Author's note: This is very self-indulgent. So you will find specific descriptions at times.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who spoils you rotten with his money and buys you whatever you want – dresses, shoes, food, jewellery, and even vehicles.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who brings you an expensive gift every time after he's back from a trip.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who calls you 'doll' and demands you to immediately trial whatever new dress/jewellery he's bought for you. If it's a dress he'll ask you to twirl for him while he sits back on the couch with a cigarette in his hands.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who loves slapping your ass whenever you're near. If you're in public, he'll reduce the force and just tap it lightly but if it's just the both of you, he'll slap hard enough to make you let out a little yelp (and maybe even leave a mark).
Sugardaddy!Rehman who sits on his big armchair with you curled up on his lap like a cat in the evenings. He'll take out his cigarette, make you light it up for him and he'll smoke while his free hand plays with your hair. You'll lay your head on his chest, quietly watching him take puffs of it. He'll swallow the smoke every now and then in order to make sure it's not too much for you. Sometimes, if he's feeling a bit naughty, he'll hold the back of your neck and make you take a puff. You immediately cough from the smoke, and he'll pat the top of your head with a laugh and say "Take it easy, doll"
Sugardaddy!Rehman who knows he's too old for you but he cannot bring himself to give a fuck. He likes having a young pretty thing like you in his arms. He knows you need an older man like him to treat you well. And you weren't complaining either.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who is so so pleased to hear that you're a virgin and takes it upon himself to give you the best experience possible. He lazily makes out with you for an hour and then takes you to his bed, where he strips you and eats you out like it's his last meal on Earth.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who finally pulls his cock out and is received with you shyly saying that he's too big for you. He kisses your mouth softly and tells that he'll make it fit.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who says "it fits perfectly, doll" while your virgin cunt is clearly struggling to accommodate his size. When you ask him if he's all the way in, he chuckles and tells you that he hasn't even pushed half of his length in. He presses you down with his weight, making it impossible for you to move as he pushes all the way in with a delicious groan.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who's convinced he's in paradise when he starts fucking you, and mentally asks himself why he didn't do this earlier. He watches as you go cross-eyed with your tongue sticking out slightly as he fully sheaths himself in and he almost cums on spot at the sight.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who hits all the spots inside you, making you squirt in a way that leaves a huge patch of wetness on the sheets. He's extremely pleased with himself and fucks you harder, holding your hips down in an iron grip that is sure to leave marks.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who cleans you up afterwards and cuddles you while he smokes.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who'll buy you lingerie every week, only to tear it off of you just a few minutes after you trial it for him. His favourite colour on you is black.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who makes you move into the haveli so he can have you whenever he wants. There isn't a single surface left in which he hasn't bent you over.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who makes sure you eat well to keep you all plump for him. He loves the healthy fat on you and he has banned any sorts of diets.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who loves groping your tits. You'll be in the living room watching the tv when he comes to sit beside you to lift up your shirt and play with your nipples. He loves how it fits in his hands and he loves making you ride him shirtless just so he can watch it bounce. He also loves fucking your tits when he's got the time for it. He buys you fitted t-shirts to wear inside the house so he can see the outline of your figure clearly.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who fucks your mouth like he fucks your cunt. He'll hold your hair in a makeshift ponytail, and keep your head still as he thrusts himself into your warm mouth. He's so loud with it too. And he doesn't finish inside your mouth all the time. Instead, he'll pull out right before he's about to finish, and cum on your face and say 'You look so pretty like this doll'. He'll then take a picture of it so he can look back on it later when he's away.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who takes his anger out on you after a bad day. Before he reaches home, he'll text you to get ready, and you understand from that text alone that you'll be having a long night. Once he's inside your shared bedroom, there's no saying what he'll do. Sometimes he'll have you bent over his knees to spank you. Sometimes he'll wrap his belt around your throat to use as a leash to pull while he fucks you. He'll call you whatever degrading names he deems fit, and it gets to a point where you start crying from the sheer overwhelming feeling of it all. And the sight of you, crying underneath him while being fucked into the mattress only makes him go harder. The morning after, when he's finally calmed down, he'll stay in bed to cuddle you and will get you all sorts of gifts as an apology even though he'll repeat it again when he's having a bad day.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who takes you on vacation to the most beautiful places, only to keep you in bed the whole time to fuck you stupid. He loves having some time away from the gruesome work at Lyari, and giving you his undivided attention. You can't even complain because he fucks too good.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who has you wearing less and less clothes as days go by when it's just you and him in the house. He loves having easy access to you.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who loves asking you pointless questions after he's fucked you stupid just to hear you babbling incoherently. He loves knowing the power he has over you.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who will lazily cup your pussy when you're just sitting together. He'll absentmindedly rub circles over your bud while he's on the phone and pretend like you're not curling your toes in pleasure and on the verge of a climax.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who loves being the older one in this twisted relationship of yours. He loves having control over you, and you love being submissive to him. But that didn't mean you couldn't be a brat. You'll do things just to piss him off and he'll then later take it out on you. And he'll never admit it but he secretly loves when you're being bratty.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who buys you pretty matching workout sets. He even sets up a workout area in the haveli so you can do your pilates there. He loves watching you work out. You'd be stretching your muscles and he'll be standing by the door, arms crossed, leaning on the frame as he smokes and undress you with his eyes.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who realises that you get turned on by him swearing at his men. He notices how you rub your thighs together when he's on call with one of the gang members, and he'll casually shove his free hand into your panties and slip a finger inside while he's barking instructions into the phone. He'll curse a few profanities here and there to get you going and gestures you to keep quiet while he fingers you. You'll cum before his call is finished.
Sugardaddy!Rehman whose fingers you love sucking on when you're just relaxing. He'll be looking through his files and you'll be sucking on his long fingers while you lay on his lap.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who makes you sit on his face so he can have his 'favourite meal'. He'll greedily lap at your folds as you grab the headboard for dear life.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who'll let you sit under his desk while he's in his home office. You'll sit on the ground, and rest your head on his lap, right next to his bulge as he works. After he's done, he'll let you suck him off as a reward.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who has a polaroid pic of you, naked, and under him, in a hidden compartment of his wallet. He'll take it out every now and then when he misses you.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who makes you wear the expensive jewellery he's bought you whenever he's fucking you. Let it be the diamond necklace or the gold anklets with bells on it, he needs to see it against your bare, sweaty, skin.
Sugardaddy!Rehman who calls you into the warehouse late at night when it's just him, so he can make you ride him while he sits back on his 'throne'. You moan and whine as you bounce up and down his cock, and he just coos at you while he has the audacity to light up a cigarette like you're not struggling to keep up. You grip his shoulders for support, and he watches as your movements become sloppy. Finally, after teasing you for what feels like hours, he stands up with you still wrapped around him and flips the position so that it's you sitting on his throne while he stands with one knee dipped into the chair. He hands over his cigarette for you to hold, and warns that he'll slap your pretty face if you drop it. He then pushes himself back into your cunt and moves at an impossible speed, making your screams echo in the room. Soon, you clamp down on his cock, and throw your head back as you reach your climax. But you're so lost in the pleasure that you accidentally drop his cigarette. He notices it immediately and slap!. His hand reaches out to slap your cheek as he warned, your head turning from the force as you cry at the stinging sensation which goes straight to your cunt. He scoffs as he feels you tighten around him, and mocks you for crying while you so clearly enjoyed it. He raises his hand to your cheek again, but this time to rub it softly to reduce the pain. He mentally notes down this new kink of yours as he finishes inside you.
Synopsis: You an Uzair have been dating for a while now, all hush hush. Until a very enthusiastic 5 year old decides to expose to your relationship infront of the whole of Lyari.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, made purely with the intention to provide entertainment and not to glorify any real life charecters.
Characters are a little ooc, so sorry about that. The timelines are also changed to an extent to fit the story.
Nobody in the Baloch family expected Uzair Baloch to fall in love.
That wasn’t even an insult at this point, it was simply facts.
The man was terrifying.
Not in a dramatic, filmi way either. No, he was terrifying in the deeply practical sense. The kind of man people lowered their voices around instinctively. The kind of man mothers used as warnings.
“Sharafat se baitho warna Uzair Baloch ko bulaungi.”
And unfortunately?
His personality did not help.
He barely smiled. Barely spoke with people outside the gang. Looked annoyed by human existence at all times.
Trying to arrange a rishta for him had become a family wide nightmare years ago.
Women took one look at him and either:
Got intimidated.
Thought he looked like he might shoot someone.
Worse of all, both.
Once, an aunty had genuinely asked Ulfat in concern:
"Beta… does he… laugh?"
Ulfat had opened her mouth but paused.
Then answered honestly:"…Sometimes."
The aunty never called back.
So eventually everyone collectively stopped trying.
If Uzair got married someday, wonderful. If not, Allah malik.
Which was why his recent behavior had terrified Ulfat beyond belief.
Because this man had started acting suspicious.
At first it was subtle, a random smile while looking at his phone, then the immediate straightening the second someone entered the room. Then the hiding of the screen. Then the grooming.
The GROOMING.
Ulfat noticed everything.
“Rehman,” she whispered dramatically one night while brushing her hair, “your brother is hiding something.”
Rehman Dakait barely looked up from where he lounged across the bed.
“He always hides things.”
“No, this is different.”
“How?”
“He smiled at his phone.”
Silence.
Rehman looked up slowly.
“…What?”
“I KNOW.”
Because genuinely? Seeing Uzair smile at a phone felt unnatural. Like spotting a tiger petting a deer.
Then things escalated.
New shirts appeared. Haircuts became suspiciously regular. Once, Ulfat walked into the lounge and found him staring at his phone with the softest expression she had ever seen on his face.
The second he noticed her, phone down. Expression gone. Back straight.
Like a criminal caught committing emotional vulnerability.
“Oh my God,” Ulfat whispered later that night. “He’s in love.”
Rehman burst out laughing so violently he nearly fell off the bed.
“Uzair?”
“Yes!”
“With WHO?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out!”
Rehman wiped tears from his eyes.
Then suddenly paused.
“…Wait.”
Ulfat narrowed her eyes.
“What?”
A slow grin spread across his face.
“Oh this is excellent.”
“What?”
“Someone agreed to him voluntarily.”
Ulfat gasped so hard she nearly dropped her brush.
“You’re horrible!”
“No listen—” Rehman sat up, fully invested now. “Think about it. Do you understand the burden this removes from my head?”
She stared.
“Every time I talk about his marriage to our relatives, everyone goes silent like someone died.”
Which was unfortunately true.
Because who exactly were they supposed to approach?
“Hello ji, we’d like your daughter’s hand for our emotionally unavailable terrifying brother who looks like he’s one inconvenience away from homicide.”
Impossible. Absolutely impossible.
Neither of them realized how spectacularly they were about to be proven wrong.
—
The disaster began with 5 year old Faisal, which in itself was already a warning enough.
The afternoon had been peaceful, Uzair lay stretched across the divan in the courtyard with one arm over his eyes while Faisal climbed all over him like an aggressive raccoon.
“Chachuuu.”
“No.”
“I didn’t even ask yet.”
“You were going to.”
“Phone do.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
Eventually Uzair sighed in defeat at those puppy dog eyes his nephew was giving him and handed over the unlocked phone.
“Only games.”
Faisal nodded with all the sincerity of a future criminal.
And for approximately four minutes, he attempted to enjoy the ancient nonsense on Uzair’s phone.
Snake. Sudoku. Some football game.
“This is boring,” he muttered, then wandered elsewhere.
Tiny fingers tapped randomly through apps until eventually he opened the gallery, photos flashed by rapidly.
Cars. Family. Food. Random accidental selfies. And then, A girl.
Faisal stopped instantly.
Unlike the rest of the photos, this one looked umportant even to his 5 year old brain.
She sat beneath yellow chai stall lights laughing at something or someone outside the frame. Very pretty.
Faisal squinted thoughtfully.
“Chachu?”
“Hm.”
“Yeh kaun hai?”
Uzair lazily moved his arm from his eyes.
Looked over and immediately softened.
A tiny smile formed on his lips before he could stop it.
“That?” he murmured absentmindedly.
Then made the single greatest mistake of his life.
“Tumhari chachi.”
Silence.
Faisal gasped like he’d uncovered classified military information.
“MERI CHACHI?!”
Uzair blinked, the realization hit instantly.
Too late. Way too late.
Because Faisal had already accepted this as permanent truth.
His chachi existed, and apparently nobody had informed him sooner.
A betrayal, honestly.
Uzair scrambled to fix the slip up, he bribed a 5 year old with 10 rupees into making a pinky promise to not to tell anyone about it and well for little Faisal, he knew well not to refuse money when offered.
And from that day onward, Faisal was his little satellite. Always asking questions about her,
“Where’s chachi?”
“When will chachi come to live with us?”
“Can chachi play cricket?”
“Can I show chachi my cars?”
“Can chachi beat Naiem bhai?”
Uzair ignored him mostly, which only encouraged him further.
The child became emotionally attached to a woman he had never met.
A ticking time bomb in tiny sandals.
And months later, during Major Iqbal’s wedding anniversary celebration,
the bomb exploded.
—
The house overflowed with people. It's as if everyone in Lyari was at Major sahab's residence.
Music thundered through the walls while relatives occupied every visible inch of space. Children sprinted through hallways screaming. Women sat in glittering clusters gossiping with military precision.
Chaos, pure chaos.
Ulfat sat beside Rehman watching the crowd when she noticed something interesting.
Uzair had suddenly gone alert.
Not obvious, most people wouldn’t even catch it. But she did.
His posture straightened slightly. His eyes shifted toward the entrance automatically.
Then she saw her, a young woman entered beside Jameel Jamali’s wife, adjusting her dupatta while glancing around the crowded hall.
Uzair looked like he’d forgotten how to blink.
Ulfat’s jaw dropped.
“Oh you DOG.”
Beside her, Rehman followed her gaze and paused, then sat upright so fast he nearly spilled his drink.
“…OH.”
Everything clicked instantly.
The secret phone smiles. The grooming. The hiding. Their terrifying unmarried problem had solved himself.
Rehman looked genuinely emotional for a second.
Then he leaned back against the sofa and whispered with heartfelt relief:
“Allah ka shukar hai.”
Ulfat stared at him.
“What?”
“He actually found someone himself. You were not seeing things or delusional.”
And the man looked SINCERELY relieved.
Like a father whose unemployed son finally got hired.
That's wgen, disaster struck.
Because little Faisal saw her and he froze dramatically.
Recognition exploded across his tiny face.
PHONE WALI CHACHI.
Before anyone could stop him, the child launched himself across the hall like a missile.
Uzair’s expression changed instantly.
Pure horror.
“Faisal—”
Too late.
The boy slammed directly into her legs.
“CHACHIIIIIIII!”
The silence after the abruption was deafening. Conversations stopped. Heads turned. One aunty physically lowered her samosa.
Y/N froze completely, turning a vibrant shade if red. Her face felt hot.
Meanwhile Faisal wrapped himself around her legs proudly like he’d finally reunited with family after years abroad.
“Chachi!” he repeated happily.
Reader looked down at him in complete confusion and horror.
“…What?”
Nearby relatives turned immediately. Hungry for gossip.
Rehman, meanwhile, physically bent forward laughing into his hands.
