya?” she whispered, her grip tightening on Mimi’s ear.
“Toh Baba monster ko dara denge, theek hai?” Zaara promised with a soft smile, leaning over to smooth the chaotic bird’s nest away from Ghazal's forehead. “Baba se toh bade bade log darte hain, monster ki kya majaal?”
Ghazal let out a shaky breath, finally satisfied. The logic was perfectly clear to her, simple and strong: her Baba was the biggest, toughest, and strongest person in the whole wide world, he was stronger than the walls of the Haveli, stronger than the thunder, and way, way stronger than any silly, shadowy nightmare. As long as she was tucked behind his big arm, she was in a secret, invisible fortress. She finally laid her head down, pulling Mimi closer, the tension draining out of her. Uzair leaned over and pulled the duvet right up to her chin, carefully cocooning her in the warmth until only her wide, sleepy eyes and the top of her messy pigtails were visible.
Ghazal immediately rolled over, seeking the ultimate comfort, throwing a small, soft arm over Zaara’s waist and burying her face into her mother’s side. Uzair shifted closer, closing the final sliver of space until his broad chest was a warm wall pressed against Ghazal’s small back. His large arm draped over her, acting like a protective canopy. He began a slow patting rhythm, his palm rising and falling against her shoulder in a hypnotic, steady cadence he had perfected over the years, a heartbeat of comfort that he knew, without fail, would melt away her remaining fears and lull her into a deep, dreamless sleep. It was a wordless, rhythmic promise that as long as her Baba was awake and standing guard, the world, and everything in it, would remain perfectly still and safe.
A few minutes of thick, comfortable silence passed, the only sound the rhythmic thrum of Uzair’s hand patting Ghazal’s shoulder. Just as Zaara thought the girl had finally surrendered to sleep, a tiny, muffled whisper emerged from the cocoon of the duvet.
“Mama…story?”
Zaara hummed, a soft, vibrating sound that resonated against Ghazal’s cheek. Every single night, without fail, Ghazal insisted on a story. It was a non-negotiable ritual of the Haveli. Depending on who she caught, the tales changed flavours: from Rehman, she got the thunderous, wide-eyed legends of ancient warriors and galloping horses, from Ulfat, it was the gentle, whispered chronicles of butterflies, hidden gardens, and magical flowers, and from her mother, it was always the soaring dreams of princesses.
“Acha, meri jaan,” Zaara whispered, her fingers tracing the delicate line of Ghazal’s ear. “Kaunsi wali?”
Ghazal pondered for a heavy second, her long lashes fluttering as her eyes drifted shut, the weight of the day finally winning. “Princess wali,” she breathed.
Zaara began the familiar, melodic tale, her voice dropping into a storytelling lilt. She spoke of a princess in a faraway land, a place where the air always smelled of blooming gardens and the fountains ran with liquid silver. She described the princess’s courage and the moment she met her brave prince, a man who had traveled through shadows just to find her.
As Zaara reached the end of the short, soft-spoken tale, Ghazal let out a long, shuddering yawn that stretched her tiny frame. The monsters were gone, replaced by images of golden crowns and rose petals.
The story trailed off into the gentle, rhythmic hum of the room, the scent of lavender acting like a sedative on Ghazal’s weary mind. Her hand, which had been fisted in Zaara’s nightshirt, slowly relaxed, her fingers splaying out against the soft cotton.
“Mama…” she murmured, her voice fading into the soft, velvet dark. “Baba aapke prince hain?”
Zaara let out a small, breathless laugh, a sound of pure, maternal indulgence. She shifted slightly to look over Ghazal’s tousled head toward Uzair. He was lying on his side, his large frame tucked neatly toward the centre, his eyes fixed entirely on her. A sleepy, deeply contented smile played on his lips, the kind that never surfaced in public, the kind that was reserved only for the safety of these four walls.
“Haan,” Zaara whispered, her eyes locking with his, the unspoken history of their life together vibrating in the silence between them. “Baba mere prince hain.”
Uzair’s smile deepened, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes. He didn't say a word, but the way he looked at her, with a profound, quiet devotion, said everything. He leaned over, his beard grazing Ghazal’s temple as he placed a lingering, soft kiss on her forehead, a silent blessing to keep the nightmares at bay.
He lifted his large, calloused hand from her shoulder to the crown of her head. With a touch that was surprisingly, achingly gentle, he began to pat her hair in a wordless lullaby, his fingers working with the patient, rhythmic grace of a father who knew exactly how to soothe his child’s spirit. His thumb moved in slow, hypnotic circles against her scalp, a grounding motion that mimicked the steady, reassuring beat of his heart.
Ghazal let out one last, long sigh of absolute security, her breathing deepening into the slow, steady rhythm of true sleep. Uzair watched her, then shifted his gaze back to Zaara, his free hand finding hers under the duvet. He laced their fingers together, pulling her hand close to his chest so she could feel the steady, reassuring thrum of his heartbeat, the only rhythm that had ever truly mattered to either of them. The whirlwind of the Haveli had finally settled, tucked away in the fortress of her parents' arms.
Author’s Note: Something that’s been sitting as a draft for way too long which is CRIMINAL considering it features dad!Uzair. I just about melted while writing this so I hope the girlies enjoy reading it! Thoughts, comments, feedback much appreciated as always! And please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from the taglist. Much love to all my loves 💋
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The morning sun spilled in, thick and golden like poured honey, catching the dancing dust motes that swirled over the battlefield that was Ghazal’s fortress. The bedroom was a sanctuary of soft linens and abandoned toys, smelling faintly of shea butter and lavender talcum powder.
Perched on the velvet dressing stool, little Ghazal looked like a miniature queen in exile. At just four years old, she already possessed the elegant, long-limbed silhouette of her father; she was tall for her age, her slender frame promising the same commanding height that made Uzair such a formidable figure. Her hair was a wild, midnight silk crown, a tangled inheritance from him, that caught the light in jet-black shimmering waves, tumbling down her back like a dark waterfall. Yet, the face she turned toward the mirror was all Zaara. She had her mother’s wide, doe-like eyes, framed by lashes so thick they cast tiny, feathered shadows on the skin of her plump cheeks. Those cheeks, round and flushed like ripening peaches, were currently puffed out, and her lips, full and rose-pink like Zaara’s, were jutted out in a pout of Shakespearean proportions, trembling with the weight of her tiny, monumental heartbreak.
Zaara stood behind her, the silver-backed hairbrush held like a peace offering. Every time she leaned in, Ghazal executed a tiny, coordinated shimmy of her shoulders, her small body twisting with the fluid grace of a willow branch.
“Mama, Baba karein?” Ghazal’s voice was a soft, melodic chirp, but it carried the weight of an imperial decree.
She turned her gaze toward the closet, where Uzair stood. Usually, Uzair was a man of iron and silence, a towering presence who moved with a predator’s calculated stillness. Now, he looked like a man asked to defuse a ticking clock with a pair of chopsticks. He held a tiny, elastic hair tie between his thumb and forefinger, staring at it with profound suspicion. As he stepped closer, his shadow, broad, protective, and immense, fell over the vanity, momentarily dimming the gold of the sun.
“Jaan, Baba ko baal nahi banane aate,” Uzair murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in the quiet room. “Main tumhare baal kharab kar doon ga.” He looked at Zaara, his dark eyes wide with a very real, very comical desperation, begging for an exit strategy.
The pout deepened. Ghazal crossed her arms over her butter-yellow frock, her chin trembling just enough to be soul-crushing. A single tear, fat and crystal-clear, gathered at the corner of her eye. It hung there for a heartbeat, reflecting the morning light, before tracing a slow, shimmering path down the velvet curve of her cheek.
Zaara felt that familiar, liquid ache in her chest. She set the brush down and knelt, the silk of her kurta whispering against the floorboards. “Meri jaan, Mama kar deti hain,” she coaxed, tucking a stray raven lock behind Ghazal’s ear. “Baba ke haath bohat bade hain, woh choti choti clips nahi laga sakte. Mama bilkul waise hi karein gi jaisa aap ko pasand hai.”
But in the eyes of a four-year-old, logic was no match for the heart’s desire.