Not because of the exposure.
Because of the RELIEF.
“Finally!” he wheezed. “Finally someone voluntarily agreed to be with him!”
Uzair looked murderous.
“Bhai.”
“No genuinely!” Rehman turned to Y/N. “Beta are you okay? Did he threaten you? Blink twice.”
His men burst out laughing.
Y/N looked seconds away from evaporating from embarrassment.
Especially because Faisal was STILL attached to her legs proudly.
“Chachi finally aa gayi.”
Jameel Jamali turned slowly, looked at Faisal then at Y/N and then at Uzair.
“…Okay,” he said carefully. “When did THIS happen?”
Y/N covered her face instantly.
Uzair wanted death. Ulfat was thriving.
“I KNEW something was wrong with him!” she announced triumphantly. “This idiot keeps smiling at his phone!”.
“And he fixes his hair before leaving!” Ulfat continued gleefully.
“Bhabhi—”
“And whenever I walk into the room he hides his phone like some teenage girl!”
The hall erupted laughing.
Reader made the mistake of looking at Uzair then.
Because he was embarrassed, like actually embarrassed.
Which somehow made everything ten times funnier.
“Why are you red?” she hissed under her breath.
“Why are YOU red?”
“Because your nephew just publicly adopted me into the family!”
Faisal looked up proudly.
“Because you’re my chachi.”
That shut both of them up instantly.
And then Rehman, still crying laughing, made the fatal mistake of saying:
“Honestly? The kid already announced it publicly. Bas nikah kar lo abb."
And despite it all, the grand expose, the secrets..every cat out of the bag. Y/N and Uzair felt a weird sense of relief washing over them. No more hiding. No more the guilt of secrecy.
alright alright
so a lot of people have left the fandom. its high time that whoever is still actively writing- we should be tight.
i also feel like the fandom is divided into various groups and no i'm not saying groups as in favoritism im saying groups as in the writers are somehow divived i see so many new fics from upcoming yet there are no mutuals with those writers so i don't really get to know about them.
i'm tagging people and please please, tag writers who are writing still for the dhurandhar fandom and writers if you see this, please respond in the comments COZ I WANNA BE MOOTS WITH ALL OF YOU OK AND WE SHOULD BE TIGHT KNIT AND SUPPORTING EACH OTHER
edit: see guys this is what im talking abt WE NETWORKING HARD LINKEDIN WHO
Summary : Uzair Baloch meets a girl who has absolutely no clue who he is, no survival instincts, and way too much confidence for someone causing public scenes at Azam Sweets. Unfortunately for him, she also happens to be the first person in a very long time to treat him like he’s just some random hot guy instead of Uzair Baloch himself.
Word count : 14483k words
A/N : part 1??? guys pehli baar reader se writer banne ki koshish kari hai 🤧💔 first time writing literally anything so please reham 😭 starting ke 5k words sirf y/n ki personality, uski bakwas aur relational world building mein chale gaye because apparently mujhe editing se personal dushmani hai ✋ could i have shortened it? yes. kya maine kiya? bilkul nahi. aur phir pata nahi kaise yeh 15k (almost) words ka hogaya 😭 genuinely respect to anyone jo poora padhega because mujhe khud nahi pata plot kab shuru hua aur kab sab Azam Sweets mein public tamasha ban gaya 💔 please bear with me lovingly 🛐😬
this is my alternate blog created specifically to write dhurandhar fics because apparently the obsession got out of hand, you might know me from my main blog @astrellapyxis
Disclaimer : ALL THE PEOPLE IN THIS FIC ARE FICTIONAL, THEY HAVE NO RELATION TO REAL PEOPLE, THE CHARACTER ARE INSPIRED FROM THE MOVIE DHURANDHAR MADE BY ADITYA DHAR. THESE CHARACTERS ARE BASICALLY OCS AND HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH REAL LIFE TERRORIST, WHO ARE GOD AWFUL PEOPLE AND SHOULD ROT IN HELL. ALSO HAMZA AS A SPY AND MAJOR IQBAL PLOT DOESN'T EXIST IN THIS FIC.
After two years of doing your master’s in Switzerland, you had almost forgotten what Karachi felt like in the summer. The airport doors slide open and Karachi crashes into you whole. The heat surpassing your heart and melting away the freeze that Switzerland had left behind.
Home.
The air smells like dust, chai, humidity, jet fuel, and home. Loud voices overlap somewhere near the arrival gate, trolley wheels screech across the floor, and outside the glass windows the sky hangs heavy and orange with summer haze. Walking through you pushed your sunglasses up onto your head, scanning the crowd for a familiar face before spotting a man holding a small placard with your name written across it.
Miss Y/N Ahmed
A smile spreads infectiously on your face lightening up all the tiredness caused due to the long travel. There your fathers assistant Qureshi chacha holds up a placard with a genuine smile when he spots you. In his hands, a pretty bouquet of pink carnations, making your smile deeper if that was even possible. You rush ahead to meet him by passing strangers and their hurried trolleys.
“As-salamu alaykum, chacha! Kaise ho aap?” you beam at him. He hands you the flowers and takes your bags from you before answering.
“Walaikum assalam. Main to thik hi hu, par tumahre bina tho aesa lagta tha ki Karachi ki sari runak tum aapne sath Switzerland pack kerkar legai,” he told you while shaking his head.
He had given all his worth to your father’s business, and your father, in turn, had given him a family he didn’t have. Qureshi chacha, to you, was more than your uncle; he was your confidant, your ‘father’ when your teacher called your parents to discuss your behaviour in school, the person who’d sneak you out of the house when your friend made impromptu plans to watch the sunrise and ‘find the purpose of life’.
He was always there, and now he was here too, and there was no more befitting person to welcome you back home than him. Your father knew that, which was probably why he sent Qureshi chacha to pick you up himself.
As you reach the car, the Karachi heat somehow feels even worse in the parking lot. The air is thick and humid, sticking to your skin instantly despite the oversized hoodie tied around your waist and the sunglasses still perched on your head. Somewhere nearby, a car horn blares aggressively for far too long while exhausted families crowd around trolleys, arguing over luggage and directions. Husbands and wives bicker over who was more exhausted after the flight while their children trailed behind them looking suspiciously energetic, as if they’d personally drained every ounce of life from their parents during the journey.
You stop beside the car and stare at the sky like it personally offended you.
“Ya Allah,” you groan dramatically, pressing the back of your hand to your forehead. “Yeh Karachi hai ya the inside of an air fryer?”
Qureshi chacha snorts as he places your bags in the trunk. “Bas abhi paanch minute hue hain tumhein utare.”
“And I’ve already suffered enough.”
“You lived in Switzerland for two years, not Antarctica.”
“Clearly not long enough because I’m literally melting.” You aggressively fan yourself with your passport before narrowing your eyes at him suspiciously. “AC chal raha hai na? Dekho, aaj mere saath games mat khelna, chacha. I’m jetlagged, sleep deprived, and emotionally delicate.” counting each inconvenience on the tips of your fingers.
“Emotionally delicate?” he repeats, pausing mid door opening to stare at you. “Tum? Beta, tum toh bachpan mein bhi PTM meetings mein teachers ko rulakar aati thi.”
You gasp. “That was activism. Teachers ko bhi toh pata chalna chahiye ki hum bachon par kya guzarti thi jab woh humein daanta karte the. I just reciprocated what I got. Aur waise bhi, un situations mein sabse zyada kaun entertain hota tha? Aap hi toh thay na.”
Qureshi chacha lets out an offended scoff, though the smile tugging at his face completely ruins the effect.
“Main entertain nahi hota tha,” he says, getting into the driver’s seat. “Main bas yeh dekh raha hota tha ke iss baar tumhara confidence tumhein principal ke office tak leke jata hai ya suspension tak.”
“And yet,” you point at him triumphantly, “aap har baar mujhe ice cream khilane le jaate thay afterwards.”
“Woh isliye kyunki tum ro deti thi.”
“That is called emotional processing,” you say with deep offence, pointing at yourself. “I’m literally an empath. Main dusron ki energy absorb karti hoon.” Now making weird gestures with your hands.
“Haan,” Qureshi chacha nods thoughtfully. “Phir us energy ko teen working days tak nonstop bakbak mein convert karti ho.”
You let out an offended gasp so dramatic that the aunty passing by with three screaming children actually turns to look at you. dramatically clutching your chest as Qureshi chacha shook his head in disappointment that held far too much affection to ever be real annoyance.
The rest of the drive home passes in the same chaotic rhythm it always had. you, at twenty three years old, still arguing with him like an overdramatic teenager while he entertained it far more than he should have. You complain about Karachi’s heat, the traffic, the humidity ruining your hair within ten minutes of landing, and your fundamental human right to be treated gently because you were “a fragile, jetlagged international student.”
Qureshi chacha, naturally, tells you that Switzerland clearly gave you a degree but failed to give you patience.
By the time the car turns into the familiar street leading home, your stomach already tight with anticipation, the exhaustion from the fourteen hour flight doesn’t feel nearly as heavy anymore.
When the car finally stops in front of the mansion you called home, your chest tightens a little at the sight of it.
Long marble pillars stood tall beneath the golden evening light, the fountains at the entrance singing softly of old money, culture, and the kind of grandeur your father carried so effortlessly. The gardens were overflowing with summer blooms, their scent drifting through the warm Karachi air, while green veins of ivy climbed along the walls like lost lovers refusing to let go.
You turn to Qureshi chacha as he unloads your luggage. “Chacha, abbu kahan hai?” you ask, already knowing the answer before the question even leaves your mouth.
“Aur kahan honge? Aapni study mein hain,” he replies, shaking his head with quiet amusement.
You bid Qureshi chacha goodbye, making him promise that he’d stay for dinner tonight before hurrying inside the house. The second you reach your father’s study, you push the door open without bothering to knock, a habit you’d had since childhood.
Your father sits behind his desk, glasses resting low on his nose as he scans through a pile of documents, his laptop open beside him, entirely consumed by work.
Then he looks up.
And the smile that lights up his face at the sight of you could probably power Karachi’s nightlife for weeks.
“Assalamu alaykum, abbu,” you grin from the doorway.
Your father had very few things in life that truly made him happy, and you and your mother sat firmly at the top of that list. Everything he built, every late night spent buried in meetings and paperwork, every sacrifice he quietly made over the years, had always been for the two of you.
He worked himself to exhaustion to give you and your mother the life you deserved, yet somehow never missed your birthdays, school events, award ceremonies, or the small moments you wanted him there for. No matter how busy he became, you never once had to question whether you came second to his work.
Your life was the way it was because of this man. A man who refused to give his family anything less than the best. Which, unfortunately for the men around you, meant your standards had been ruined beyond repair from the very beginning.
“Aagayi abbu ki jaan?” His eyes twinkle the second they land on you, warmth instantly replacing the exhaustion that had settled over his features moments ago. Without hesitation, he pushes his chair back and gets up from behind his desk, leaving the scattered documents, laptop, and endless stream of unfinished work behind as though none of it mattered anymore.
And maybe, when it came to you, it really didn’t.
The moment you reach him, he pulls you into a tight embrace like you’re still five years old. Strong arms wrapping around you, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head exactly the way it had since childhood. He presses a lingering kiss to your forehead before pulling back just enough to look at you properly.
Really look at you.
Like he’s trying to quietly gather every changed feature, every small difference two years abroad had carved into you, and tuck it safely into memory.
“Kya abbu, aap bhi na,” you complain immediately, though your voice comes out softer than intended under his gaze. “Aapko pata hai main aaj aa rahi hoon, phir bhi aap yahan apni kaam ki dukaan khol kar baith gaye.” you pout at him.
Your father laughs low and warm, the sound filling the study with an ease no amount of expensive furniture or marble ever could.
“Sorry, beta. Mujhe kuch kaam complete karna tha taki jab tum aao toh main apna sara waqt tumhein de paaun,” he says, gently holding your face between his palms like he still can’t quite believe you’re finally home.
Your annoyance melts immediately. Traitorously.
“Emotional manipulation kar rahe hain aap,” you mumble under your breath, narrowing your eyes at him suspiciously despite still letting him hold your face.
“Bilkul,” he nods shamelessly, not even pretending to deny it. “Businessman hoon akhir.”
You let out an offended scoff despite the smile pulling at your lips before stepping forward to hug him again anyway, burying your face briefly against his shoulder while he chuckles softly above you.
The study still smells exactly the same; oud, coffee, old books, and your father’s cologne. Comfortingly familiar. Home.
“Ammi ko mil kar aayi ho ya seedha abbu se milne aagayi?” he asks after a moment, pulling back to give you a playful side eye. “Tumhein toh pata hai woh kitni offended hojati hain jab tum pehle mere paas aati ho.”
You gasp dramatically, placing a hand over your chest. “Excuse me? Aap dono mujhe aise treat kyun karte ho jaise main divorced parents ke beech custody schedule manage kar rahi hoon?”
Your father actually laughs at that properly laughs, head tipping back slightly in amusement.
“Tumhari ammi ko mat bol dena maine hasa tha iss baat pe, warna meri fielding set hojayegi,” he says under his breath like he’s sharing classified information.
“Bolne ki zarurat bhi nahi hai.”
Your ammi’s voice cuts through the room as she steps into the study, looking every bit as elegant and unimpressed as ever. One perfectly arched brow raised, arms crossed lightly over her chest like she’d already heard enough nonsense from the two of you for the evening.
Absolute baddie behaviour.
But the entire act crumbles the second her eyes land on you.
“AMMI!”
You practically launch yourself toward her like an overexcited five-year-old who had been separated from her mother for far too long instead of a twenty three year old woman who’d spent the last two years abroad pretending she was independent enough not to miss this every single day. She barely gets a chance to open her arms before you crash into them, hugging her tightly while she laughs softly, instantly wrapping you up in the kind of warmth only mothers carried.
And just like that, you’re home.
Because no matter how beautiful Switzerland had been, no matter how independent you’d learned to become there, nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to this.
People loved teasing you about being your papa ki pari, but the truth was, you had always been a mummy’s girl. Even your father knew it. Honestly, he seemed weirdly proud of it half the time.
Your mummy looked exactly the way you remembered her, graceful, elegant, and carrying the kind of endless motherly warmth that made every place around her feel safer somehow. Sometimes you genuinely thanked God for your genetics because clearly aging worked very generously in your family. Honestly, if your parents were the standard, you knew you were only going to get hotter with age.
Your mother pulls back just enough to cup your face between her hands, eyes scanning you carefully like she’s checking for damage after two years away. Then, before you can even prepare yourself, she attacks your face with an endless barrage of kisses.
“Ammi-!” you burst into giggles instantly, trying and failing to escape while she continues anyway. “Bas! Bas! I just got off a fourteen hour flight, have some mercy!”
“Nahi,” she says without a hint of remorse, kissing your forehead again. “Do saal baad meri beti ghar aayi hai.”
You let out a scandalized gasp before immediately turning toward your father for support. “Abbu, dekhein? Emotional aur physical assault dono ho raha hai mere saath.”
Your father looks at the two of you for a moment, clearly entertained, before shamelessly siding with your mother.
“Main tumhari ammi ke khilaaf kuch nahi bolunga,” he says wisely. “Mujhe aaj raat sofa par nahi sona.”
You stare at him in betrayal. “Abbu!”
“Beta, shaadi-shuda mardon ki survival instincts hoti hain.”
Your mother rolls her eyes at the two of you before smoothing your hair back lovingly one last time. “Bas ab jao,” she says, gently pushing you toward the door. “Fresh ho jao. Maine tumhari pasand ka khana banaya hai aur agar tum der karogi na toh main aur tumhare abbu sab kha lenge.”
You wave her off dramatically. “Haan haan meri maa, jaa rahi hoon—”
Thak.
You let out an offended gasp as your mother smacks the back of your head lightly.
“Badtameez,” she mutters, trying and failing to hide her smile.
“Abbu!” you cry out in betrayal, rubbing the back of your head dramatically. “Dekhein? Violence. Actual violence.”
Your father, utterly useless in this situation, merely adjusts his glasses to hide his amusement. “Mujhe toh kuch nazar nahi aaya.”
“Wow,” you whisper, staring at both of them in disbelief. “Mere hi ghar mein mera koi support system nahi hai.”
“Fresh hokar neeche aao warna khana thanda hojayega,” your mother warns, pointing toward the door with the authority of someone who absolutely expected to be obeyed.
You immediately straighten up. “Okay, ma’am.”
Then you throw her a dramatic salute like she’s the First Lady and you’re a soldier being sent off to war.
Your father laughs quietly under his breath while your mother shakes her head at your antics. “Do saal baahar kya gayi ho, drama aur zyada hogaya hai.”
You walk down the stairs with the casual ease of a student who had just finished her final exam, blissfully relaxed for now, fully aware her fielding would absolutely be set the second results week arrived, but choosing peace while it still lasted.
The rich aroma of food wraps around the house the deeper you walk in, instantly making your stomach grumble loud enough for you to glare at it in betrayal. Fresh rotis, biryani, kebabs, something fried definitely made by your mother with dangerous amounts of love and butter, actual food.
Not the sad excuse of a sandwich you’d forced yourself to eat on the flight.
Honestly, that thing had tasted like lightly seasoned cardboard with commitment issues.
But in your defence, your social anxiety had decided asking the flight attendant for something else would somehow be more painful than starvation itself. So naturally, you sat there chewing disappointment in silence because apparently asking for another meal was where your bravery drew the line.
As your eyes land on the dining table, you nearly stop walking altogether.
The entire thing is overflowing with food. Not metaphorically. Actually overflowing. Dishes covered almost every inch of the massive table while house helpers continued bringing out more from the kitchen like this was some kind of royal feast instead of a random Tuesday lunch.
For a second, you genuinely wonder if your mother had secretly invited the entirety of Karachi over without informing you.
A strange ache settles softly in your chest as you take it all in.
It had been two years since someone had loved you this loudly.
Two years since someone remembered every little thing you liked without needing to ask. Two years since home cooked meals appeared out of care instead of convenience. And suddenly, standing there watching your mother direct everyone while making sure your favourite dishes were still hot, you feel embarrassingly emotional over food.
“Ammi…” you blink slowly, eyes widening as another tray gets placed on the table. “Aapne poori Karachi ko ghar pe bulaliya hai kya? Itna khana kiske liye hai?”
Your mother looks personally offended by the question.
“Kya matlab kiske liye? Tumhare liye.”
“Ammi,” you laugh in disbelief, “yeh lunch kam aur dawat zyada lag rahi hai.”
The table looked insane.
There was steaming nihari beside baskets filled with fresh rotis, butter naan, and taftaan. Two different types of biryani occupied the center of the table like rival kingdoms competing for dominance while an offensive number of kebab varieties surrounded them from every direction. And then came the desserts, ice cream, gulab jamuns, rabdi, and… was that a fucking cake???
Your father sits down at the table, looking equally overwhelmed by the amount of food being laid out in front of him before letting out an impressed whistle. “Waah, aaj beti ghar hai toh dawat ka intezam kiya hai,” he says dramatically, eyeing the table. “Warna hamare naseeb mein yeh sab kahan.”
Your mother immediately turns toward him with narrowed eyes. “Acha? Kal hi toh aapne nihari khaayi thi.”
“Haan, lekin woh normal nihari thi,” your father argues smoothly. “Yeh wali toh ‘meri beti do saal baad ghar aayi hai’ wali nihari hai. Ismein emotions zyada hain.”
You snort into your glass while taking your seat. “Abbu please, ‘emotionally infused nihari’ jaisi koi cheez nahi hoti.”
“Hoti hai,” he says seriously. “Tumhari ammi ka mood directly taste affect karta hai.”
Your mother rolls her eyes, though the smile tugging at her lips gives her away instantly. “Bas bas. Dono baap beti drama kam karo aur khana khao.”
Your mother sits down beside you and immediately starts filling your plate before you can even protest properly. Nihari, biryani, kebabs, naan. your plate slowly begins looking less like a lunch serving and more like one of those aggressive YouTube mukbang videos with concerning portion sizes.
“Ammi-” you stare at the mountain of food in horror. “Itna khana ek saath kaise kha sakti hoon main?”
“Do saal se nahi khaya hai,” she dismisses your concerns instantly while adding another kebab onto your plate anyway. “Kha hi logi.”
You take your first bite and nearly melt into your seat on the spot. The flavours hit your senses all at once rich, spicy, comforting, familiar. easing the pounding headache sitting behind your eyes from the jetlag like your body itself had finally realized it was home. After two years of bland cafeteria food, overpriced “authentic” desi restaurants abroad, and sad student meals made at 2 a.m, this genuinely felt life changing.
You slowly turn toward your mother with what was probably the most pleased expression to ever grace your face, instantly making her beam with pride. “Ammi…” you say emotionally before grabbing her hand dramatically and pressing a kiss to it. “Kya khana banaya hai.”
Your mother laughs softly, smoothing your hair back affectionately while pretending not to look extremely pleased with herself. Then you suddenly raise your voice toward the kitchen.
“Sakhina khala!”
Sakhina khala, the house help who had practically helped raise you alongside your mother and had most definitely helped cook this entire feast, calls back instantly from the kitchen, “Jee beta?”
“Main toh aapko apne saath Switzerland lejana chahti thi!” you call out dramatically. “Bohot lazeez khana banaya hai!”
From beside you, your father sighs deeply while taking another bite of kebab. “Bas. Ab tumhari ammi aur Sakhina khala dono ka ego sathve aasman chala jayega.”
“Humara ego sathve aasman pe tab jata,” Sakhina khala shouts back from the kitchen without missing a beat, “jab Y/N wahan se koi gora larka le aati aur kehti, ‘khala yeh aapka damaad hai.’”
You nearly choke on your food.
“KHAAALA!” you cough out in betrayal while your mother immediately starts laughing and your father very unhelpfully begins nodding like he’s seriously considering the possibility.
“Acha toh phir koi tha kya?,” he says casually, taking another bite.
“ABBU YAAR!”
“Thik hai, thik hai, nahi chedta,” your father says finally, raising his hands in surrender while taking a sip of water, though the suspicious narrowing of his eyes tells you he’s still mentally praying to Allah that there isn’t actually a hidden gora larka somewhere in Switzerland waiting to ruin his peace. “Lekin ab batao, aagay ka plan kya hai?”
You tear a piece of naan and dip it into the nihari before answering, far too relaxed for someone casually discussing her future. “Abhi toh ek job offer hai,” you say between bites. “Yahin Karachi mein. Achhi senior position pe hai, and they seemed really impressed with my foreign degree. Bas wahi join karne ka soch rahi hoon.”
The reaction is immediate.
Your father makes an offended sound so dramatic you’d think you’d just announced plans to financially ruin the family yourself.
“Beta, koi aur company kyun?” he argues instantly, pushing his plate away slightly like it had personally betrayed him by supporting this conversation. “Hamari kyun nahi? Waise bhi yeh sab tumhara hi toh hai na? Waris ho tum. Phir dusri company kyun?”
You can’t even help the fond smile pulling at your lips. Your father says it so naturally too, not arrogantly, not possessively, just with complete certainty that everything he built would one day belong to you.
“Abbu,” you sigh patiently, wiping your hands with a napkin. “Mujhe jitni khushi hai nepo baby hone ki, utni hi mujhe apni credibility bhi banani hai. Aur main baad mein bhi hamari company join kar sakti hoon. Pehle main uske laayak banna chahti hoon.”
Your father immediately shakes his head like you’ve said something ridiculous. “Arrey beta, tumhein yeh sab karne ki zarurat nahi hai. Company mein sab tumhein jaante hain. Sabko pata hai tum kitni kabil ho.”
“Abbu, woh isliye kyunki woh mujhe aapki beti ke taur par jaante hain,” you point out gently. “Main chahti hoon log mujhe mere kaam ki wajah se bhi jaanain.”
For a moment, your father simply watches you quietly, and you know that look. Pride hidden carefully beneath concern.
Before he can argue again, your mother speaks up from beside you, immediately taking your side.
“Suniye,” she says calmly while serving you more biryani despite your earlier protests, “Y/N sahi keh rahi hai. Log usse sirf aapki beti keh kar importance denge. Woh uski mehnat ko overshadow karega. Use apne aap ko prove karne ka mauka dein.”
Your father lets out a quiet sigh, leaning back into his chair as he looks between the two of you and realizes, very unfortunately for him, that he’s been outnumbered.
Again.
By the time dessert rolls around, you’re convinced your mother’s actual plan was to feed you until movement became physically impossible. The dinner table had somehow gotten even more crowded, bowls of rabdi and gulab jamuns replacing empty serving dishes while slices of cake sat untouched because apparently your family believed desserts required backup desserts.
You sit curled sideways in your chair, lazily eating cold rabdi while your parents shared quiet conversation across from you, the comfortable kind that only came from years of loving each other. The exhaustion from travelling still sat heavy in your bones, but it felt softer now, drowned beneath familiar voices, familiar food, familiar warmth.
Your eyes drift toward your father over the rim of your spoon. “Waise, abbu,” you say curiously, “do saal mein business world ne aur kitna dara diya logon ko? Last time dekha tha tab sirf businessmen ke saath meetings hoti thi. Ab toh politicians ke saath photos bhi arahi hain aapki.”
Your father lets out an amused huff and says “Photos bas photos hoti hain, beta,” he says calmly before taking a sip of tea. “Business barhta hai toh har tarah ke logon se milna parta hai.”
“Hm.” You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Very mysterious answer. Aap secretly politics mein toh nahi arahe na? Because respectfully, mujhe campaign speeches dene ka koi shauk nahi hai.”
Your father actually laughs at that. “Tumse koi speech dilwayega bhi nahi. Tum mic le kar debate start kardogi audience ke saath.”
“That is literally leadership skills.”
“That is literally tumhari bachpan wali bakbak in formal clothes,” your mother mutters while cutting the cake.
As you finish you never ending serving of your desert, your father adds more information about his professional endeavours Your father hums softly, setting his tea cup down. “Sirf Jameel aur unke siyassi doston ke saath uthna bethna zyada ho raha hai aaj kal.”
You immediately look up. “Jameel Jamali?” you ask, mildly surprised. “Yalina ke abbu?”
“Haan,” your father nods casually. “Kaafi projects saath chal rahe hain ab.”
A grin slowly spreads across your face as you lean back into your chair, lazily spinning the spoon between your fingers while the information settles into your brain. The image of your father sitting around polished tables with politicians and businessmen in expensive suits is somehow both deeply unsurprising and incredibly funny to you.
“Mashallah,” you say with exaggerated seriousness. “Abbu bhi officially un elite uncle circles ka hissa ban gaye hain jahan log chai pe mulk ki taqdeer decide karte hain.”
Your father gives you a long, unimpressed look over the rim of his teacup while your mother sighs instantly, already regretting participating in this conversation.
“Tumhein har cheez mazaak kyun lagti hai?” she asks, though there’s no actual irritation behind it anymore. At this point, your nonsense had become background noise in the household.
“Because ammi,” you reply innocently, sitting up straighter now, “bachpan mein mujhe genuinely lagta tha yeh businessmen aur politicians kisi secret society ke members hote hain. Har shaadi mein ek corner pakar kar serious faces bana kar baith jaate thay while hum bacchon ko ‘jao side pe khelo’ keh dete thay.”
Your father lets out a quiet laugh at that, shaking his head slightly as though remembering those exact moments himself.
“Aur tum log?” he asks knowingly.
You immediately point at yourself with full confidence. “We were busy fighting over who got the extra gulab jamun. Priorities thay hamari.”
“Ab bhi wahi priorities hain tumhari,” your mother mutters while handing empty plates to the house helps, quietly instructing them to start clearing the table as the remains of lunch slowly disappeared around you.
“As they should be,” you defend shamelessly, “Consistency is important.”
Your father hides another smile behind his tea while your mother mutters a soft “Ya Allah” under her breath, though the fondness in her eyes gives her away instantly. The conversation drifts easily after that, warm and familiar, the kind only families who genuinely enjoyed each other’s company could have.
“Waise,” you say curiously now, leaning forward slightly, “Yalina kaisi hai? Switzerland mein uske kaam hi baat hoti thi. Sunna hai uski mangni hogayi? Usne mujhe message kiya tha, bohot gussa hui thi ki main nahi aa paayi.”
“Hogi kyun nahi?” your mother immediately says. “Tum dono ek dusre se aise chipke rehte thay jaise tum dono ka hi nikah reh gaya ho bas.”
You let out an offended gasp. “Ammi!”
“Kya?” she shrugs innocently. “Har waqt ‘Yalina yeh’, ‘Yalina woh’. Kabhi kabhi mujhe lagta tha maine do betiyan paida ki hain.”
Your father nods thoughtfully. “Sach mein. Eid pe bhi tum dono matching kapre pehen kar aati thi.”
“That was fashion,” you argue immediately, scandalized by the slander. “Aur waise bhi, matching outfits friendship ka love language hota hai.”
“Love language?” your mother repeats suspiciously.
“Yes,” you say confidently. “Healthy female bonding.”
“Hmm,” your father hums, clearly unconvinced. “Healthy female bonding mein log roz teen teen ghante phone pe baat nahi karte.”
You point at him accusingly. “Abbu, aap aur ammi toh literally ek dusre ko din mein pachaas dafa call karte ho. Aap dono ko toh bolne ka haq hi nahi hai.”
Your mother bursts into laughter while your father stares at you in betrayal. “Badtameez,” he mutters under his breath, though he’s smiling anyway.
“Waise, usse mil lo,” your mother points out while adjusting the dupatta on her shoulder. “Kaafi khafa hai tumse.”
You let out a guilty wince before sinking further into your chair dramatically. “Haan, mil lungi kal ya parson,” you mumble tiredly. “Aaj toh mera bas araam karne aur sone ka mann hai. Mera body abhi bhi Switzerland timezone mein chal raha hai.”
Your father hums knowingly. “Jetlag?”
“Jetlag, food coma, emotional exhaustion…” you start counting seriously on your fingers. “Main iss waqt unavailable hoon.”
Eventually, you push yourself up from the chair with the energy of someone returning from war instead of dinner. Leaning down, you press a kiss to your mother’s cheek first, then your father’s cheek mumbling a sleep hazed ‘bye’.