“Nahi, Mama!” The protest was absolute. In a display of emotion that was remarkably theatrical, Ghazal slid off the stool like a melting scoop of ice cream, her long, spindly limbs tangling as she collapsed into a soft, dejected heap on the plush Persian rug. She buried her face in her arms, her small shoulders shaking with a stifled, rhythmic sob that sounded like the cooing of a mourning dove.
Uzair winced as if the sound had a physical edge. He was on the floor in a second, his knees hitting the wood with a heavy thud that rattled the lotion bottles on the vanity. He reached out, his large, calloused hand hovering uncertainly before settling with feather-light tenderness on her back, his palm nearly covering the entire width of her tiny shoulders.
“Ghazal...meri jaan...” he whispered, his voice cracking with a softness he reserved only for her.
Zaara moved to the other side, forming a protective circle of warmth around their daughter. The air between them was thick with the scent of home, fresh laundry, warm skin, and the quiet magic of a Sunday morning.
“Acha, suno,” Zaara said, her voice dropping into the rhythmic, sing-song lilt she used for bedtime stories. “Agar aaj Mama karein gi, toh main aap ki favourite 'Dutch braids' banaon gi. Aur pata hai kya? Sparkly butterfly clips bhi lagaungi!”
The sobbing hitched. The room went silent, save for the ticking of the bedside clock. Ghazal stayed still for a long moment, then slowly, painfully slowly, she peeled her face away from her arms. She peeked through wet, tangled lashes, her big, watery eyes searching Zaara’s for any hint of a bluff.
“Sparkly wale?” she sniffled, her voice a tiny, hopeful breath, her lower lip still quivering.
“The sparkliest in the whole world,” Zaara promised, her smile blooming like a flower.
Ghazal let out a long, shuddering sigh, a perfect, weary imitation of the way Uzair exhaled after a long day’s work. It was the sound of a hard-won truce. She uncurled her long legs and crawled into Zaara’s lap, settling in with a final, lingering sniffle. But as Zaara’s fingers began to weave the dark silk of her hair, Ghazal kept her eyes locked on Uzair, her small hand reaching out to catch his pinky finger, holding on tight with a silent, possessive strength, ensuring her Baba didn't go anywhere.
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The moon had replaced the sun’s honeyed glow with a sharp, silver stillness that pooled on the hardwood floors. The silence in the Baloch mansion was rare, usually filled with the energetic patter of Ghazal’s feet or the heavy, authoritative tread of boots. But at night, it was thick and still. Inside the bedroom, the air was cool and hushed, the only sound the rhythmic skritch-skritch of Zaara’s comb.
She sat at the vanity, her reflection framed by the dim glow of the warm lamps. Methodically, she parted her hair into two dark rivers, draping one over her shoulder. In the mirror’s depth, she could see Uzair. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning against the headboard haphazardly, his large frame silhouetted against the shadows, completely zoned out. He was simply staring into the middle distance, his brow furrowed as if navigating a complex mental map.
Zaara paused, her comb mid-stroke. She caught his reflection's gaze and raised her eyebrows, a silent prompt. “Kya hua?”
Uzair blinked, the intensity of his stare refocusing on her through the glass. He stayed silent for a heartbeat too long, the quiet stretching between them. “Kuch nahi,” he finally muttered, though his eyes never left her.
Zaara narrowed her eyes, a knowing frown tugging at the corner of her lips, but she didn't push. She knew Uzair; he was a man who chewed on his thoughts until they were soft enough to swallow. She moved to the second section of hair, pulling the silken weight over her other shoulder.
“Zaara...”
“Hmm?” she hummed, her eyes closed as she worked through a small tangle.
He hesitated, his voice dropping into that low, vulnerable register he only used behind closed doors. “Tum mujhe baal banana sikhaogi?”
The comb froze. Zaara’s hands stayed suspended in mid-air, one anchoring a section of hair, the other gripping the brush. The silence that followed was thick with her genuine shock. She turned slowly in the velvet chair, looking up at him with a face full of bewildered tenderness.
“Kyun?”
Uzair looked down at her, and for a second, the formidable, cold-eyed man vanished. In his place was someone who looked achingly like a lost puppy. “Taaki agli baar...jab Ghazal mujhe baal banane ko kahe, mujhe usse mana na karna pade.”
The air seemed to leave the room. Zaara’s expression melted, her features softening into a look of such profound love it felt almost sacred. The memory of Ghazal’s dramatic despair on the rug flashed through her mind, and she realized Uzair had been carrying that weight for hours.
“Idhar aayein,” she breathed, her voice a soft caress.
He stood, his massive frame looming over her as he walked to the vanity. Zaara reached out, catching his hand, a hand that felt like a landscape of history, rough with callouses and marked by the faint, jagged lines of old scars. Outside these walls, those hands were symbols of power and peril, met with flinching or forced respect. Outside these walls, they were rarely, if ever, touched for the sake of comfort.
With a slow, deliberate movement, Zaara brought his hand to her face and pressed a lingering, velvet-soft kiss into the center of his palm. She lingered there for a moment, her warmth seeping into the hardened skin, acknowledging the man beneath the myth. It was a gesture of such pure tenderness that Uzair’s breath hitched in the quiet room. She didn't let go, instead, she placed the hairbrush exactly where her lips had been and turned back toward the mirror so they were both facing their reflections.
“Theek hai,” she whispered. “Dekhiye.”
She divided a thick section of her hair into three even strands. With practiced ease, she began to guide him, explaining the rhythmic ‘over-and-under’ of a basic braid. Uzair leaned in, his chest nearly brushing her shoulder, his face a mask of intense concentration.
Watching him in the mirror was like witnessing a quiet miracle. It was a jarring, beautiful contradiction. On the streets, Uzair was a ghost story told in hushed tones, a man of jagged edges and a gaze that could freeze a man’s blood. Out there, he was the law, the enforcer, the one who never bent. It was almost tragic, Zaara thought, that the world outside the high walls of the Haveli would never know this Uzair. They would never see the way his brow furrowed not in anger, but in the desperate pursuit of a perfect braid. They would never witness the hidden softness that lay beneath the layers of scars and silence.
His hands, hands that had gripped weapons with lethal precision and were more accustomed to the cold weight of a gun, were now handling her hair with the kind of delicate care one might use for spun glass. The very same fingers that had caused so much damage were now striving to learn the art of gentleness, all so he could tame his little Jaan’s unruly hair. He fumbled slightly, his thick, calloused fingers looking almost comical against the fine, silken strands, but he didn't give up. He didn't grow frustrated. Instead, he muttered the steps under his breath like a prayer, his eyes darting between her hands and the reflection, determined to master this tiny, domestic craft.
Zaara watched him, her heart swelling until it felt tight. This was the man the world feared, the dreaded gangster, and here he was, hunched over a hairbrush at midnight, learning how to make a braid just to ensure his daughter’s smile remained unbroken.
“Aise?” he asked softly, successfully crossing the left strand over the middle.
“Bilkul waise,” she replied, her eyes meeting his in the mirror.
Author's Note: I just about died writing dad!Uzair the first time and I NEEDED more so here we are! It’s just a short little blurb of Uzair with scrumptious little Ghazal! I hope you lovelies enjoy this little slice of heaven! And to the lovely that inspired this prompt, I hope you like it! Thoughts, comments and feedback much appreciate as always. Much love to my loves 💋
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The afternoon sun was draped over the Haveli’s veranda like a warm, golden blanket. It was a rare, tranquil pocket of time; Uzair, Donga, Hamza, and Siyahi had been in the area for business and decided to descend upon the house for an impromptu lunch. The air was filled with the low hum of their laughter and the scent of roasting spices wafting from the kitchen.
In the centre of the lush green lawn, Ghazal was a whirlwind of energy. She had flatly refused her afternoon nap, a rebellion fueled by the excitement of having her favourite uncles home. To her, a nap was a wasted opportunity for an audience. Her toys were scattered across the grass like colourful confetti, but her current focus was entirely on a plush toy dog that had seen better days, its fur matted from being dragged through every corner of the Haveli.
She was sitting back on her haunches, her long limbs tucked under her mauve frock. Her brow was furrowed with an intensity that mirrored Uzair’s during a high-stakes meeting, and the tip of her pink tongue was poking out of the corner of her mouth, twitching occasionally in deep concentration as she wrestled with a stubborn bit of kitchen string that had somehow become a leash tangled around the toy's tail.
Every so often, she would blow a stray, dark curl out of her eyes with a sharp puff of air, her cheeks inflating like little balloons before she dove back in. She was a picture of miniature grace and grit, her small hands moving with a frantic, adorable clumsiness.
Donga, leaning back in his chair with a relaxed grin, watched the struggle for a few minutes. “Ghazal, lao main karun?" he called out, his voice softened for the little girl.
Ghazal didn't even blink, she was on a mission after all. She continued to wrangle the string, her tiny fingers working with fierce determination, her little shoulders hunched as she let out a soft, frustrated huff. She was her father's daughter through and through, once she set her mind on a puzzle, the rest of the world simply ceased to exist.
“Ghazal!” Donga called a little louder, trying to pierce through her bubble of concentration.
This time, she paused. She looked up at the group of men, her wide, doe-like eyes blinking against the sunlight. “Huh?”
Donga laughed, gesturing toward the toy. “Ghazal, main madad karun?”
Instead of handing over the toy, Ghazal’s face clouded with a deep, theatrical confusion. Her forehead bunched into lines that were far too dramatic for a three-year-old. She looked at Donga as if he had just started speaking a foreign language.
To her, the word was a foreign sound, a distant echo that rarely reached her ears. Within the protective walls of the Haveli, she wasn't “Ghazal”, she was the very breath of the house. The world spoke to her only in the language of endearment. Her Mama whispered Jaan against her forehead, her beloved Tayi-Ammi smothered her in kisses while murmuring Meri Jaan, and her Taya-Abbu, who spoiled her so thoroughly she seemed to walk on a path of spun sugar, never used any other name. In the simple, unwavering logic of a three-year-old, “Ghazal” was merely a formal title she heard on occasion, a nickname, perhaps, but “Jaan” was her soul. It was who she was, so she couldn't understand why her chachu was calling her anything else.
“Chachu, main Jaan,” she said, her voice small but remarkably firm. “No Ghazal.”
Donga’s smile faltered, replaced by a look of pure bewilderment. “Hain?” He looked at the others, then back at the toddler. “Kya matlab 'No Ghazal’?"
He turned to Uzair, silently asking if he had somehow forgotten the little girl’s name. Uzair, who had been watching the exchange with a growing, private smirk, leaned forward.
"Kya hua, meri jaan?” Uzair asked.
That was all the invitation she needed. Ghazal abandoned the toy and scrambled across the grass. She climbed onto Uzair’s lap and up his broad chest as if he were her own personal jungle gym, her small feet digging into his thighs for purchase. Finally, she reached her summit, planting herself firmly against him so she could grab his face with her pudgy, sun-warmed hands. Her fingers, smelling faintly of the lavender talcum and the sweet grass she’d been rolling in, squished his cheeks inward, forcing his formidable features into a look of startled submission.
Uzair looked into her eyes and felt a familiar, breathless hitch in his chest. It wasn't just the height or the hair he’d given her, it was the way she looked at him. In the curve of her wide, expressive eyes and the way her rose-pink lips were currently set in a firm, stubborn line, he saw Zaara. She had captured the exact essence of her mother’s fierce spirit, that particular brand of gentle defiance that had brought Uzair to his knees years ago. To see those soft, beloved traits reflected in the tiny, porcelain face of his little Jaan was a kind of beautiful torture. It was a reminder that no matter how much steel he carried in his soul, these two women would always be his only weakness.
"Main Jaan, Baba," she insisted, her nose nearly touching his. "No Ghazal."
Uzair’s heart did that familiar, treacherous melt. He looked at her, his expression turning mock-serious to match her own. "Acha? Toh tumhara naam Jaan hai?” he asked, his voice hushed as if he were being let in on a state secret.
Ghazal nodded her head vigorously, her midnight-black pigtails, the ones Uzair had spent half an hour perfecting that morning, bouncing with every movement. Her expression remained grave, her little brow furrowed with the weight of her conviction, as if she were explaining the fundamental laws of physics to a particularly slow student. She was so sure of her place in the world, so rooted in the love that surrounded her, that the idea of being anyone else was simply preposterous.
Uzair turned toward Donga, his voice dropping into a dramatic, booming tone for her benefit. “Donga chachu, aap ko pata nahi ke yeh sabki Jaan hai? Ghazal nahi?!” He gestured toward her with a flourish of his large, scarred hand, officially “siding” with the toddler’s logic.
Ghazal immediately turned her head to look at Donga, her chin tilted up. Her gaze was incredibly serious, a silent confirmation of her father’s words. See? Baba knows.
Donga threw his hands up in defeat, chuckling. “Arre, maafi, maafi! Mujhe pata hi nahi tha ke main 'Jaan' se baat kar raha hoon.”
Content that the world had been set right, the adrenaline finally left Ghazal’s small frame. The warmth of the sun and the steady, rhythmic beat of her father’s heart acted like a sedative. With a soft, contented mumble, she plopped her head against the broad expanse of his chest. She began to slide down, melting into a horizontal position across his lap. Her long, spindly legs dangled over his arm, her tiny toes peeking out from under her frock, wiggling one last time before going still. Uzair shifted instinctively, his body molding itself to accommodate her smallness. His large, scarred palm settled across the centre of her back, the warmth of his hand seeping into her skin like a blanket, while his other hand began a rhythmic, feather-light pat on her head.
The men continued their conversation, their voices a low, rumbling soundtrack that Ghazal had been hearing since the day she was born. To anyone else, it was the talk of dreaded men, but to her, it was just the sound of safety. The deep vibrations of her father’s voice, felt through his ribcage against her ear, was the very definition of safety.
Within minutes, Uzair looked down, his own gaze softening into something unrecognizable to the men sitting beside him. His little Jaan was fast asleep. Her face was the picture of angelic calm, her rose-bud lips parted just slightly as her breathing became deep and even. Her thick, ink-black lashes fluttered occasionally, casting long shadows on her rosy cheeks as she drifted into the land of dreams. Even in the depths of her slumber, her small, soft palms remained tightly clutched to the fabric of Uzair’s kurta, her knuckles white as she held onto her favourite person.
Author's Note: WARNING! This is not technically a spoiler since it is kinda based on what happened to the real Uzair Baloch so if you know what happened to him, this won't be anything new. Plus I haven't seen Part 2 yet so I technically can't spoil anything lol! But please read at your own discretion. Angst warning - y'all this made me cry!! I wrote this purely for my own indulgence and had no intention of posting it but the longer it sat on my laptop, the more it was bugging me not doing anything with it. Please let me know what you think!
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The humidity of Lyari felt like a burial shroud, sticking to the skin and filling the lungs with the metallic tang of salt, old gunpowder, and the dying embers of an empire.
Uzair Baloch, the man whose name made the streets of Karachi tremble, the man who had looked into the eyes of his brother’s killer and beheaded him without a flicker of hesitation, now looked at a set of mismatched suitcases as if they were the heaviest burdens he had ever lifted. His movements were jagged, mechanical, his large, scarred hands fumbling with the leather handles. Every suitcase he hoisted into the cavernous trunk of the SUV was a nail in the coffin of his life as a father, as a husband. When he finally slammed the trunk shut, the sound didn’t just echo against the ancient, sun-baked stone walls of the Haveli, it ripped through the oppressive silence like a gunshot, a finality that signalled the execution of their shared life.
Zaara stood paralyzed by the passenger door, her fingers white-knuckled as she gripped her sleeves of her kurta in her palms. Her eyes weren't on the car, but on the Haveli itself. Every archway, every chipped piece of plaster, every stain of moss on the courtyard walls was a memory screaming to be heard, a ghost begging not to be forgotten.