“Seedha so jana,” your father adds immediately as you begin walking away from the dining table. “Phone lekar mat baith jana.”
You stop mid-step and slowly turn around with a deeply offended expression. “Abbu,” you say in disbelief, “main teis saal ki hoon.”
Your father doesn’t even look remotely affected by your outrage. Calmly picking up his teacup, he simply replies, “Haan. Lekin aadatein abhi bhi sixteen wali hain.”
You mutter a quiet “rude” under your breath before dragging yourself upstairs.
By the time you reach your bedroom door, the exhaustion sitting in your bones crashes into you properly. The room looked exactly the same as you’d left it two years ago, soft warm lights glowing against familiar walls, bookshelves still crowded with half-read novels and old university notes, framed photographs frozen in moments that suddenly felt much younger now. Even the faint scent lingering in the room felt achingly familiar; your old perfume, fresh linen, home. For a moment, you simply stand there quietly taking it all in, realizing how badly you’d missed this place without even noticing it yourself.
You barely even bother fixing the blankets before throwing yourself face first onto the bed with a groan so dramatic it probably should’ve concerned someone. The mattress somehow felt softer than every bed you’d slept on during the last two years combined. And somewhere between thinking about your parents downstairs, Karachi’s unbearable heat, the ridiculous amount of food your mother fed you, and the comfort of finally being home again, sleep pulls you under almost instantly.
The next morning, while you were still unconscious in your air conditioned bedroom fighting for your life against jetlag, somewhere across Karachi, Uzair Baloch was already awake and actively contributing to the city’s daily chaos.
The Baloch haveli looked exactly like the kind of house that produced loud men with expensive watches and even more expensive problems. Massive wooden doors, polished marble floors, old family portraits hanging on the walls like silent judges, and enough staff members walking around to make it impossible to know who actually lived there and who simply spawned inside the house every morning.
And somehow, right in the middle of all that chaos, Uzair Baloch still looked unfairly put together.
Annoyingly unfairly.
Fresh out of the shower, dark hair still damp and pushed back carelessly, sleeves rolled up lazily to his forearms, black kurta fitting him in the kind of way that would’ve made aunties immediately whisper mashallah under their breath. Tall, sharp featured, perpetually carrying the relaxed confidence of a man who knew exactly the effect he had on people but found amusement in pretending otherwise.
Unfortunately for everyone around him, Uzair Baloch had been blessed with both looks and personality.
Which was honestly excessive.
The man walked around the haveli looking like he belonged on the cover of some luxury watch advertisement while simultaneously behaving like a seventeen year old menace with unrestricted internet access. As he adjusted the watch on his wrist and walked downstairs toward breakfast, his phone buzzed.
“Factory aa jaldi. Consignment aaj ka hai aur mujhe kisi aur ki zarurat hai jisko blame kar sakun agar sab ulta hogaya toh.”
Uzair stared at the message for a long second before snorting under his breath.
Ah yes.
Hamza, his best friend, partner in crime (literally), emotional support idiot, and unofficial work wife, was incapable of sending one normal text message. The two of them together had the survival instincts of badly supervised teenagers despite being fully grown men with responsibilities, reputations, and unfortunately, access to money.
By the time Uzair reaches the dining hall, breakfast is already in full swing.
The massive table looked exactly like every desi family breakfast table ever, overcrowded despite being unnecessarily large, layered with parathas glistening with enough butter to shorten lifespans, chai being poured every thirty seconds, and at least four conversations happening at once at dangerously loud volumes.
Rehman sat at the head of the table with a newspaper in hand, somehow maintaining the calm expression of a man who had accepted chaos as a permanent lifestyle choice years ago. Ulfat was busy instructing the house helps while simultaneously threatening her sons into finishing their breakfast before school.
The second Uzair steps into the room, however, the younger nephew spots him.
And unfortunately for Uzair, Faisal reacts like a fan spotting his favourite celebrity at the airport.
“CHACHUUUU!”
The scream echoes through the entire dining hall as Faisal practically launches himself off his chair and runs toward Uzair at full speed, nearly slipping in his socks along the way.
Uzair barely has enough time to brace himself before the child crashes into his legs dramatically.
“Ya Allah,” Uzair mutters, steadying himself while looking down at the gremlin attached to him. “Subah subah itni mohabbat? Kya chahiye tujhe?”
Faisal immediately pulls back just enough to give Uzair the most offended stinky eye his face could manage. “Kya, chachu?” he asks dramatically. “Main kya apne favourite, sabse ache chachu se mohabbat ka izhar bhi nahi kar sakta?”
He looks up at Uzair with eyes so wide and betrayed they almost seem convincing.
Almost.
If his older brother wasn’t sitting a few feet away with the smirk of someone who already knew exactly where this conversation was headed.
Uzair narrows his eyes instantly.
“Acha.” He folds his arms slowly. “Kitne paise chahiye?”
“Chachu, aapko toh pata hai na,” Faisal says immediately, placing a dramatic hand over his chest. “Main Eidi ke ilawa paise kabhi nahi maangta.”
“Abhi parson hi toh maange thay,” Uzair deadpans without missing a beat as he finally pulls out his chair. “Awargardi karne ke liye.”
Faisal gasps like he’s just been publicly accused of financial fraud while his older brother nearly folds over laughing in the background.
“Woh awargardi nahi thi!” Faisal argues passionately. “Woh social development tha.”
Uzair slowly turns toward Rehman with a look of pure disappointment. “Bhai, dekho. Yeh bachay kal ko jail bhi gaye na toh kahenge ‘character development arc chal raha tha.’”
Rehman doesn’t even look up from his breakfast. Years of experience had taught him that the second he acknowledged Uzair’s nonsense, he would automatically become part of the bakchodi himself, and quite frankly, he valued his morning peace too much for that.
So instead, the man wisely chose silence, sipping his chai calmly while looking at his darling wife with the kind of shameless heart eyes usually reserved for newly married men instead of people with two children and a fully grown menace of a younger brother.
The rest of the circus could handle itself.
“CHACHUUUU!” Faisal began again
“Kya hai!” he says finally, tearing a piece of paratha apart. “Sun raha hoon na main. Chillane ki zarurat nahi hai.”
He dips it into the achar absentmindedly before taking a bite, visibly relaxing at the salty, buttery taste of it. A second later, he picks up his chai and takes a sip despite the criminal levels of Lyari heat already melting everybody alive before ten in the morning.
But Uzair liked his chai.
Heatstroke could mind its business.
“Aap mujhe do hafton se keh rahe hain ke aap mujhe Azam Sweets wali kulfi laakar denge,” Faisal huffs dramatically, folding his arms. “Par aapse toh yeh kaam ho hi nahi raha hai.”
Uzair immediately points at him with betrayal in his eyes. “Toh kisi aur se mangwa leta! Sabko mujhse hi kaam hote hain kya?”
Then, without warning and absolutely no reason whatsoever, he turns toward Naieem.
“Yeh tera apna bhai hi baitha hai na,” Uzair says casually while throwing the nineteen year old directly under the bus. “Sautele toh nahi lagta ke teri kulfi mein zeher mila dega. Isse mangwa leta.”
Naieem, who had been peacefully eating breakfast and minding his business moments ago, slowly looks up with the deeply offended expression of someone who had just become collateral damage for absolutely no reason.
“Excuse me?” he says in disbelief.
Uzair takes another calm sip of chai. “Waise bhi janab toh zyada tar free hi rehte hain. Ya phir apni game mein busy.”
Naieem immediately gasps. “Main free nahi rehta!”
“Haan?” Uzair raises a brow lazily. “Kal raat teen baje ‘revive karo mujhe’ chilla kaun raha tha room mein?”
Naieem immediately goes quiet, lowering his head back toward his breakfast while silently praying Ulfat hadn’t heard Uzair’s comment. The last time she’d caught him gaming at three in the morning before college, she’d nearly confiscated his entire setup while delivering a forty minute lecture on “digital barbaadi.”
Unfortunately for him, Uzair noticed the panic instantly.
And like every responsible older brother figure, decided to enjoy it. And before he could add anything else to add to Naieem's panic. Faisal cuts in again.
“Aap toh mere pyaare chachu ho na,” Faisal says again, shamelessly changing targets once he realizes emotional blackmail was working. “Please leker aana aaj.”
Uzair lets out a dramatic sigh like the child had just handed him unbearable emotional responsibility instead of asking for kulfi. “Theek hai, le aaunga, mere baap.”
Before Uzair can defend himself, Ulfat cuts in from the other side of the table.
“Arrey Faisal,” Ulfat finally cuts in while placing more chai onto the table, immediately defending Uzair without hesitation. “Usne keh diya na ke woh le aayega, toh le aayega.”
There was a softness in her voice whenever she spoke to Uzair that never went unnoticed.
Losing his parents young had quietly changed the entire dynamic of the family years ago. Somewhere along the way, Ulfat had stopped seeing him as just her brother in law and started loving him like another son entirely. Protective of him in the way only mothers could be, always feeding him first, defending him instinctively, worrying over him even now despite the fact that he was a fully grown man who towered over everyone in the house.
And maybe that was why Uzair treated her with a kind of respect nobody else ever received from him.
“Thik hai, ammi,” Faisal says dramatically after a moment before pointing accusingly at Uzair. “Par agar aaj meri kulfi nahi aayi na, toh aap mere notes likh dena.”
Silence.
Then absolute chaos erupts across the table.
“BADMAASH!” Ulfat gasps in complete betrayal while Rehman finally lowers his newspaper, openly laughing now at the scene unfolding in front of him. Naieem nearly chokes on his chai, staring at Faisal in absolute awe as he realizes his little brother had somehow managed to turn both winning and losing into a profitable situation.
Meanwhile, Uzair?
Uzair looks at Faisal with the kind of pride seasoned gangsters probably reserved for promising protégés.
“Bhai,” he says emotionally, genuine pride taking over at the sheer audacity the little menace had just displayed. “Blackmail toh tune full professional level pe seekha hai.”
Meanwhile, on the complete opposite side of Karachi, you were still deeply unconscious at twelve in the afternoon, wrapped inside your blankets like someone paying taxes to avoid responsibilities.
The harsh Karachi sunlight pushed through the curtains in soft golden lines while the AC hummed quietly in the background, fighting for its life against the afternoon heat outside. Somewhere downstairs, distant voices echoed through the house, utensils clinked faintly from the kitchen, and absolutely none of it reached your sleeping brain.
Because unfortunately for the world, you were busy having the most offensively detailed dream imaginable.
Some fictional man your brain had constructed using years of unrealistic standards, good hair, emotional intelligence, and dangerous eye contact had you cornered dramatically against some random wall while tension played in the background like a Bollywood slow motion scene. He leaned closer, painfully closer and right before the almost-kiss finally happened-
A sudden weight crashes onto you like a natural disaster.
“Y/N! Y/N! Y/N!”
Your soul nearly leaves your body.
You jolt awake in absolute horror just to find Yalina aggressively shaking you like she’s trying to wake a coma patient before an earthquake hits Karachi.
“YA ALLAH!” you screech, clutching your blanket to your chest while your heartbeat attempts to file legal charges against her. “TU AURAT HAI YA FEMA emergency alarm?!”
“Abe dopahar ke baarah baje tak kaun sota hai?” Yalina starts immediately, still sitting on top of you like an uninvited sleep paralysis demon.
You blink at her in complete offence, hair a mess, brain still halfway inside the dream she had brutally interrupted. Still dazed from sleep, you squint up at her before lazily pointing a finger toward yourself from under the blanket.
“Yeh banda.”
Yalina folds her arms over her chest, glaring down at you like an angry wife who’d caught her husband cheating instead of a best friend whose engagement you missed.
“Utho,” she orders dramatically. “Aur meri forgiveness ke liye mehnat shuru karo kyunki main abhi bhi tumse bohot khafa hoon.”
You immediately groan and pull the blanket over your face. “Yalina, please. Mujhe kam se kam pehle zinda toh feel karne do.”
“Nahi,” she says mercilessly, yanking the blanket right back off you. “Do saal baad wapas aayi ho aur meri mangni miss kar di. Tumhari safaiyan sunne se pehle main tumhein mentally torture karungi.”
You finally stop fighting her long enough to properly look at her.
And for a moment, your teasing dies quietly in your throat.
Yalina hadn’t changed much. She was still the same loud, dramatic, aggressively loving person she’d always been. Still beautiful in the effortless way she somehow managed without trying too hard. But now?
Now she looked… happier.
Softer around the edges somehow. Glowing in that annoyingly beautiful way people in love often did without even realizing it themselves. There was warmth sitting in her eyes that hadn’t been there before, a quiet contentment woven into her smile that made something ache softly in your chest.
Her fiancé loved her well.
You could tell.
And strangely enough, instead of sadness, all it does is make you smile up at her with pure adoration.
“Lagta hai madam ko payar mein jaan dene wala mil gaya hai,” you tease finally, still looking up at her with sleepy amusement dancing in your eyes.
Yalina immediately gasps in offence and throws a pillow directly at your face.
“CHUP!”
You burst into laughter, barely managing to block the attack while she fixes her dupatta dramatically and glares at you like she’s moments away from ending the friendship herself.
“Nahi genuinely,” you continue suspiciously, eyes narrowing slowly as you look her up and down. “Tum bohot glow kar rahi ho. Like… concerning amount. Yalina…” you pause dramatically before whispering, “mujhe kuch batana hai kya?”
It takes her exactly two seconds to understand what you’re implying.
“YA ALLAH!” she screeches before immediately smacking you with the pillow again. “PAGAL AURAT! Mangni hui hai meri, maternity ward mein admission nahi hua!” huffing and blushing until her cheeks turn red.
“Chalo, ab maafi maango,” Yalina says finally, folding her arms again like an emotionally wounded queen waiting for justice.
And honestly?
You did feel bad.
If it weren’t for your final semester exams, you would’ve never missed something this important to her. But apparently universities had a personal vendetta against students because somehow exam schedulers always managed to pick the most inconvenient times possible; nikahs, Eid, family functions, emotional crises, as if the people making exam timetables personally woke up every morning and chose violence.
You swear those people probably sat around conference tables brainstorming misery professionally.
With a small sigh, you finally sit up properly and take both of Yalina’s hands into yours, the dramatics fading from your face for once as you look up at her sincerely.
“Mujhe maaf kardo,” you say softly. “Main toh apni khud ki mangni chhod kar aajao tumhare liye. Par exams thay… aur tum toh jaanti ho na main unhein kitna seriously leti hoon.”
Yalina’s expression softens almost immediately despite her trying very hard to stay annoyed.
“I know,” she mumbles reluctantly.
“Main genuinely bohot upset thi,” you continue dramatically now that she’s weakening. “Maine toh apne laptop ke saamne beth kar emotional support biryani khaayi thi uss din.”
“Theek hai, maaf kiya,” Yalina says finally with fake reluctance, squeezing your hands dramatically. “Par meri shaadi mein nahi rahi toh main… main…” she trails off, glaring at you while clearly trying to think of the most evil punishment possible.
You blink at her lazily. “Tu kya? Dosti tod degi?”
“Usse bhi bura.”
“Teri reading habits aur tu kya kya padhti hai sabko batadungi.”
Silence.