She saw the spectral image of herself as a bride, her feet heavy with the scent of fresh henna, stepping over this very threshold for the first time with a heart full of terrifying hope. She heard the hollow, rhythmic echoes of Naieem and Faisal, boys who should have been men by now, shouting over a football match in the dusty courtyard, their laughter still vibrating in the heat. She could almost smell the phantom scent of cardamom chai she used to share with Ulfat on the verandah, their voices hushed in sisterly gossip until the sun dipped below the horizon and the war outside resumed. Most painfully, the shadows seemed to take the shape of Rehman. His presence governed this soil more than the living ever could. It was his death that had fuelled Uzair’s rage, and it was that rage that had finally burned their world to the ground.
Then, her gaze drifted down to a specific patch of yellowed grass near the fountain. There, the ghosts were the cruelest. She saw a younger, smaller Ghazal, barely a year old, learning to balance on unsteady legs. She remembered the way Uzair’s massive, calloused fingers, hands that knew only how to hold a weapon or a grudge, had reached out with such agonizing tenderness to steady his little jaan.
The realization hit Zaara with the force of a physical blow, knocking the wind from her lungs: I am never coming home again. These stones will crumble, and I will be oceans away, and the only version of us that exists will be the one I carry in my head.
The Haveli wasn't just a house anymore, it was a tomb for the woman she used to be.
Finally, she forced her gaze away from the stones and turned to face Uzair.
He was standing perfectly still, a pillar of salt against the backdrop of a crumbling dynasty. The man who had commanded the streets of Lyari with an iron fist now looked brittle, as if the slightest breeze might scatter his remains across the courtyard. His face, usually a fortress of stoic defiance, was a raw mask of grief, a devastation so naked and so jagged that no amount of concealing could shield it. The scars on his skin seemed to deepen in the fading light, mapping out a life of violence that had led them to this very precipice.
They stared at one another, paralyzed. The twenty feet of gravel between them had transformed into a vast, echoing canyon, a chasm carved by blood, law, and the cruel reality of their fate. Neither was ready to take the first step across it, because they both knew the physics of this moment: the second they bridged that gap, the second they touched, the countdown to the final goodbye would accelerate. To cross the space was to accept the end, to stay apart was to pretend, for just one more heartbeat, that the SUV wasn't waiting and the world wasn't hunting them.
The silence between them screamed with everything they couldn't say, the apologies for the blood spilt, the gratitude for the years of hidden peace, and the terror of a tomorrow where they would no longer share the same horizon.
“Ghazal,” Zaara’s voice broke, a jagged, wet sound that seemed to physically fracture the heavy air. She crouched down, her knees hitting the gravel with a sharp, unforgiving crunch, her hands trembling so violently she could barely smooth her daughter’s hair. “Meri jaan...Baba ko Khuda Hafiz bolo.”
Ghazal, possessing the terrifying, fragile innocence of a six-year-old, didn't understand that her universe was collapsing. To her, this was just another trip, a temporary absence before the sun rose on their life again. She skipped toward Uzair, her little sandals clicking against the pavement, a sound of pure, untainted life in a place of death.
“Khuda Hafiz, Baba! Aap mere liye doll lekar aayenge jab main wapis aungi?” she chirped, her eyes bright with the expectation of a return that would never happen.
The question was a serrated knife to Uzair’s throat. The “when I come back” was a promise he could never fulfill, a future he had already traded for her safety. He collapsed to his knees, his heavy, muscular frame hitting the ground with a thud that felt like a final surrender of his soul. He hauled Ghazal into his arms, his grip so fierce it was almost desperate, as if he could physically graft her onto his own skin. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his broad shoulders shaking with the tectonic force of a man trying to swallow a scream that would surely level the Haveli if he let it out.
As he held her, a tidal wave of ‘nevers’ crashed over him.
He realized with a sickening clarity that he would never again walk her to the school gates, never see her face light up as she learned to read, and never be the one to chase away the monsters under her bed. He would never again feel her small, warm weight crawling into his bed when a thunderstorm scared her, he wouldn't be there to tell her the thunder was just the sky's way of laughing. He mourned the wedding he would never attend, the blessing he would never get to place upon her head as he handed her over to a man he would never meet. He was mourning a ghost, the woman she would become, whom he would never know.
But the sharpest agony was the terror of being forgotten. He looked at her and felt the crushing weight of time. Hhe knew that in a few years, the lines of his face would blur in her mind. His voice would become a hollow echo, then a silence. He would eventually be nothing but a shadow in the corner of her memories, a faded photograph in a drawer, a name she spoke with a stranger’s curiosity.
“I will hold you in my heart,”he choked out, his voice thick with the fluid of his own heartbreak, vibrating against her small chest. “I will hold you there until the stars go dark, Ghazal. I will be the wind in your hair, the sun on your face...just don't forget me, meri jaan. Please, don't forget your Baba."
He pulled back, his eyes bloodshot and streaming, his vision blurring as he tried to drink in every detail, the curve of her nose, the way her eyelashes caught the light, trying to store enough of her to survive the desert of his future. He kissed her cheeks, then her eyelids, tasting the salt of his own despair. Finally, he pressed a long, trembling kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering for an eternity that was still too short, trying to transfer his entire soul, his protection, and his love into her mind through that single point of contact.
“Khuda Hafiz, Baba,” she whispered, her smile finally faltering as she felt the heat of his tears dampening her skin, her tiny hands reaching up to touch his trembling beard.
“Khuda Hafiz meri jaan,” he whispered back, his breath hitching in a jagged sob that finally broke through his iron-clad control, shattering the last of the gangster and leaving only a broken father in the dust.
He forced himself to stand, his legs swaying with the sickening instability of a wounded animal trying to find its footing one last time before the end. The earth beneath him felt like water, treacherous and shifting. He turned his gaze to Zaara, and in that moment, the air between them didn't just feel empty, it felt like a vacuum, sucking the very life from his lungs.
Zaara drifted towards him, her movements a slow-motion descent into a mourning that would last a lifetime. Every step was a heavy, rhythmic thud against the soul of their marriage. When she finally reached him, the restraint snapped. She collided with him, a devastating wreck of a woman slamming her body against his as if the sheer force of the impact could fuse their skin together, making them inseparable by law or geography.
Her arms locked around his back, her fingers clawing into the thick cotton of his Kurta with a frantic, primitive strength. She wasn't just holding a man, she was clutching the foundations of the only home she had ever truly known. For years, the Haveli had been stone and mortar, but Uzair had been her shelter, her hearth, her heartbeat. Now, she felt the walls of that internal home crumbling, leaving her exposed to a world that suddenly felt freezing.
Uzair wrapped his arms around her waist, his grip so fierce it bordered on violent, while his other hand clamped onto the back of her head, forcing her into the hollow of his chest, the one place in the world where she was safe. He held her with a terrifying ferocity, a silent, guttural plea to the universe to stop the clocks, to freeze the sun in the sky, to let them exist in this pocket of shared air until the end of time.
“Uzair,” she sobbed, the sound muffled by the fabric of his shirt and the frantic thrumming of his heart. It was a sound of absolute ruin. “How am I supposed to breathe in a place where you don't exist?”
They were two halves of a single existence, forged in the fires of Lyari’s wars and tempered by the quiet nights of their love. To pull apart now wasn't a separation, it was an amputation. They were losing their homes within each other, evicted from the only sanctuary they had ever found in a life of blood.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, though the effort felt like tearing muscle from bone. His hands framed her face, his large, rough palms cupping her cheeks as his thumbs frantically, hopelessly tried to wipe away the deluge of tears that wouldn't stop falling. Her hands flew up to his wrists, her nails digging into his skin, drawing blood as if she could tether him to her by physical pain alone.
He forced her chin up, his eyes burning into hers with a searing, desperate light, the look of a man trying to imprint his entire being into her retinas so she would never see another face clearly again.
“Zaara,” he commanded, his voice a jagged, gravelly wreck. “Main tumhe phir milunga. Agar iss zindagi mein nahi...toh kissi aur zindagi mein. I will find you. I will crawl through the dirt of a thousand lifetimes to find you. I will always find you.”
The promise hung in the air, a beautiful, tragic lie they both needed to believe to survive the next ten minutes, even as the cold realization settled in that they were looking at the only heaven they would ever know.
Ghazal stood beside them, her small brow furrowed as she looked up at the two giants of her world as they crumbled into dust before her eyes.