Pure, genuine horror crosses your face so fast Yalina nearly bursts into laughter on the spot.
“Arrey meri maa, bas!” you immediately grab her arm dramatically. “Main sabse pehle aaungi teri nikah mein. Molvi sahab se bhi pehle.”
“Chalo ab uth jao. Humne bahar bhi jana hai.”
You immediately groan and flop back against the mattress dramatically. “Yalina, meri ruh abhi bhi so rahi hai.”
“Waise kahaan jana hai?” you ask suspiciously while finally dragging yourself out of bed properly. Your hair looked insane, your brain was still lagging behind reality, and Yalina somehow still looked annoyingly put together this early in the day.
You shuffle toward the bathroom while she follows behind you like an aggressive life coach, already opening random drawers in your room out of habit. Grabbing your toothbrush, you lazily squeeze toothpaste onto it before shoving it into your mouth with absolutely zero grace.
“Wahi purani wali kulfi,” Yalina says from behind you. “Tujhe yaad nahi kya?”
You pause mid brushing and slowly look at her through the mirror.
And suddenly, a wave of nostalgia hits you so hard it almost physically hurts.
“Azam Sweets?” you ask around the toothbrush instantly.
Yalina grins. “Obviously.”
“Phir hamare wale park chalenge,” Yalina continues excitedly while sitting cross-legged on your bed like she owned the place. “Araam se kulfi khayenge, gossip karenge, phir mall jayenge aur phir—”
“Ruko ruko ruko,” you interrupt immediately, pointing your toothbrush at her suspiciously through the mirror. “Pehle apne fiancé ke baare mein toh bata.”
Yalina narrows her eyes, already fully aware nonsense was about to leave your mouth.
“Kaisa dikhta hai?” you continue seriously while brushing your teeth. “Hot hai? Emotionally intelligent toh hai na?” Your expression hardens immediately after. “Mujhe usse peetna veetna toh nahi padega?”
Yalina opens her mouth to answer-
But unfortunately, you aren’t done.
“And…” you pause dramatically, wiggling your eyebrows through the mirror with the most suspicious grin imaginable, “tum logon ne kuch kiya?”
Silence.
Yalina stares at you in complete disbelief as a blush slowly creeps across her face so fast it practically answers the question for you.
Your jaw drops.
“YA ALLAH.” You point at her dramatically with your toothbrush. “TUM LOGON NE KUCH KIYA HAI.”
Then she grabs the nearest pillow and launches it directly at your head with full force.
“BEHAYA AURAT!”
You duck instantly, nearly choking on toothpaste foam from laughing too hard.
“MAIN BAS POCH RAHI THI!”
“Tumhein sharam nahi aati?!”
“Nahi.”
Apparently your popularity in the family group chats discussing “ab iski shaadi kab hogi?” wasn’t the only thing that had increased over the last two years.
Azam Sweets’ kulfi had apparently achieved celebrity status too.
Some food blogger had ranked it “Karachi’s Best Kulfi” online and now half the city behaved like eating it was a spiritual experience capable of fixing childhood trauma. Which unfortunately explained why you and Yalina currently stood in a queue long enough to qualify as government office suffering.
The sun blazed overhead mercilessly while the crowd around the shop buzzed with noise and impatience. Children screamed for extra toppings, aunties argued over whose turn it actually was, delivery riders stood around looking one inconvenience away from collapse, and somewhere behind you, a man was passionately defending falooda superiority like he was in a political debate.
Karachi.
You wipe sweat from your forehead dramatically while glaring at the line ahead. “Yalina,” you say in disbelief, “log yahan kulfi khane aaye hain ya Hajj karne?”
Yalina snorts beside you while checking her phone. “Tum hi toh keh rahi thi tumhein wahi purani wali kulfi khani hai.”
“Haan par mujhe yeh nahi pata tha ke poori Karachi ko bhi aaj hi cravings aajayengi.”
You were genuinely starting to believe the sun had some kind of personal vendetta against you specifically. The heat wrapped around your body suffocatingly, making your head feel slightly dizzy while sweat gathered annoyingly at the back of your neck despite the sunglasses perched on your face and the iced drink in your hand doing absolutely nothing to save you.
But the sheer embarrassment of anybody assuming “foreign ki hawa kha kar larki kamzor hogayi hai” was enough to force you into standing straighter out of pure ego alone.
You would collapse dramatically before giving Karachi aunties material for gossip.
Beside you, Yalina looked entirely too comfortable for someone also standing under the same murderous sun.
“Tumhein garmi nahi lag rahi?” you ask accusingly.
“Nahi.”
You stare at her in disbelief. “Tum insaan ho bhi?”
Before she can answer, somebody from the back of the line loudly complains about queue cutting and suddenly six different people start arguing at once like this was a live debate show instead of a kulfi shop.
One uncle aggressively insists he was standing there first despite nobody remembering seeing him before, while another aunty keeps loudly repeating, “Bhai line mein tameez naam ki bhi cheez hoti hai.”
A child nearby drops his kulfi and begins crying with the pain of a Victorian widow mourning her husband at war.
Honestly?
The atmosphere was beautiful.
Sweaty, loud, mildly aggressive, and one argument away from turning into a public disturbance, but beautiful nonetheless. Somehow, despite the chaos, despite the heat trying to evaporate your existence, despite the dangerously long line for frozen milk, this still felt more alive than half the places you’d lived around in Switzerland.
Karachi had a strange way of exhausting you and embracing you at the exact same time.
A second later your phone buzzes with a message from your mother.
‘Ghar kab aaogi?’
You immediately type back:
‘Dua karein zinda bach jaun pehle.’
And then after forty five whole minutes of agonizing heat, melting patience, and your tolerance growing thinner than the waists of people online who get “body tea” comments, you and Yalina finally make it to the very front of the line.
Victory.
Actual victory.
You straighten instantly, feeling the kind of relief survivors in war movies probably felt after reaching safety. The cold air from inside the shop brushes against your face, heavenly after standing under Karachi’s violent sun for nearly an hour.
And then you see them.
Only two kulfis left on the counter.
Perfect.
Your eyes practically light up.
“Yalina,” you whisper emotionally, gripping her arm. “Hum jeet gaye.”
You were seconds away from the sweet satisfaction of success, already mentally tasting the first bite—
When suddenly somebody steps in front of you and cuts the line entirely.
The people behind you erupt immediately.
“BHAI LINE HAI!”
“Aye bhai saab peeche jao!”
“Sab wait kar rahe hain!”
But the protests die down almost as quickly as they started the second the man turns slightly.
An odd shift moves through the crowd instantly.
The outrage softens into awkward silence, a few people suddenly pretending they weren’t yelling two seconds ago while others quietly step back like they’d rather not involve themselves anymore.
But apparently nobody had informed you.
And honestly?
How dare this man.
This extremely, offensively beautiful man.
Cut the line.
Your eyes narrow immediately as you look him up and down in pure offence, only for your traitorous brain to momentarily short circuit against your will.
Because wow.
The man stood there in a black kurta that fit him disgustingly well, sleeves rolled lazily to his forearms, dark hair slightly messy like he’d pushed his fingers through it one too many times. Tall enough to tower over most people around him, broad shoulders stretching against the fabric effortlessly, an expensive watch catching beneath the shop lights every time he moved his hand.
And his face?
Actually irritating.
Sharp jawline, straight nose, dark eyes carrying the kind of lazy confidence that only existed in men fully aware of their own attractiveness. The type of man who probably walked into rooms and accidentally ruined somebody’s five-year relationship without even trying.
The kind of handsomeness that made women ignore red flags and men suddenly sit straighter.
Which unfortunately explained why the crowd had collectively forgotten basic civic rights the second he appeared.
Not you though.
No.
Completely unaware of the storm brewing directly behind him, the man casually reaches into the pocket of his black kurta, pulling out his wallet with the relaxed ease of somebody who had clearly never struggled a day in his life.
Meanwhile, your struggle had been biblical.
“Last do kulfi pack kardena,” he says easily, glancing toward the counter.
Your brain goes completely blank for a second.
Because no.
Absolutely not.
Those kulfis were yours.
Spiritually. Emotionally. Morally. At this point probably constitutionally too.
You had stood under Karachi’s violent afternoon sun for forty-five whole minutes sweating through your clothes while toddlers screamed around you, aunties fought over queue positions, and the heat slowly cooked your remaining patience alive. Your legs hurt, your makeup had probably started fighting for survival, and you were ninety percent sure your soul had briefly separated from your body fifteen minutes ago.
You had earned those kulfis.
And now this absurdly attractive man in a black kurta, standing there looking like somebody’s wattpad fantasy and your personal enemy simultaneously, had the audacity to take the last two without even blinking.
The worst part?
He looked good doing it.
Calm. Unbothered. Pretty.
Like the universe itself personally catered to him.
Which somehow made you angrier.
Meanwhile, entirely unaware that he was seconds away from becoming somebody’s mortal enemy over frozen dairy products, Uzair Baloch had been having a genuinely good day for once.
Which honestly should’ve been suspicious enough on its own.
The consignment at the factory had arrived on time without anybody almost dying from incompetence, Hamza had somehow managed to behave like a functional adult for at least forty consecutive minutes, and the workers had finished loading everything without the usual chaos that normally followed Hamza and Uzair around like unpaid interns.
A miracle, basically.
Afterward, the two of them had spent an unnecessary amount of time doing absolutely stupid things instead of going home like responsible adults. Hamza had nearly gotten into an argument with a random biker over parking, Uzair had forcefully confiscated Hamza’s bike keys for the safety of the general public, and somewhere in between all that nonsense, they’d ended up laughing so hard outside a chai dhaba that Uzair’s stomach physically hurt.
Life, surprisingly, had felt light today.
Easy.
Now he stood inside Azam Sweets beside Siyahi, lazily making small talk with the old shop owner while waiting for the kulfis to be packed. The cool air inside the shop felt heavenly after the Lyari heat outside, and for the first time all week, Uzair wasn’t thinking about work, responsibilities, pending meetings, or the fifty people constantly needing something from him.
Bliss.
Actual bliss.
Unfortunately, bliss only lasted until a five foot something force of fury suddenly appeared behind him radiating enough anger to power Karachi for three business days.
Uzair suddenly feels someone repeatedly jabbing at his shoulder from behind.
No.
Not tapping.
That would’ve been polite.
This felt more like somebody was trying to start a fight through interpretive shoulder violence.
His brows furrow instantly.
Because firstly — who the hell was touching him like that?
And secondly, absolutely nobody treated Uzair Baloch this aggressively unless they were either family, Hamza, or actively trying to die.
The irritation settles onto his face immediately as he turns around slowly, already prepared to verbally humble whoever had decided shoulder assault was an acceptable form of communication.
“Kaun hai behen—”
The words cut off midway.
Because there’s nobody there.
For one deeply confusing second, Uzair genuinely thinks he’s hallucinating from the heat.
Then his eyes lower slightly.
…Oh.
There you were.
Tiny compared to him. Furious enough to make up for it. Standing there glaring up at him like you personally planned on fighting God over two kulfis. Your sunglasses sat pushed up into your hair, cheeks slightly flushed from the heat, annoyance radiating off you so strongly it almost impresses him.
And despite the visible murder in your eyes?
Pretty.
Very pretty.
Uzair blinks once.
“Dekhiye,” you start, pointing an accusing finger directly at his chest before Yalina can physically restrain you, “aap aise line kaat kar aage nahi aasakte.”
Behind you, Yalina instantly freezes.
Not normal freeze.
The kind of freeze people had right before watching a train wreck happen in slow motion.
Because unlike you, Yalina actually knew who stood in front of you.
Uzair, meanwhile, hadn’t looked away from you even once since turning around. Not at the crowd. Not at the cashier. Just you, standing there radiating heat, outrage, and sunscreen fumes.
Yeh kya aapke baap ki dukaan hai?” you continue heatedly, the Karachi heat, forty-five minutes of suffering, and kulfi deprivation clearly overriding your survival instincts entirely.
And honestly?
Ironically enough…
Lowkey, yes.
Not literally, obviously. But the shop owners paid Uzair and his brother enough respect, and enough money through “security arrangements” and local support, that half the market practically did treat it like his territory anyway.
Which explained why the people standing around you suddenly looked like background extras in a crime documentary trying very hard not to get interviewed later.
One uncle behind you quietly mutters “Astaghfirullah” under his breath.
Another man physically steps backwards.
A teenager nearby suddenly becomes deeply interested in his phone.
And beside you, Yalina looks moments away from collapsing onto the floor.
Because honestly?
Nobody spoke to Uzair Baloch like this.
Nobody.
Not openly. Not fearlessly. Definitely not while pointing fingers at his chest in public like he was some random irritating man instead of someone people usually went out of their way not to offend.
And yet here you were.
Absolutely fearless.
Or absolutely unaware.
Uzair still hadn’t decided which one yet.
“Aapko pata bhi hai main kabse dhoop mein khadi hoon kulfi ke liye?” you continue passionately while he simply watches you, dark eyes growing steadily more amused. “DO baar. DO BAAR sunscreen reapply kiya hai maine.”
His jaw slightly opens not knowing what to do with that information.
You point dramatically toward the sky like a lawyer presenting evidence before the Supreme Court. “Aapko pata hai sunscreen kitna mehnga aata hai? Ya Allah, kuch din baad log zameen aur sona chhod kar sunscreen mein invest karenge.”
And that’s the moment Uzair realizes two things simultaneously.
Firstly, you were insane.
Secondly, he wanted to hear more.
Because in his entire existence, nobody had ever spoken to him like this before. No hesitation. No awkward politeness. No carefully measured tone people usually used around him after recognizing who he was.
Just pure, unfiltered outrage over kulfi.
And God help him, he was lowkey awestruck.
Not because you were yelling.
But because you were doing it so naturally. Like his name, reputation, presence, none of it mattered to you at all. You looked up at him with nothing except irritation and determination, standing your ground despite the crowd around you practically preparing your janaza in advance.
It was absurdly attractive.
Actually no.
You were absurdly attractive.
Standing there all angry and dramatic beneath the harsh Karachi heat, sunglasses pushed into your hair, lips moving passionately while you ranted about sunscreen prices and human rights violations over kulfi like this was a political movement instead of frozen dessert.
Uzair genuinely couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked him dead in the eyes without even a flicker of hesitation.
And the craziest part?
He didn’t think you were trying to impress him either.
If anything, you looked one inconvenience away from physically fighting him.
Meanwhile, completely unaware that his best friend was internally losing psychological stability over a random angry girl, Hamza strolls toward the shop entrance with the relaxed confidence of a man who treated public places like inherited property.
One thing about Hamza Ali Mazari?
The man could smell roadside drama from kilometres away.
And spotting a crowd gathered near the counter immediately activates the nosy aunty living deep inside his soul.
“Aha,” he mutters excitedly to himself while walking closer. “Free entertainment.”
Because truly, what was better than public rowdy behaviour that didn’t involve him for once?
But even before his eyes properly land on the scene, his soul does.
Eyes instantly zeroing in on the love of his life.
His hone wali begum sahiba.
His fiancée.
“Jamali sahiba,” he says dramatically the second he spots Yalina. “Aap yahan?”
And then his eyes land on you.
Specifically the finger still aggressively pointed at Uzair’s chest while you continue your passionate kulfi rights speech.