“Mama, why are you crying?” she asked, her voice a small, frightened silver thread in the heavy fabric of their grief.
Uzair reached down, his large, scarred hands trembling with a vulnerability that would have horrified his enemies, and hoisted her up. He tucked her into the suffocatingly narrow space between his chest and Zaara’s. For one final, agonizing minute, the laws of the world were suspended. They were a single, frantic heartbeat. Ghazal reached out her tiny, soft palms, her small fingers grazing the rough salt of her father’s beard and the wet heat of her mother’s cheeks, a bridge of pure innocence stretched over a river of absolute sorrow.
“Jao,” Uzair whispered, the word sounding less like a command and more like a death rattle, the final gasp of a man being executed.
He handed Ghazal to Zaara. The moment their skin lost contact, the air between them turned to ice, sharp and jagged, cutting into their lungs. Uzair took a shaky step back, then another, his hands dropping to his sides, heavy and useless, as if the very purpose of his limbs had vanished the moment they stopped holding his family.
Zaara turned toward the SUV, her legs feeling like leaden weights dragged through deep water. Every step was a betrayal of her heart. She stopped at the car door, the cold bite of the metal handle against her palm acting as a cruel reminder of the reality waiting for them.
She turned one last time.
She didn't just look at him, she devoured him. She anchored her eyes to Uzair Baloch, the formidable lion, now standing small and hollow against the backdrop of the empty, echoing Haveli. He was a king of nothing, a man left behind in a palace of ghosts by the souls who made him human.
She began the frantic, silent work of a woman who knew she was going blind. She memorized the specific, jagged way the wind caught the hem of his dark Kurta. She memorized the exact shade of his eyes, fixed on hers with a searing, desperate loyalty, and the way the setting sun cast long, distorted shadows behind him, making his silhouette look like a ghost already fading into the stone. She memorized the tension in his jaw and the slant of his shoulders, cementing every line, every scar, and every sorrow into the bedrock of her mind. She breathed him in, desperate to store enough of his essence to last her through decades of hollow nights and an ocean of distance.
She took one last, searing look, a gaze meant to last a lifetime, before she finally forced herself into the car.
Thud. The door clicked shut, a final, absolute sound that signalled the end of their era.
As the car began to move, Zaara didn't look forward toward the freedom of the coast or the safety of the West. She twisted around, looking through the rear window as the SUV rolled away. She watched Uzair grow smaller and smaller, a lone figure in the dust, until the heavy iron gates of the Haveli swung shut with a mournful groan, swallowing him whole and leaving only the silence of the Lyari night.
Zaara pulled Ghazal into her side with a terrifying, crushing grip, burying her face in her daughter’s hair. She held onto the girl as if she were a life raft, clutching the last living piece of Uzair she had left in a world that had, in the span of a heartbeat, gone completely and utterly dark.
Author's Note: Good god, every day that goes by, my thoughts are turning more and more unhinged 🫠. Seeing a violent, broken, incarcerated Uzair in D2 brought very unholy thoughts into my mind and this is a result of that. In the wise words of one of the girlies, I would let my morals be utterly debased for the sake of this man. Enjoy my unhinged thoughts while I go find some holy water for my brain 💋
Warning: SMUT below the cut! Minors DNI!
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The Baloch Haveli had finally settled into a heavy, post-dawat silence. The lingering scent of saffron-infused zarda and expensive, smoky oud clung to the velvet curtains, a ghost of the evening’s festivities. Uzair sauntered into their bedroom, the top button of his dark navy kurta already wrenched open to provide some relief against the humidity. His shoulders felt like they were made of lead after hours of playing the perfect host, maintaining the dignity of his name while navigating the labyrinth of Baloch family politics.
He let out a long, weary sigh, the kind that usually signalled he was ready for Zaara to massage his temples, and plopped heavily onto the edge of the mattress.
“Thak gaya aaj, bohaut hi lamba din tha,” he muttered, reaching up to rub the back of his neck, his eyes already half-closing in anticipation of sleep.
When the only response he received was the violent, rhythmic thud-slide of wood on wood, his eyes snapped open. He looked over toward the wardrobe. Zaara wasn't just folding laundry, she was wrestling it. She was shoving piles of dupattas and kurtas into the cupboards with an aggression that bordered on a personal vendetta, her movements sharp and jagged. Every time she slammed a drawer, the sound echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room.
Uzair narrowed his eyes in confusion. He knew that look. That was the ‘I’m-fuming-but-I’m-going-to-act-busy’ look. He cleared his throat, offering a cautious olive branch.
“Zarda tumne banaya tha? Aaj toh bohaut hi lazeez tha,” he tried, his voice cautious. “Sab tareef kar rahe thay."
She didn't turn around. She just snatched a folded towel and jammed it into a space that was clearly too small for it. “Kyun? Baaki din main zeher dalti hun usmein?”
Uzair’s shoulders stiffened instantly. His eyes widened, that familiar, primal husband-in-danger instinct screaming in his ears. He sat up straighter, his mind racing at a hundred miles an hour.
"Kya kiya maine?" he asked, his voice a mix of bewilderment and genuine concern.
He scrambled through the day's mental archives with the desperation of a man trying to find a misplaced key. Okay, think. I came home on time. I wore the charcoal grey kurta she set out. I didn't get into a spat with her uncle. I even complimented her hair twice before the guests arrived. He came up entirely short. To him, the day had been a soaring success.
Zaara finally finished her assault on the cupboard, slamming the door shut with a finality that made the perfume bottles on her vanity rattle. She marched over to the mirror, her hands flying to her ears. She ripped off her heavy gold earrings with enough force to make Uzair wince, tossing them onto the marble surface with a loud clink. The dozen bangles on her wrists clattered together like a frantic warning bell.
“Aapko nahi pata?” she bit out, her reflection glaring at him through the glass.
“Nahi,” he said, sounding genuinely, pathetically lost.
She scoffed, a sound so sharp and dismissive it practically cut the air. She began scrubbing at her kohl-lined eyes with a cotton pad, her movements furious. “Toh phir kuch nahi hua. Aap araam karein, Janab thak gaye honge.”
“Zaara,” he groaned, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “Agar bataogi nahi toh main maafi kaise mangunga? Kam se kam jurm toh bata do.”
She spun around then, the cotton pad clenched in her fist. Her eyes were narrowed into lethal slits, her jaw tight as she fought to maintain her sass while her vulnerability threatened to leak through.
“Uss Sharmeen ke saath itni khikhi kyun kar rahe the?” she demanded, her voice rising in pitch. “Mujhe bhi batayein itna kya mazedaar bataya aapne ki uski hasi hi band nahi ho rahi thi?”
A soft, realization-filled ‘oh’ formed on Uzair’s lips. The tension suddenly bled out of his frame, replaced by a slow, teasing heat. He realized he wasn't actually in trouble for a mistake, he was being targeted by a very jealous, very beautiful wife. He leaned back on his elbows, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched her chest heave with indignation.
“Astagfirullah Zaara, majaal hai ke main kissi aur ko hasaun,” he teased, his voice dropping into that low, rumbling register he knew she couldn't resist. “Ab uss pagal ko har cheez pe hassi aati hai toh isme main kya karun?”
“Aap mazak udha rahe hain mera?” she snapped, taking a threatening step toward the bed.
He held his hands up in mock defense, his eyes sparkling with a dark, liquid mischief that signaled he was enjoying her fire far too much.
“Meri itni himmat ke apni Begum ka mazak udhaun?” he asked, his voice dropping into a mock-offended lilt. To drive the point home, he reached up with his right hand to pinch his earlobe, then quickly swapped to the left, a theatrical, boyish gesture of Tauba, tauba that looked utterly ridiculous on a man of his lethal stature.
The sight of the gangster performing such a domestic, humble act of penance was almost enough to make Zaara laugh, but she stiffened her lip, refusing to let the sass crumble just yet.
“Tauba, tauba,” he repeated, his head tilting as he watched her, his fingers lingering on his ear for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “Maafi de dein, Huzoor. Agli baar agar Sharmeen ne baat ki, toh main waheen sab chod kar bhaag jaunga. Khush?”
He saw her remain unamused, her chest heaving with a sharp, rhythmic indignation that made the gold pendant around her neck catch the amber light. Her fury was a living thing, vibrant and beautiful, and it made the air in the room feel thick with static. Uzair’s face softened, the teasing glint in his eyes melting into a low, smouldering heat. His voice dropped an octave, vibrating with a gravity that usually commanded entire rooms of men, but here, it was a plea.
“Zaara...idhar aao.”
He beckoned her with a slow flick of his fingers, his gaze anchored to hers. She rolled her eyes, a final, defiant act of resistance, but the invisible tether that always pulled her toward him was too strong to break. She marched forward until she stood directly between his knees, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She stared pointedly at the wall over his head, her jaw set, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an easy win.
It wasn't nearly close enough for him.
Uzair’s hands shot out like a predator’s, his large palms hooking around her narrow waist. With one powerful, effortless tug, he hauled her firmly into his lap. Zaara let out a small gasp as she collided with his chest, her silk kameez rustling against the rough cotton of his kurta. He didn't let her pull away, instead, he hooked two fingers under her chin, tilting her face up until she was forced to look into the dark, honeyed depths of his eyes.
“Tumhe sach mein lagta hai main kissi aur ko hasaunga?” he murmured, his thumb tracing the soft curve of her lower lip. “Pagal ho tum. Mere paas tumhare nakhre uthane se fursat ho toh kisi aur ko dekhun na?”
In an instant, the power dynamic shifted, snapping like a taut wire. Zaara’s eyes flashed, the molten gold of her irritation cooling into a dark, predatory intent that Uzair had never seen directed at him quite like this. She didn't wait for him to finish his teasing defence; she simply reached out, her palms flat against the hard, expansive planes of his chest, and gave him a sharp, sudden shove.
Uzair, the man who commanded the streets of Lyari with a single glance, was so caught off guard by her boldness that he fell back flat against the mattress with a muffled thump, his breath hitching in surprise.
She didn't give him a single second to recover his dignity. Zaara crawled over him with a feline, calculated grace, her movements so slow they felt like a deliberate provocation. She pinned his hips beneath the weight of her own, her knees settling firmly on either side of his waist. As she leaned forward, her emerald dupatta slid from her shoulder, pooling on the bedsheets like a discarded skin and revealing the sharp, elegant line of her shoulders in the amber lamplight.
Her hands moved to his collar. Her fingers were nimble and cool, a stark, agonizing contrast to the feverish heat radiating from his skin. She didn't rush. She popped the top button with an excruciatingly slow twist, then the second, her eyes locked onto his with a searing intensity that made his lungs seize. Every time her knuckles brushed the hollow of his throat, Uzair’s Adam’s apple bobbed in a hard, desperate swallow.
As she peeled the fabric back, slowly exposing the broad, rugged expanse of his chest, the silver chain he wore glinted against the dark hair of his torso. It rose and fell with his ragged, uneven breathing, clicking softly against his skin. Zaara watched the way his muscles jumped under her touch, a small, triumphant smirk playing on her lips.
Then, she shifted. It wasn't a sudden move, but a slow, agonizingly intentional grind of her hips against his. The friction was a lightning strike through his nervous system. Uzair let out a sharp, jagged jolt of air, his back arching off the bed instinctively as he tried to bridge the gap she was so cruelly maintaining. His hands flew up, his fingers twitching to grasp her waist and end the torment, but she leaned back just enough to stay out of reach, her eyes mocking his lack of control.
“Zaara…" he rasped, his voice a broken, gravelly plea.
“Shh,” she retorted, her voice like silk over a blade. She shifted again, even slower this time, savouring the way his eyes blew out until the pupils swallowed the honeyed brown.
This was a reverse of every night they had ever shared. Usually, he was the storm, the overwhelming force of nature she had to weather. But tonight, she was the one holding the leash, and the sight of the Sardar reduced to a heaving, trembling mess beneath her was the most intoxicating thing she had ever felt. She was dragging out every second, stretching his desire until it was a thin, vibrating wire, enjoying the way his fingers curled into the bedsheets until the fabric threatened to tear.
She wanted him to feel every ounce of the frustration she’d felt watching that girl laugh at his words. She wanted him to know exactly who owned the air in his lungs.
She leaned down, her heavy tresses falling like a silken, obsidian curtain around their faces, sequestering them into a private world of amber light and frantic heartbeats. The scent of her that intoxicating blend of bergamot and the jasmine became the only air Uzair could breathe. She stopped when her lips were a mere hair’s breadth from his, so close he could feel the frantic, humid heat of her breath against his mouth.
“Agli baar zyada khi-khi kari,” she whispered, her voice a low, lethal promise that vibrated against his lips, “toh aapke zarde mein sach mein zeher mila dungi.”
To seal the threat, she didn't kiss him. Instead, she tilted her head with a predator’s precision and sank her teeth into his bottom lip. It was a deliberate, bruising claim. She clamped down on the sensitive, plush pink flesh and tugged, drawing his lip outward with a slow, agonizing pressure.
Uzair’s world fractured. The sharp sting of her teeth against the soft membrane of his mouth sent a lightning bolt of white-hot desire straight to his gut, making his vision blur and his head swim. A guttural, pained groan ripped from his chest, a sound of a man who was being unmade. Driven by a primal reflex to close the distance, his large hand flew up, fingers splayed to catch the back of her neck and crush her mouth against his in a proper, desperate kiss.
But Zaara was faster. She swatted his hand away with a sharp, stinging crack against his wrist that echoed in the quiet room.
“Haath neeche,” she whispered sternly against his mouth, her eyes darkening until they were almost black, swirling with a possessive fire that demanded total submission. “Main abhi bhi gussa hun. Aur gussa nikaalne ka haq sirf mera hai.”
Uzair’s arm fell back to the mattress, his muscles twitching with the effort of restraint. He was a man who moved mountains, who commanded respect with a mere tilt of his head, yet here he was, reduced to a heaving, helpless wreck beneath her. His knuckles turned a ghostly white as he gripped the bedsheets, his fingers bunching the expensive fabric until it threatened to tear.
“Zaara yaar...khuda ke liye...chune do,” he pleaded, his voice thick, strained, and broken in a way it never was outside this room. He was begging, his chest heaving so violently that the silver chain on his torso rattled against his skin.
“No,” she breathed, her gaze dropping to his reddened, swollen bottom lip, savouring the evidence of her mark. She leaned back just an inch, just enough to let the cool air hit his heated skin, a tormenting reminder of the distance she was choosing to keep. “Jab tak mera dil nahi karega, aap sirf dekhenge.”
She reached for the hem of his dark navy kurta, her fingers intentionally grazing the light dusting of hair on his lower stomach. The contact was feather-light, yet it made his abdominal muscles ripple and contract in a sharp, involuntary spasm. She began to slowly peel the heavy silk upward, the fabric dragging against his skin with an agonizing friction that Uzair felt in every nerve ending.
He didn't wait to be asked, his body was acting on a desperate, singular instinct. He raised his back just enough to let the garment slide out from under him, his movements jerky with the effort of holding back. As the kurta was discarded, falling somewhere into the shadows of the floor, Uzair dropped back down against the pillows. The sudden motion made his dark hair flutter at the top of his forehead, damp with a fine sheen of sweat. He looked raw, his broad shoulders filling the width of the bed, his chest exposed and rising in frantic, shallow heaves, entirely, beautifully at her mercy.
Zaara didn't rush to fill the space. She stayed perched above him, her eyes tracking the way his pectoral muscles tensed and jumped as she hovered. Then, without warning, she leaned down and bit, hard, into the swell of his left pec.
“Bohaut zaalim ho tum, Zaara!” he yelped, a sharp, ragged sound that was half-protest and half-shattered plea. His back arched off the bed in a violent reflex of pleasure and pain, his heels digging into the mattress as he fought the urge to flip her over then and there.
“Pata hai,” she smiled sweetly, the curve of her lips looking almost angelic if not for the dark, possessive fire burning in her eyes.