The grin on Hamza’s face widens instantly.
“Acha,” he says slowly, already entertained beyond reason. “Yahan toh scene chal raha hai.”
But the second his eyes flick toward Uzair properly, Hamza pauses.
Because-
Oh.
OH.
The look settling onto Uzair’s face transforms Hamza spiritually.
His expression immediately shifts into pure evil delight as realization slams into him at full speed.
“Ohhhhh,” Hamza drags out quietly, eyes bouncing between the two of you before he physically grabs Yalina by the shoulders and slowly pulls her backwards beside him like they were audience members getting front-row seats at a live performance. “Ab samjha.”
“Hamza!” Yalina whisper-hisses in absolute horror while trying to step forward again. “Isse roko!”
“Bilkul nahi,” he says instantly, shamelessly holding her back while taking a sip from his cold drink. “Aaj pehli baar kisi ne Uzair ko line mein lagne wala aam admi ki tarha treat kiya hai. Mujhe dekhne do.”
Then he leans closer toward Yalina dramatically, not even bothering to lower his voice properly.
“Bhabhi material lag rahi hain.”
Yalina’s eyes widen so fast they almost leave her face.
meanwhile, completely unaware that two people behind you were already mentally planning weddings, you were still busy verbally assaulting Uzair Baloch over frozen dessert rights.
Pretty men truly were a societal problem.
Because why was this man standing there looking like that while actively committing crimes against public queue ethics?
Your voice continues passionately as you keep lightly jabbing your finger against Uzair’s chest for emphasis, completely unaware that his traitorous heart had started beating strangely in sync with every poke.
“Aap ache ghar se lagte hain,” you continue heatedly. “Sharif bhi honge shayad.” Your eyes narrow suspiciously while looking him up and down again. “Dekhne mein bhi hot lagte hain—”
Uzair physically blinks.
Hamza nearly chokes on the mysteriously appeared drink in his hand while Yalina smacks a hand over her face, already exhausted by your antics.
“—PAR,” you continue loudly before anybody can recover, “aapka yeh pretty privilege yahan nahi chalega!”
Uzair Baloch had never been more confused in his life.
Were you flirting with him?
Or insulting him?
Because somehow you were doing both simultaneously with terrifying skill.
Uzair knew he was good looking. Hell, he would’ve had to be completely blind not to notice it by now.
Women had always gravitated toward him one way or another. Sometimes subtly, sometimes with an intensity that genuinely concerned him. Lingering stares at events, whispered conversations he pretended not to hear, random rishtas appearing out of nowhere through aunties who suddenly remembered they had unmarried daughters. He was used to admiration. Used to attention. But admiration usually came wrapped in hesitation.
In shyness.
In carefully chosen words and lowered gazes.
No one. absolutely no one.
Had ever looked him dead in the eyes the first time meeting him and casually gone “haan hot toh ho.”
And somehow, that was exactly why the compliment hit harder than it should have.
Because you hadn’t sounded flustered saying it.
You’d sounded irritated.
Like his attractiveness itself was personally inconveniencing you.
The warmth slowly rising onto Uzair’s cheeks catches him completely off guard, spreading beneath his skin steadily enough to rival the brutal Karachi sunset outside. For a second he genuinely forgets how to respond, standing there in the middle of the crowded shop while you look up at him.
You don’t even seem aware of the effect you’re having on him.
Meanwhile beside him, Hamza watches this entire situation unfold with the confusion of a man witnessing a lion suddenly develop social anxiety.
Because what the actual hell was this?
This was not the Uzair Baloch he knew.
The Uzair he knew made other people nervous. The man had stared down politicians, dealt with dangerous men without blinking, handled business crises calmly while everyone else panicked — and now suddenly some five-foot-something angry girl was standing in front of him ranting about sunscreen prices while Uzair looked one sentence away from giggling and twirling his hair.
Hamza genuinely considers recording this moment for blackmail purposes.
“Dekhiye mohtarma-” Uzair finally starts, trying very hard to regain control of the situation and his facial expressions simultaneously.
“AAP dekhiye mohtarBAAP,” you immediately cut him off without missing a beat.
There’s a full two seconds of silence.
Hamza physically folds in half laughing while Yalina closes her eyes briefly like she’s praying for everybody involved.
From behind Uzair, Siyahi watches the entire interaction unfold with the expression of a man slowly losing faith in reality itself.
Siyahi had seen violence before. Real violence. The kind that stained streets and left men silent afterward. He’d watched people fear Uzair Baloch without even needing a reason, had seen grown men straighten the second Uzair entered a room. Almost nothing unsettled him anymore.
But this?
This was deeply disturbing.
Because somehow, within the span of five minutes, a random angry girl in sunglasses had reduced his terrifying boss into something dangerously close to a giant overgrown puppy.
At this point Siyahi was genuinely beginning to suspect you worked for some secret intelligence agency specifically trained to psychologically dismantle men.
Around you, the atmosphere inside the shop had shifted completely. The earlier noise of the crowd had quieted into strange tense silence, everyone pretending not to stare while very obviously staring. Even the cashier looked mildly invested now, eyes flicking cautiously between you and Uzair like he was watching a live drama unfold for free.
And meanwhile, Uzair simply stood there looking at you.
Still amused.
Still oddly fascinated.
Still blushing faintly.
It made absolutely no sense to anyone witnessing it.
Uzair finally clears his throat softly, dragging a hand lazily over his jaw as though trying to regain control of himself before speaking.
“Theek hai,” he says at last, voice calm and easy despite the laughter still threatening beneath it. “Meri ghalti.”
The reaction around the shop is immediate.
A collective gasp practically ripples through the crowd.
One uncle physically mutters “SubhanAllah” under his breath like he’d just witnessed divine intervention.
Because no one, and they truly meant no one. had ever heard Uzair apologize this quickly in public.
You blink once at him, momentarily thrown off by the surrender.
Uzair notices it instantly.
And for some reason, that tiny flicker of surprise on your face feels like winning.
“Aap le lijiye kulfi,” he says, stepping slightly aside while gesturing toward the counter with lazy ease.
The movement finally snaps you back into yourself.
Trying very hard not to look affected by the victory, you straighten your posture before walking past him toward the counter. But even then, your eyes never fully leave his, and neither do his leave yours.
Which unfortunately only makes the tension worse.
Because now that you’re standing closer, you notice things you really didn’t need to notice.
Like the faint scent of his cologne beneath the Karachi heat. Something warm and clean and expensive that absolutely did not belong inside a crowded kulfi shop. Or the way the sleeves of his black kurta sat against his forearms, veins shifting slightly whenever he moved his hands- God you needed help.
You quickly snatch the kulfis from the cashier before your brain betrays you into becoming one of those women who lost cognitive function around attractive men.
Turning around, you fully expect him to have looked away by now.
He hasn’t.
Not even slightly.
Uzair still stands exactly where he was, dark eyes fixed entirely on you with. Like this whole interaction had become the highlight of his day.
Rude.
Your brows narrow immediately. “Aapko aur koi kaam nahi hai? Ya bas line kaat kar aur larkiyon ko tang karna hi profession hai?”
For a brief second, Uzair genuinely blanks.
Which was insane.
Because Uzair Baloch did not blank around women.
The man flirted like it was second nature. Smooth words, easy confidence, practiced charm usually conversations bent naturally in his direction without him even trying. But right now, standing under the harsh white lights of a crowded kulfi shop while you glared up at him holding two kulfis like weapons of mass destruction, his brain had apparently decided to resign from active duty.
Because you were pretty.
Dangerously pretty.
Not in the delicate soft spoken way he was used to either.
No.
You looked alive. Loud. Dramatic. Expressive enough that every emotion flashed openly across your face without hesitation, and Uzair found himself weirdly addicted to watching it happen in real time.
Uzair folds his arms loosely over his chest, visibly entertained now. “Aapko dekh kar toh lag raha hai yeh full time job ban sakti hai.”
And there he was.
Finally back.
You gasp in offence so dramatic even the pigeon pauses mid pecking.
“Excuse me?” you place a hand over your chest in betrayal. “Main yahan oppressed citizen hoon aur aap flirting pe utar aaye?”
“Main flirt nahi kar raha,” he says calmly “Shuruwat toh aap hi ne ki hai. Aap ne mujhe hot bola tha,” he points out smoothly, like it was a perfectly reasonable courtroom argument.
Your face betrays you before your mind does. Heat floods your cheeks so fast it feels illegal.
Oh God.
The hot comment.
For one horrifying second, your soul actually leaves your body and stands near the biscuit rack in embarrassment.
Uzair notices instantly.
Of course he does.
His eyebrows lift ever so slightly, that annoyingly smug smile threatening to appear again. “Acha,” he says slowly, like he just unlocked premium gossip. “Yaad aa gaya?”
You immediately start shaking your head. “Yeh aap kya bol rahe hain? Garmi mein aapke dimag ko waswase ho rahe hain.” blatantly and shameless lying through your teeth.
Uzair blinks once. “Mere dimag ko?”
“Haan. Severe level ke.” You nod with fake concern. “Hydration ki kami lag rahi hai.”
The cashier snorts.
TRAITOR.
You whip toward the poor man dramatically. “Aap hans kyun rahe ho? Main yahan harassment ka shikaar ho rahi hoon.”
“Madam aap hi ne pehle-”
“Main aapko witness box mein nahi bulaungi,” you cut him off instantly.
Uzair actually laughs then. Properly this time. Head tilting slightly back, shoulders shaking just enough that you stare for half a second too long before catching yourself.
Oh.
Okay.
That was… unfortunately attractive. WHY WAS THIS MAN SO FUCKING PERFECT-
A sudden buzz vibrates in your hand, breaking whatever bizarre market courtroom drama this had turned into. You glance down at your phone and immediately snort at the message glowing on your screen.
Ammi: zinda ho??
Remembering the text you sent her before the chaos unfolded.
Trying to hide your smile, you instinctively look back up, only to pause slightly when you catch Uzair staring at your phone with the faintest hint of annoyance. Not obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but just enough that it almost looks like the notification offended him personally for interrupting the conversation.
The expression disappears so quickly you nearly convince yourself it never happened.
Right. Obviously you imagined it.
Garmi ne genuinely mera dimaag paka diya hai.
Because there was absolutely no way some random stranger, a very unfortunately attractive stranger, but still a stranger, would care that your attention shifted away from him for two seconds. Especially after you had spent the last fifteen minutes publicly humiliating him in front of the public.
You quickly type back.
You: abhi tak toh haan
Before your brain can spiral any further into nonsense, you shove your phone back into your bag with unnecessary urgency, pretending you were completely normal and not internally creating edits, playlists, and potential future wedding hashtags over one microscopic facial expression.
Actually embarrassing behaviour.
When you look back up, Uzair is still watching you. Amused. Like he can somehow hear every chaotic thought crashing around in your head and is enjoying the show way too much.
You quickly turn around before Uzair can say anything else, refusing to give him even a second to recover from whatever damage you had just caused. With as much dignity as a person rapidly escaping a market can have, you march straight toward Yalina.
Only to immediately slow down at the sight beside her.
There stood an actual mountain of a man with heartbreakingly pretty hair, looking like he was either trying very hard not to laugh or actively experiencing a medical emergency. His shoulders were shaking suspiciously, lips pressed together so tightly they’d nearly disappeared.
…Oh, he was definitely laughing.
You narrowed your eyes at him immediately. Suspicious. Judgemental. Slightly offended.
Before he could say anything, you dramatically grabbed Yalina’s wrist.
“Chalo.”
Yalina blinked in confusion. “Aray wait—” she gestured toward the giant beside her, “yeh mere fiancé Hamza—”
“No introductions,” you cut her off instantly with the urgency of someone escaping a crime scene. “Karachi ki awam unsafe hai.”
“kya?” Yalina wheezed.
But before she could question that deeply concerning statement any further, you were already dragging her away at alarming speed, practically speed-walking through the aisles like the government had issued a warrant for your arrest.
Behind you, the poor cashier looked seconds away from collapsing from laughter while Uzair remained standing there completely dumbfounded, grocery bag still hanging loosely from his hand like his brain had temporarily stopped processing events.
Halfway across the store, your impulsive tendencies unfortunately won again.
You turned back once.
Uzair was still staring.
So naturally, like the mature adult you were, you stuck your tongue out at him before disappearing around the aisle with Yalina in tow.
And that did it.
Uzair knew, with terrifying certainty, that even if he genuinely tried, he would probably never be able to forget you.
There was a brief moment of silence as he continued staring toward the gali-sized aisle you had disappeared into, the image of you sticking your tongue out at him replaying in his head with deeply irritating clarity. The tiny local shop suddenly felt louder somehow, filled with the sound of the ancient freezer humming, plastic wrappers crinkling, and the entire Karachi awam pretending not to stare while very obviously staring.
Then Hamza finally reached his side, looking between Uzair and the now-empty aisle with undisguised amusement written all over his face.
“Arey bhai,” he drawled, voice full of betrayal. “Bhabhi se intro toh karwata.”
Uzair snapped his head toward him so fast it was almost violent. “Chup kar.”
Unfortunately, that only made it worse.
Because now, for what felt like the thousandth time today, warmth crept up Uzair’s neck and across his face before he could stop it.
Hamza's eyes widened, Like he hit a jackpot and honest to god he did.
“Ohhhhhhh.”
Uzair already knew this idiot was never letting him live this down.
“Hamza.” His tone turned threatening.
“NAHI.” Hamza grabbed his shoulder like he’d just witnessed a national event. “Uzair Baloch blush kar raha hai? Public mein? Ek random larki ke liye jisne tumhe hot bola aur phir Yalina ko kidnap karke bhaag gayi?”
“She did not kidnap her.”
“Bhai woh literally uska haath pakad ke bhaagi hai jaise police raid hone wali thi.”
At this point, the entire sweet shop had become invested in the live romcom unfolding beside the kulfi counter. One aunty waiting for falooda was openly smiling. A little boy holding a melting chocolate cone kept staring between Uzair and Hamza like this was better than TV.
And somehow, in the middle of all this chaos, another employee shouted from behind the counter for what was probably the sixth time that evening,
“kulfi khatam hogayi hai!”
Not a single person complained.
Nobody cared.
The awam had already received premium entertainment while waiting for dessert. Entire live romcom. Free of cost. No booking fees. No subscriptions.
Complete paise wasool experience. 10/10. Chef’s kiss. No notes. Would absolutely recommend.
From near the counter, Siyahi finally spoke up, “Bhai, ghar chalein?”
Considering the entire reason they’d come to Azam Sweets in the first place no longer existed.
Because the kulfi was finished.
Completely.
Khatam. Gone.
And somehow, despite that, Uzair was still staring toward the aisle you’d disappeared into.
Hamza let out an exaggerated “Astagfirullah,” he muttered dramatically. “Kulfi lene aaye thay. Bhai dil de kar jaa raha hai.”
Uzair finally looked at him with a glare. “Hamza, qasam se agar tu aur bola na toh teri qabar pe khud ‘gone too far’ likhwaunga.”
Siyahi glanced between the two men, already exhausted. “Bhai,” he reminded dryly, lifting the empty box slightly, “kulfi khatam hogayi hai.”