She didn't pull away. Instead, she began to suck at the angry red bite mark she’d just branded him with. Her tongue swirled over the stinging skin in slow, rhythmic circles, soothing the hurt only to replace it with a heat that made his toes curl. She moved her path upwards, her hips continuing that torturous, agonizingly slow grind against him, ensuring he felt every inch of the friction through their clothes. She lingered at the hollow of his throat, kissing the frantic pulse point there, leaving a trail of fire in her wake that seemed to turn his blood to molten lead.
She could feel him shaking beneath her, a fine, tremor-some vibration that spoke of a restraint fraying like a sun-bleached rope. Every time she nipped at the sensitive skin of his ribs or let the ends of her silken hair brush across his stomach, he let out a low, animalistic sound, a guttural rumble that vibrated against her own chest. It was the sound of a lion finally admitting defeat, a broken note of submission that told her exactly who had won this round.
Uzair’s restraint detonated. The fine, tremor-some vibration in his limbs escalated into a violent shudder as the last thread of his patience snapped like a dry branch in a storm. With a low, animalistic growl that seemed to vibrate the very frame of the mahogany bed, his hands finally ignored her command. They shot out, his large, calloused palms clamping around her thighs with a bruising intensity, and in one blurred, lung-wrenching motion, he flipped them.
The world tilted for Zaara, the amber light of the room spinning until she felt the soft give of the mattress beneath her back. But as Uzair loomed over her, his chest heaving and his dark hair falling in wild, shadowed spikes over his eyes, she didn't flinch.
Instead, she arched a single, perfectly groomed brow, a slow, triumphant smirk spreading across her lips. She didn't look like a woman who had lost her position, she looked like a nymph who had successfully provoked the beast into showing his teeth.
“Bohaut jaldi sabr khatam ho gaya aapka,” she whispered, her voice a cool, silken taunt even as he pinned her wrists above her head.
Uzair’s grip was firm, his fingers digging into the bedding on either side of her hands, his body a heavy, suffocating weight that pressed her into the pillows. Even pinned beneath him, she was the one in control of the rhythm of his heart. She shifted her hips beneath him, a deliberate, provocative movement that made Uzair’s jaw lock so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek.
He didn't wait for another word. He crashed his mouth onto hers, the kiss no longer a negotiation but a desperate, starving reclamation. He tasted of the salt of his own frustration and the heat of the night. He kissed her with a ferocity that bordered on frantic, his tongue demanding entry, claiming her mouth with a possessive urgency that made her head swim.
His free hand didn't have her patience. He bunched the silk of her shirt in his fist, stripping it away with a reckless, frantic energy that left her exposed to his burning gaze. He looked at her then, really looked at her, his eyes devouring the sight of her pale skin against the dark sheets, marked by the faint, flushed evidence of their struggle.
Uzair let out a wrecked, breathless sigh against the sensitive hollow of her shoulder, a sound of total, devastating surrender. It was the sound of a man who had realized that no matter how many territories he controlled in Lyari, he would always be a subject in this room. He shifted his weight, his heavy, muscular frame sliding down her body with an agonizingly slow pressure, his chest dragging against hers until he settled into the cradle of her hips.
The friction was electric. His rough, hair-dusted skin was a delicious, sparking contrast against the velvet softness of her inner thighs as he nudged them wider. He lingered there for a heartbeat, his forehead pressed against hers, both of them gasping for the same thin air. His eyes were dark, blown out with a primal need that made the honeyed brown of his irises vanish into black.
He didn't ease into her. Driven by the of teasing and the lingering sting of her teeth on his skin, he entered her with a single, powerful thrust. The impact was total. It tore a high, sharp cry from Zaara’s throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated release that echoed against the high ceilings of the Haveli. Her back arched off the mattress, her fingers scrambling for purchase until they locked onto the corded muscles of his forearms, her nails digging in as she anchored herself to the storm.
The rhythm that followed was primal and punishing, fuelled by the lingering electricity of their power play. Uzair moved with a relentless, driving urgency, each strike a heavy, rhythmic thud that made the mahogany headboard groan. It was a reminder of his strength, of the sheer physical force of the man she had provoked, but every time Zaara wrapped her legs tighter around his waist, locking her ankles behind his back to pull him even deeper, she reminded him exactly who he belonged to.
She met every downward surge with an upward tilt of her hips, her body a perfect, fluid counterpoint to his raw aggression. Uzair was mesmerized. He stayed braced on his elbows, looming over her so he could watch the wreckage he was causing. He watched the way her kohl had smudged into beautiful, dark shadows around her eyes, making her look like a fallen angel. He watched the way her lips parted in a silent, breathless plea, her head tossing from side to side against the silk pillows as the pleasure became too much to contain.
Every time he hit that specific, deep point that made her sob his name, he felt a surge of possessive triumph so sharp it was almost painful. He was conquering her, yes, but as he felt her internal muscles tighten around him, drawing him into the white-hot centre of her fire, he knew he was the one truly lost. He was drowning in her, and he never wanted to reach the surface.
The air in the room grew heavy and humid, thick with the scent of their combined heat and the fading traces of jasmine clinging to the damp sheets. The pace accelerated into something all-consuming, the friction turning into a searing, blinding burn that threatened to incinerate the last of their restraint.
As the first tremors of Zaara’s climax began to ripple through her, Uzair didn't pull away. Instead, he reached up, his large hand wrapping firmly around the column of her throat. His thumb and forefingers played across the sharp, delicate line of her jaw with a possessive pressure, forcing her to stay present, to stay with him in the eye of the storm. With a low, guttural sound, he angled her face upward, guiding her until she was forced to look directly into the dark, sweltering depths of his eyes. He leaned down, his forehead falling against hers with a heavy, desperate thud. Their lashes were a mere breath away, tangling in the shadows as he stared into her blown-out pupils, wanting to be the only thing she saw as her world came apart.
“Zaara…” he groaned, the word vibrating against her lips, his voice muffled and wrecked with a devotion that bordered on worship.
He held her gaze with a terrifying, beautiful intensity, refusing to let her blink, refusing to let her look away. He watched the exact moment her focus shattered, the way her eyes glazed over and her breath hitched into a broken sob, just before he followed her into the dark, losing himself entirely in the woman who had spent the night proving he was hers.
Author's Note: This little family truly has me in a chokehold and I cannot stop writing for them! Little Ghazal is melting my heart into a puddle as each fic goes by 🥺 I hope you lovelies enjoy this little slice of heaven! For anyone that’s sent me a prompt/ask, I promise I’m very slowly making my way through them! Please feel free to share any thoughts, comments or feedback. And let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist! Much love to all my loves 💋
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The bedroom was a sanctuary of soft, amber lighting, a quiet bubble of warmth that stood in stark contrast to the rest of the Haveli. Outside the heavy oak doors, the house was a controlled chaos of preparation, the rhythmic thrum of Donga and Siyahi coordinating the car convoy and Rehman’s booming, cheerful voice echoing through the corridors as he chivied the boys into their waistcoats. But inside, the air was still and sweet, heavy with the expensive, floral trail of Zaara’s signature perfume and the faint scent of fresh jasmine.
Ghazal was perched on the edge of the sprawling canopy bed, her small legs dangling over the side. She looked like miniature royalty in her dusty pink pishwas, the fine silk rustling softly with her every move. The dress was a masterpiece of detail, hundreds of tiny zardozi flowers, hand-stitched in gold thread, seemed to bloom across the fabric, catching the light and shimmering like fallen stars whenever she breathed.
But her real pride and joy, the detail that made her feel truly ‘grown up’, were the teeny-tiny gold jhumkas dangling from her lobes. They were a precious first-birthday gift from her Taya-Abbu and Tayi-Ammi, crafted with delicate filigree that mirrored her mother’s own jewelry. Every time she had caught her reflection that evening, in the polished wardrobe wood, the windowpane, or the grand vanity, she had stopped dead in her tracks. She would tilt her head sharply to the left, then the right, listening with pure, unadulterated giddiness to the faint, melodic jingle of the gold. Her eyes would go wide, a secret, proud smile spreading across her face as she admired the way they swayed, convincing herself that she looked exactly like the elegant woman sitting across the room.
Currently, she was deep in concentration, her small fingers struggling to braid her doll’s hair so the doll would be ‘Walima-ready’ too. Uzair sat leaned back against the headboard next to her, one arm draped lazily behind his head as he watched the news on the TV, though his eyes kept drifting down to the top of Ghazal’s head.
Across the room, Zaara was a vision of focused elegance at her vanity. Ghazal’s gaze, which had been fitfully occupied with her doll's messy pigtails, kept snapping away, drawn like a magnet to her mother’s reflection in the expansive, gold-rimmed mirror. She was utterly mesmerized by the ritual unfolding before her: the soft clink of glass jars, the flurry of fluffy brushes that looked like magic wands, and the way the shimmering powders seemed to transform under the warm vanity lights.
When Zaara finally picked up her mascara wand, Ghazal went completely still, her doll forgotten in her lap. She leaned forward, her mouth slightly agape and her breath held in her throat, watching with wide-eyed intensity as the wand darkened and lengthened her mother’s lashes, stroke by careful stroke. To Ghazal, it wasn't just makeup, it was alchemy.
Uzair, who had been half-watching a news anchor drone on about the city's latest developments, felt the sudden cessation of movement next to him. The rustle of silk had gone silent. He looked down, finding Ghazal frozen in a state of pure, unadulterated adoration, her neck craned toward the vanity as if she were witnessing a miracle. He followed her line of sight to the mirror and felt a familiar, sharp tug of affection in his chest.
He leaned down, his voice dropping into a low, warm whisper that tickled the shell of Ghazal’s ear. “Mama sundar lag rahi hai na?”
Ghazal nodded slowly, her loose silken hair swishing against the dusty pink fabric of her back in a rhythmic, hypnotic motion. Her eyes remained locked on the mirror, reflecting the gold and rose-gold hues of the room, wide with a newfound sense of awe. “Baba…”
“Hmm, meri jaan?” Uzair murmured, his gaze lingering on the delicate curve of her cheek and the way the light caught those tiny, jingling gold jhumkas. He reached out, his large hand resting protectively on the small of her back, waiting for whatever profound toddler-thought was about to emerge.
“Main bhi Mama jitni sundar lagungi...badi ho kar?” she asked quietly, her voice trembling with the weight of the question.
Uzair’s expression softened into something profoundly tender, a rare, unguarded warmth bleeding into his features that he only ever allowed within these four walls. He shifted his gaze from his little Jaan to his first Jaan sitting at the vanity, and for a moment, he found himself falling into the same trance as his daughter.
He watched Zaara through the mirror, the way the soft vanity lights caught the curve of her throat and the elegant, practiced arch of her hand. It was a sight that had haunted him since the very first day he had laid eyes on her, the same magnetic, breathless pull that had levelled him then was still just as potent now. He understood exactly why Ghazal was so mesmerized, he had spent years trying to decode the same magic himself. To the world, he was a man of steel and shadow, but in the reflection of that mirror, he was just a man who had never quite recovered from the beauty of the woman he married.
“Tum toh ab bhi itni pyaari ho, meri jaan,” he answered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a fierce, quiet pride that vibrated in the air between them. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of Ghazal's jaw, before his eyes flickered back to Zaara’s reflection. “Aur badi ho kar? Bilkul Mama jaisi lagogi.”
A radiant, wide smile broke across Ghazal’s face, her small teeth peeking out in a look of pure, unadulterated triumph. To her four-year-old heart, being told she would grow up to be as beautiful as the woman currently painting her lashes was better than any toy or sweet in the world. It was a promise of future magic.
Suddenly, she gasped, the sound sharp and urgent. She spun around on the silk duvet to face Uzair, her little gold jhumkas dancing frantically against her ears, struck by a thought so important it couldn't possibly wait another second.
“Baba! Main bhi makeup kar sakti hoon?”
Uzair let out a short, rhythmic laugh and reached out, booping her nose with his index finger. “Mama se pucho,” he said, nodding toward the vanity.
Ghazal didn't need to be told twice. She gathered the skirts of her pink pishwas in her fists and bounced off the bed, her little feet pattering across the rug. She came to a halt beside Zaara, standing as tall as her four-year-old frame would allow, looking up at her mother through the mirror with a shy, hopeful expression.
“Mama…"
Zaara paused, her lipstick mid-air, and looked down. “Haan, meri jaan? Kya hua?”
“Main bhi makeup kar sakti hoon?” Ghazal asked, her voice small but determined. “Mujhe bhi aapke jaisa lagna hai.”
Zaara’s heart effectively melted. The sight of her daughter in those tiny jhumkas, asking to be ‘just like her,' was too much to resist. She dropped her lipstick and scooped Ghazal into her lap, planting a loud, lingering kiss on her plump cheek.
“Theek hai,” Zaara whispered, her voice thick with an indulgent, maternal ache. She tucked a loose strand of Ghazal’s hair behind one of the gold earrings, her eyes soft as she looked at her miniature twin. “Lekin sirf thoda sa.” Ghazal let out a tiny shriek of delight and twisted around to give her Baba a wide, toothy grin. Uzair, watching from the bed, grinned right back.
Zaara pulled out a compact of soft rose blush and a fluffy brush. She turned Ghazal toward her, and the toddler immediately straightened her spine, closing her eyes and holding her breath as if she were preparing for a very solemn ritual. Zaara gently dusted the light pink powder onto Ghazal’s cheeks, adding a soft glow to her already flushed face. Then, she took a sheer pink tint and dabbed it lightly onto Ghazal’s lips.
“Ab aise karo,” Zaara said, dabbing her own lips together.
Ghazal mimicked her mother with an intensity that was almost comical, her tiny brows knitting together in a mask of absolute focus. She pressed her rose-bud lips together, tapping them with a rhythmic pop-pop-pop sound, her head tilting side to side as she ensured the colour reached every corner. It was a mirror image of the woman she adored, the same tilt of the chin, the same dainty concentration.
Uzair watched the two of them from the bed, his broad frame framed by the dark mahogany of the headboard. His entire world was condensed into that single, gold-rimmed vanity mirror: the woman who had redefined his soul and the little girl who had stolen what was left of it. For a man who lived by the book of violence, the sight of Zaara’s slender hand guiding Ghazal’s tiny chin was an almost unbearable kind of beauty. His eyes misted, a rare and quiet softness blurring the sharp edges of his gaze as he committed the scene to memory, a treasure far more valuable than any territory he held.
Ghazal stared at her reflection, her breath hitching in her throat. She saw the soft, dusty pink glow on her plump cheeks, like the petals of a fresh carnation, and the subtle, shimmering sheen on her lips that caught the amber vanity lights. For a moment, she was breathless, convinced that the magic had truly begun. A massive, self-assured smile broke across her face, the look of a girl who knew she was cherished.
She spun around in Zaara's lap, her pink silk pishwas rustling like a field of flowers, and threw her small, soft arms around Zaara’s neck. She squeezed with all the strength her four-year-old body could muster, burying her face in the crook of her mother’s jasmine-scented neck.
“Thank you, Mama!” she chirped, the gold earrings jingling a happy, frantic rhythm against Zaara's skin. Before Zaara could even respond, Ghazal was off, racing back to the bed. She scrambled into Uzair’s lap, pointing at her face. Uzair performed a dramatic, theatrical gasp, his hands coming up to his chest.
“Masha’Allah! Meri jaan kitni sundar lag rahi hai!”
Ghazal leaned in, her tiny chest heaving with the importance of the moment. Her dark, wide eyes searched his with a desperate, hopeful intensity, looking for the one final confirmation that would make her entire world align.
“Mama jaisi?” she whispered, her voice a fragile thread of expectation.
Uzair’s gaze flickered upward, past the pink silk of Ghazal, to catch Zaara’s eyes in the vanity mirror. Zaara was leaning against the table, her hands tucked under her chin, watching the two of them with a soft smile that made her look more ethereal than any amount of makeup ever could.
The man who had spent his life in the shadows felt a sudden, fierce rush of gratitude that this warmth, this light, these two women, were his reality. He looked back down at the miniature version of his heart and the woman he loved and tucked her firmly under his chin, his beard grazing her soft forehead. He squeezed her close, the gold jhumkas cold against his neck, and made the most solemn vow of his life.
“Bilkul Mama jaisi,” he promised, his voice thick with a fierce, quiet certainty.
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