“I heard him the first six times too,” Uzair deadpanned.
Hamza snorted. “Kulfi khatam hui hai. Tumhara toh kaam tamam hua hai.”
“Hamza.”
Back at the Baloch haveli, the house had settled into its usual late-night rhythm. The bright chaos of dinner time was gone now, replaced with softer sounds drifting through the halls, the television playing upstairs, the occasional clink of chai cups from the kitchen, Faisal’s voice carrying from somewhere in the lounge despite repeated instructions to sleep, and Naieem arguing back every few minutes like it was his full-time job. Warm lights spilled across the marble floors while staff moved quietly through the house finishing the last of the night’s work.
Uzair had barely stepped into the living room before Faisal spotted him from the couch and reacted like a man who had finally caught a criminal returning to the scene of the crime.
“CHACHUUUU!”
The boy practically threw himself off the sofa and ran toward him at full speed, nearly crashing into the center table on the way. Everyone else in the lounge looked up instantly. Rehman sat back in his armchair with his reading glasses low on his nose, Ulfat was folding laundry while half-watching some drama on TV, and Naieem looked up from his phone the second he sensed possible entertainment.
Faisal stopped directly in front of Uzair, breathing dramatically.
“Kulfi?”
Not salaam.
Not aap agaye.
Bas seedha interrogation.
Behind Uzair, Hamza immediately pressed his lips together while Siyahi looked away like he wanted absolutely no involvement in what was about to happen.
Uzair closed his eyes briefly.
“…Kulfi khatam hogayi thi.”
Dead silence.
Faisal stared at him in complete disbelief.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN KHATAM HOGAYI THI?”
“Matlab jo hota hai jab cheez khatam hojati hai,” Uzair replied tiredly while taking off his watch. “Stock over. Khatam. The end.”
As the chaos carried on in the lounge, Rehman quietly leaned back against the sofa and held out his hand toward Naieem with the smug confidence of a man about to collect his winnings. Gesturing for
Maal.
Rokda.
Cash.
Because unfortunately for Naieem, he had lost the bet.
With visible annoyance, Naieem pulled a few notes from his pocket and slapped them dramatically into Rehman’s waiting hand.
Because Naieem calmly turned toward his mother and held out his palm the exact same way Rehman just had.
Ulfat narrowed her eyes immediately. “Naeeim…”
“Rules are rules, ammi.”
She let out a deeply offended huff before pulling money from her pocket anyway and shoving it into his hand while Rehman stared at his son in complete betrayal.
“…Tumne dono taraf bet lagayi thi?”
Naieem looked unbearably pleased with himself.
“Diversified investments.”
The absolute snake had apparently bet both on and against Uzair bringing the kulfi.
Either way, janab was making profit.
“CHACHU!” Faisal looked genuinely devastated now, pointing accusingly at Uzair like this betrayal would permanently alter him as a person. “Aap apne eklaute bhanje ke liye kulfi bhi nahi laa paaye!”
“Excuse me?” Naieem’s offended voice came immediately from the couch. “Main mar gaya hoon?”
“Narratively abhi important nahi ho,” Faisal shot back without even looking at him.
Meanwhile Faisal turned back toward Uzair with renewed determination. “Ab toh aapko mere notes likhne padenge.”
The little menace didn’t even look upset about losing the kulfi anymore. If anything, he looked excited.
That was when cold dread finally washed over Uzair.
Oh no.
The notes.
He had completely forgotten that part of the deal.
“Dekho Faisal beta-” Uzair immediately started negotiating like a businessman trying to stop a lawsuit. “Main tujhe kal laakar dunga na kulfi. Apne favourite chachu ko ek free penalty toh do." Hamza losing his shit in the background was not helping his case.
Ulfat finally stepped in, already starting to feel bad for Uzair. “Arrey bas bhi karo, Faisal. Uzair thak gaya hoga.”
“Exactly!” Uzair pointed at her immediately like he’d just found legal representation. “Dekha? Sirf bhabhi samajhti hain mujhe iss ghar mein.”
Rehman finally looked up from his chai with the calmness of a man about to become deeply annoying on purpose.
“Nahi,” he said thoughtfully. “Notes toh ab likhne padenge. Mard ki zubaan hoti hai.”
Uzair stared at him in pure disbelief.
“Bhai?”
“Main neutral hoon.”
“Yeh neutral nahi hota,” Uzair said immediately. “Yeh woh hota hai jab banda maze le raha ho lekin sophisticated lagne ki acting bhi kar raha ho.”
Rehman took another sip of chai calmly. “Court faisla suna chuki hai.”
“Court biased hai.”
“Appeal reject.”
Uzair looked around the room in betrayal before pointing dramatically at Faisal. “Tum sab yaad rakhna, yeh bacha kal ko corporate blackmailer banega.”
Faisal looked deeply pleased with that prediction. “Thank you.”
The Baloch haveli had finally quieted down by the end of the night. The bright chaos from earlier had faded into softer sounds now the hum of the AC running through the hallways, and the television downstairs still playing at low volume because nobody in the house ever remembered to switch it off properly. Warm lights glowed dimly across the dining area where the remains of chai cups, snack plates, and Faisal’s aggressively untouched school books still sat spread across the table like evidence from a crime scene.
Right in the middle of it all, Siyahi sat hunched over the dining table with the exhausted expression of a man who had somehow become academically employed against his will. One hand held a pencil while the other rubbed tiredly over his face as he stared at Faisal’s homework like it had personally ruined his future.
Mera kya kata hai aaj poore din, he thought bitterly. Subah se bhaag daur karo, raat ko fractions solve karo.
“Yeh seventh class ka homework hai ya civil services ka exam?” he muttered under his breath while flipping the page.
Across from him, Faisal sat peacefully eating chips without even pretending to feel guilty.
“Bhai thora acha handwriting mein likhna,” he reminded helpfully. “Miss numbers kaat deti hain.”
Siyahi slowly looked up at him.
“Allah mujhe sabr de.”
Meanwhile, upstairs in his room, Uzair lay stretched across the bed in a black t-shirt and loose pajama pants, damp hair falling carelessly onto his forehead while the soft glow from his phone lit the sharp angles of his face. The AC hummed quietly in the background, cool air brushing against skin still warm from Karachi’s heat, but he barely noticed any of it.
Usually by this hour, his mind would still be stuck on work — shipments, factory calls, meetings, Hamza’s stupidity, tomorrow’s problems.
Unfortunately tonight, his mind had chosen violence instead.
You.
Because every few minutes, against his will, your face kept appearing in his head like an ad he couldn’t skip.
Every few minutes, without permission, his thoughts drifted right back to Azam Sweets. Your dramatic expressions. The offended gasps. The way you’d confidently accused him of harassment after publicly calling him hot in the middle of Azam Sweets.
And then-
That stupid little tongue out expression before disappearing around the road.
A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it, his head tilting back slightly against the pillow.
“Ajeeb larki thi,” he murmured under his breath.
But there was no real annoyance behind it.
If anything, the corner of his mouth lifted faintly again as he stared up at the ceiling, already knowing one deeply unfortunate thing with complete certainty.
He was probably going to think about Miss Kulfi for a very, very long time. Until he finally finds her again.
thank you sm for reading!!! 😭💔 genuinely mujhe nahi pata aap abhi tak yahan kya kar rahe ho but i appreciate it deeply!!!
Taglist: mujhe nahi pata kisko tag karu bas ek banda voluntarily iss circus mein aya hai @mainyahaankyunhoon 😭 this queen right here is genuinely the inspiration behind me writing this fic 😭 i’ve read all her fics and now i’m dangerously obsessed to the point ke mera khud ka 15k words ka azaab nikal gaya 💔
a/n- based on this request, a very small gift for @luvmaii/ @itsnotmai for no reason below the second line breaker( sorry if this is creepy hehe)
Trigger Warning- 18+, disabled!reader, dub con if you squint reall hardd,rough sex, drunk sex, angst, lots of plot with porn NOT PROOF READ!
Note- This is a fanfic in no means meant to glorify people like the real Uzair baloch its just that Danish is too freaking hot!
word count - 6.69k
The sun was relentless upon everyone who decided to step foot outside in Lyari today, and that everyone included Uzair ,Uzair - whose whole day had been getting out of Lyari and then getting back in, get scolded by Rehman on the phone and have Hamza laugh on him and his last straw was not finding the thick wad of cash he left on the table, that one table that was the first thing to you clashed with when you entered Rashid's crowded house. He had put it there not even half an hour ago went back to retrieve his gun and it was gone.
He had enough breaking out in a loud snap, slamming his ring adored hand on the scraped, old surface “ BHENCHOD DIMAAG KHARAB HAI KYA TERA! PAISE KHA GAYE” he heard a squeak maybe a mice maybe a cat, then saw the shadow move quick hiding behind a wall. Rashid was fourty how he couldn't imagine that old man sounding like this but he was frustrated and came another exparated string of curses from his side. “ CHUTIYAN HAI KYA?? Mai kya yaha aankh micholi khelna aaya hoon?”
You were once a shivering six year old sit on the dirty sit, with a desolated look stuck to your eyes, that seemed to stare at nothing among the swarm of people crossed by some looked at you with pity some with disgust at your matted hair and half torn clothes, a child who belonged nowhere in this world before Rashid picked you off that dirty street for once and for all settling you forever into his small house and heart.
You were twenty now, a girl who wouldn't go to sleep if your cushion wasn't fluffed properly, if your abbu didn't kiss you good night and held you in his arms once the whole day, Rashid has spoiled you to an impeccable amount that your eyes would well up the second somebody even looked at you wrong.
You peeked your head out from behind the wall, eyes teary from the way he shouted at you. Uzair stopped frozen in place, he was not expecting a girl not at all never in his 26 years of life he had been so star struck. You stared up at him with those big almond eyes, tears sitting heavy on your eyelashes , the silhouette of your body visible from the light that illuminated from behind, showing the slope of your waist underneath that plain white cotton kurti. The delicate line of your shoulder bones on display along the plunging neckline that showed the area untouched by the sun.
“ C-C-Chilla.. K-kyu rah-rahe hoon?”
You sniffled in the most adorably heartbreaking voice, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. He noticed the stammer believed it to be from fear of him, oh but you were offended more than you were scared of this khamba that invaded your house, that he dared speak to you in a decibel so high and used words so filthy.
“ S… sorry tum roo mat” he muttered out harshly, hand going to rub the back of his neck in a nervous manner.
“G-G-Galti aapki thi-p-paise aa-aapke hai ya abbu ke mujhe k-k-kaise pata hoga” Abbu? Since when did Rashid got married and had a kid, well and Rashid was not exactly the ‘handsome’ kind but the girl in front of him..breathtaking and arguing with him with her mouth fumbling over after almost every word. “Rashid ki beti hoo tum?” You nodded stepping out from behind the wall in his full view, he eyed you up and down you did not look any younger than 20, and which you were.
“ Hum mei se toh kisi ko bhi nahi pata tha, shaadi kab hui uski”
“ Shaadi nahi hui baba ki, a-ad-adopted hu”
“Accha tabhi varna Rashid ki shakal-”
“ Mere baba ke baare mei kuch mat bolo! Ek to-toh m-m-mere pe ch-chilla r-rahe ho, id-id-idiot kahike” You sniffled again, the complaint on your face growing showing in the pout of your lips the way your cheeks puff up. Its not the first time he had been called idiot before, with Rehman on the phone he had heard more colorful words than this so he let it pass, but what was he supposed to do? He did not mean to shout at a girl, and what was he to do really when you were looking at him like you need to be pampered or would die any second from the hurt of him rising his voice.
“ Ab toh rona band kar do”
“K-Kyu meri m-ma-marzi”
“ Tum aise hi baat karti hoon ya mujhe dekh ke bol rahi ho?”
Uzair noticed the pause of your breath, those shoulders shrinking a little, the childish tantrum replaced with what looked like genuine sting, he had something wrong again, for the third time to you now. He watched the way your gaze would drift from one corner to another deliberately ignoring his large frame in the middle avoiding him quietly.
“ Sorry” he muttered for something he did not understand yet, “ A-aa-aap-aap ke” You shook your head biting your tongue in resentment, the words jumbling in your mouth and no matter how hard you tried you would stumble upon them and it made you feel miserable sometimes like you weren't as witful as the ‘normal' people
“ Aa-aa-a” Tears of frustration glistened in your eyes, embarrassment at the fact that you couldn't even get the simple words out and what he would think. Uzair walked closed stopping a inches away from, patient not interrupting till you had gathered enough breath to try again, “A-A-aap ke p-paise-” Your voice cut off itself dying in your throat, Uzair didn't move not a word, just watching down at you impassively, calmly waiting for you to finish the statement without any judgement or question for your condition. His gaze steadied you, finally the sentence leaving your mouth
“Aape ke p-paise main rakhe h-h-hai, ab-abhi laayi”
he did not nod, his hand going to wipe the new teardrop forming at the end of your eyes with a gentle-ness that felt illegal considering the man he was, only when he was up so close you realised how stunning he was, how much he looked like a man in comparison to the boys you have met, how his palm swallowed whole of your face. How his rough hand cupped your cheek
“ Paise baad mei le lunga, tumhe kya pasand hai kulfi ya golgappe?” You blinked hearing the seriousness of his tone, “ Dono pas-pasand hai” whispering you met his eyes, those coffee brown eyes the colour as benign as the warmth he radiated.
“Awaaz bahut pyaari hai tumhaari, dono pasand hai toh fir dono hi lene padege” You smiled nodding
From the first interaction it was clear, that you two had grown more closer than the time allowed you to be,
Making out whenever his meetings was close to you or in your Abbu’s house but soon enough Uzair realised he wanted more from the rare visits he gave to your town, more than the talks on the call so he rented out a small flat or what they called a kabootar khaana kilometres away from your home, so he could have you all to himself, naked and bare for him to devour and when done he would hold you close tucked into his chest, one hand caressing your sore back other nursing a cigarette.
His distance would have not bothered you if it wasn't for the fact that he still had not declared his love for you, and it was true you both started out without the normal confessions that couples had and that truth was settling into your heart in a heavy ache. You two were fooling and that was all there was to it, for you to have given in so easily was not exactly men expect to happen in a sincere relationship.
You shuddered clinging clumsily at his sweat slick back, “Bas Bas” You whined, digging your nails into the muscles.He chuckled pressing his forehead against yours, finally pulling out of your overstimulated womanhood. You quickly found yourself in your usual spot nuzzling into his broad chest till your breath became even and the high of your orgasm wore off,
“Kabhi doctor ko dikhaya hai tune?”
“ Kya bol rahe ho? Koi bi-bim-bimaari thodi hai joh d-da-dawai se thee-theek ho jayengi” You stammered tracing circles on his scarred skin.
“ Are vaise nahi … in sab cheezo ke bhi doctor hote hai” He paused, taking one last blow from his cigarette before crushing out the cherry on the bedsheets. “ Sach mei?” “ Haan, maine bhabhi se pucha tha” “Kaunse doctor ke paas jaana hoga” “ Voh mai dekh lunga , phle mere saath practice kar” “ P-P-Practise?” He nodded, pulling away just enough so he could reach into the drawer to obtain a small colorful book that looked like the one they handed out to children.
“Yeh k-k-kya hai?”
He huffed, pulling you close again, placing the book in your close palm till you finally held it.
“ Is se hum practice karenge”
You did not understand what he meant and you were even more confused after opening it , it was a simple kids book with short stories and tongue twisters
. “ I-Is-Iska kya use”
“ Kal se tumhare doctor ke saath session hoge, yahi paas mei clinic hai
” “ W-wait kya?”
“ Kyu tumhe doctor ko nahi dikhana?”
“ N-N-nahi par mai samjhi nahi”
You chuckled awkwardly watching the bright colors of the book. He didn't laugh, just pressed you closer gently guiding you to start reading and as much as you were embarrassed you were also curious to what he was trying to do, “ Araam se read karna hai theek hai” He mumbled over your hair, and you started stuttering over every few words, and whenever you would he ask you to slow down your pace even more take a three second break to recollect your thoughts and start over again, praising you without words when you completed without stumbling over the words you were rewarded with a kiss to your cheek or head,
Being coddled was not new for you, your father has been doing that ever since he found you on that street, countless days spent in curled up in his lap and for a time that was your world you and your dad, you could not well and school or form a connection with anyone too scared with the scrutiny that came with your condition ending up with almost no one to call friend at this age, and when Uzair stepped in completely unbothered by everything that you thought made you feel less than others you wretchedly swayed, finding yourself craving to be in the arms of a man who still had not voiced out his feeling and that was if he had any.
The small forum continued for the times he would visit you, thrice in a month other than that he would be on the phone at late night, the only free time he would find and scold you into practising what the doctor taught for another 15 minutes no matter how hard you whined.
Uzair had gone out of the way, planning meticulously so your father landed in Lyari occupied and busy while he made his way to you. You had never had a night out reasonably so you had no friends and your Abbu was too tired from work when he came back to entertain your idea of going out late. He insisted to take you to meet his friends to which you and as patent as the clear sky you refused the idea to go out and do the big word ‘socialise’
But his charms and “Please na meri jaan” had you melting and in a loud club with flashing lights, which you complained was giving you a headache so now you and his two friends were outside, sitting on the stairs with heavy liquor bottles in their hands. You shuffled awkwardly in pulling at the hem of your kurti, Uzair one hand draped over your shoulders.
There sat a tanker of a man in front of you, his tanned skin dewy and shimmering under the light that escaped from the closed door of the club behind you, long locks tied half into a perfect bun that put your hair to shame, Hamza your boyfriend’s(?) bestfriend, and a girl that was lounging in his lap, her short dress riding up her thighs giggling, taking directs sip from the bottle and Hamza was entranced with a quiet calm intensity watching her throw her head back in a loud laugh, “Bas ab Mai” he tried to take the bottle from her hand but she just shook her head side to side, pouting.
You felt massively underdressed, watching her sequined mid thigh dress appropriate for the occasion and then back at your kurti and salwar. You continued watching nervously till she started persuading him with small pecks to the face, you lowered your gaze and as if the situation wasn't dizzying enough Uzair found the crook of your neck to kiss and suck at. “ U-Uzair!” you exclaimed, he smirked trying to pull you into his lap despite the squirming. Your cheeks flush red unable to meet anyone eyes in this position “ Mujhe bhi aisi dress chaiye” You whispered against his shirt, “ Kal mall se dilwa dunga” The thunder rumbled outside making you hide further into him.
“ Mau-Mausam theek nahi l-l-lag raha hai, ghar chalte hai” You murmured he was about to reply before Hamza called him out, “ Tu kyu nahi pee raha bhai?” “Drive karke in mohtarma ko ghar chorna hai” he chuckled, pulling at your cheeks.
Mai passed you an unused flask with a slobbery smile, “ Tum bhi try karo” Your eyes shot up switching between her and Uzair “ Pee le kuch nahi hoga” Uzair took the flask in your stead, you eyed the unfamiliar liquid from the small opening the smell strong and pungent, he gave you an encouraging nod and you sipped it just a little immediately pulling back with your face scrunched up at the strong strong unpleasant smell. “ Eee yeh toh bahut ganda hai” “ Try kar na, dhang se” you instantly tried to get off his lap seeing that convincing look on his face. “ Ek aur sip leke toh dekh” he held the cold flask to your lips, for a second you hesitated before gulping down more than a spoonful this time, the aftereffects showed swiftly, eyes going hazy the warmth flooding your stomach. “ Mujhe ghar le chalo” Your voice got lower and you tried and found an anchor in Uzair at the alien feeling that was making your head spin. “ Aree itne mei se chadh gayi?” he patted your cheek, smiling at you fondly.
Uzair continued small talk for a few more minutes with Hamza about their next shipments, while you grew more restless in his arms. “ Koi nahi ghar chale jao, isko bhi neend aa rahi” Hamza pointed at Mai who was half asleep half drooling at his shoulder. Uzair pocketed the almost full liquor bottle, helping you walk back into the car with now the few rain droplets grazing your skin.
Your legs felt heavy and airy at the same time, the giggles you expected did not come only a nervy queasiness in your gut, “ Gh-Ghar” “Tabyet toh theek hai na” he asked softly brushing back the damp strand of air from your face and you wanted nothing more than to kiss him. He got into a car, working the steering with one hand smoothly making you press your legs together tight to soothe some of the uninvited arousal. He looked so handsome today, beard trimmed, the fresh hair cut at the perfect length you liked and the first few buttons of his shirt open and inviting to his broad hairy chest. You reached out from the passenger seat running your hand over the span of his peck, he halted abruptly the car skidded on the muddy road crashing with the tree in front.
The impact was minimal because Uzair had stopped in time but the car was not starting anymore, he sighed shifting in his seat, “ Yeh kya kiya?” “Pata n-nahi” You withdrew your hand at the small hiss in his tone. “ Kya yaar!” he exclaimed loudly slamming his hand on the dashboard. Your eyes welled up instantly, yes it was your fault yes it could have been fatal but he just shouted at you “Jaan bujh ki thodi kara” You sniffled, and his shoulders relaxed slumping back into his seat.
“ Ek toh shakal aur awaaz itni pyaari hai gussa bhi nahi kiya jaata tujhe pe, agli baar se mat kariyo theek hai” he sighed again going for the flask that he tucked away earlier, “ Yeh kya ka-kar raho h-ho? Drive kaun k-karega?” “Ab drive karne ke liye gaadi bhi toh chalni chaiye” “ Mechanic bola do” “ Itni baarish aur raat mei kaun aayega meri jaan, kya bol rahi hoon” his throat bobbed draining out all the liquid from the flask in one go
You watched him hungrily before crawling into the backseat, he didn't notice for a moment, eyes shut feeling the alcohol kick into his system just heard you rustle around finally snapping his eyes open when he didn't feel your warmth beside him on the passenger.
Uzair looked back to find you looking small against the sturdy backseat, staggering to pull of your kurta. He moved so fast, slamming open and closing the front door loudly crowding the backseat with you, “Kya kar rahi hai” he rasped, helping you pull it off, and instantly going to grope your chest, squishing the flesh under his rough palm. You gasped latching onto his neck trailing kisses along the line of his beard covered jaw before crashing your lips with his. He instantly pressed your back into the seat, moaning into your mouth tongue and teeth clashing together in intoxication, the smell of cinnamon and alcohol flooding your senses, “ Uzair” you moaned just as feverish as him, legs spreading wide to accommodate his hips.
He humped a few times, releasing your mouth to take staggered breath before diving right back again devouring you with his tongue, you shuddered with each roll of his hips his clothed crotch rubbing against yours in fast impatient movements, the fabric of your salwar damp thats why you wanted short dress like that too, so he could just lift it up and slide right in but now you had this flimsy cloth in between you and him.
The rain drummed and clashed loudly against the the car body, the water and the your shared bated breath fogging up the already tinted window, he quickly unfastened the knot and pulled down your salwar watching into your eyes for approval, you on the other hand had started palming his dick over the fabric, whining for him to to just thrust inside, as much as Uzair wanted to do it, he knew he had to prepare you beforehand. He pressed his finger into your pliant mouth, groaning at the sensation of your tongue sucking at it, pursing your lips closed around the thick long digits when he felt it was sticky enough he flicked your clit once before jamming two fingers into your insides.
You scratched at the leather, your wetness squelching loudly around his fingers as he started scissoring and fucking your cunt with his hand, pushing deep till his knuckles brushed at your lips. You bucked your hips , your fluids spurting and trickling down his forearms. His eyebrows burrowed in restraint before his resolve finally broke, undoing the buttons of his trouser with a shaky hand. His hard length springed out slapped at your stomach, you braced yourself for his invasion but it still always knocked the air out of lungs. He was gifted in both length and girth and that made sense for as why you always need a few seconds to adjust before he really started pounding into you, but he wasn't in mood for patience today and started moving his hips in quick snaps refusing to pull out more than an inch, mushing up your insides.
His nipped at your earlobe in a desperate attempt to stop himself from breaking you but his body and mind worked differently, while he at least tried to control himself his hands had already wrapped around the whole span of your waist and stomach to thrust in and out without the interruption of you flailing even a little. Your nails dug half crescent moon into his back alcohol numbing the faint paint in your abdomen and all you wanted was for him to be closer and closer till all you could feel was his breath , the throb of his cock inside you till the harsh rain was nothing but a blur in your ears.
You tried to meet his jabs in a clumsy but eager movement, tugging at his hair till he understood you needed to be kissed again.Your folded one leg one wrapping around his waist to make space for both of you on the seat, for him to have all the access he needed to ruin you. He thrusted in deep grinding his hair covered crotch at your clit. He was sloppy so were you,uncaring of the mixed spit that dripped down your chin to the hollow of your neck , if anything Uzair left the warmth of your mouth to trace the evidence with his tongue his movements stilling as his focus diverged from the enrapturing scent of your body.
You tsked in frustration, “Uzair utho” You slapped his cheek lightly, breaking into a moan when he buried himself to the hilt, resting all his weight into you. “ Uzair yaar p-please” He grunted sucking hickies into your neck, he didn't move and eventually his head also lolled down into the shoulder,inhaling your scents in deep breaths and the worst part he didn't let you move either using you as a cock sleeve. Keeping you still with his suffocatingly huge length pulsing inside your cunt, raw and overwhelming.
You couldn't handle this cockwarming not at all, but he wouldn't budge his grip iron solid at your waist, hard enough to leave behind a lingering bruise so you shoved at his chest till his back hit the window. You straddled his sturdy thighs, positioning your slickness over his tip and sinking down at a pace you couldn't handle yourself, eyes rolling back at the fullness and sensation of him plummeting into your stomach, hands finding leverage at his shoulder . “ Uzair” your voice was so honey dew he almost came right there, before he could thrust up you started bouncing up and down naively on his cock moving like a mindless bunny, your plump ass cheeks slapping against his thigh when you slid down his thickness.
Uzair whimpered himself, hands tangling in your hair to stop your hasty movements “ Meri jaan araam se” you glared at him offended, clutching harder into his shoulder till it hurt and doubled your efforts till you hit your g spot yourself and mewled unable to handle the game you started yourself, he saw the opportunity grasping , locking you in between his arm ramming into you from below with sheer force. Your gummy walls clamped down on him hard, hard enough he knew he needed to finish inside you. “ Yes yes please fuck yes” With each thrust grazing at your sweet spot it didn't take you long to shed all over him, whimpering nonsense into his ear to keep going. He obliged to your crying requests, still rutting into you with harsh quick movements breaking you and him completely till you and him are too absorbed to notice or stop him from releasing inside your unprotected womb.
When you woke up, you were slumped against his shoulder and smiled at how innocent he looked when asleep. Rubbing your hand over the thick seat of his eyebrows, watching that beautiful scrunch up a little before easing under your touch. Your heart felt lighter than it has in years even if your head hurt and thighs cramped, it took for the sleepiness to wear off for you to realise he is still inside, half hard and that he never pulled out.
You quickly scrambled back calculating the date to remember the time of your periods, holding back tears while wiping the evidence of his load still inside you and dripping down your thighs. He stirred awake watching your shivering back as you worked to clean yourself down there,
“ Jaanu kya hua? Mai kar deta hoon na saaf”
He watched with that still patient voice that made your heart ache,
“ K-koi jarurat nahi U-Uzair, ho-hogya sa-saaf” he hummed sleepily, burying his face in your neck, his stubble scraping against your skin. “Kaam thoda zyada, shayad baat na ho paaye matlab mai thode waqt busy rahunga” “ Call toh karoge na?” “Baloch mei signal aagya toh haan, nahi karunga toh naraaz mat ho jaana” He kissed the ridge of your spine that prodded at your back, “ Kab tak aaoge milne” “ 10 din? 20? Shayad mahina lag jayega ek” “oh” you breathed, hiding the disappointment and fear in your face. “ Doctor ke paas jaana mat bhulna, mai vaapis aake test lunga tumhara” he joked to which you only smiled bitterly.
One month had passed in silence from his side except from the one call you received on the tenth day, the duration being not any more than two minutes and you still couldn't bring yourself to say it, the things you had been hiding him from him throughout the course of your relationship, the mishap you knew and the other part of you that hid from and did not understand yourself. You dropped your visits from the hospital drowning in the fear that forestalled to swallow you whole.
Not only did your stutter get worse, you lost all the progress you made over time and old problem- the one you didn't even dare to mention to Uzair showed through once again at dinner in front of your father when he asked you how you had been feeling these days, your body shut down mouth refusing to work. Your abbu understood in a heart beat, rubbing his wrinkled hand down your break till you finally allowed yourself to take a breath.
It was fairly easy to hide it from Uzair because he wasn't with you physically most of the time and for the time he was, you had been at ease but this old adversary was taking root in your body once again after years.
A stammer might have been still passable in the eyes of society and Uzair but how would he react to this? A condition you couldn't decipher yourself refused to share with your speech therapist that sometimes your voice would cut off itself, that you could not speak at all times. He came from a privileged family, he had no need for a disabled lover and he could just leave you at any time; it's not like anyone would question him.
You stood trembling in your bathroom, your period had been two weeks late, the white strip rested on your quivery hands not finding enough courage to look down to see what was to come next. The two red line stared back at you and your world went blank, you moved mechanically grabbing your purse putting on your sandals. “ Itni duphar mei kaha jaa rahi hai aap?” Your father called out gently at the sound of the shoe rack opening. Turning off the stove to find you on the floor forcing your foot into the leather. “ Kya hogya y/n?” You didn't reply, checking your purse again for enough change and your cell phone, “ Beta kya hua hai?” “ MU-MUJHE AAPSE BA-BAAT NAHI K-K-KARNI ABBU! Please mu-mujhe akel-akela chor do” You snapped and instantly regretted seeing the tears forming in his eyes. “Ab-abbu” you bit back your words, leaving the house with a heavy heart.
Sitting on the auto you ringed his number a thousand times, tapping your feet anxiously. You knew how much your father admired the men he worked for, how much he admired the Baloch brothers and would have been more than happy to give his daughter to you if he asked for marriage and there was no point in hiding this relationship unless he never wanted to continue it. You couldn't breath, the green screen of the cell phone turning blurry in your vision. “Uzair Uzair Uzair”
The hospital air was sterile and the test didn't take long, before the reality crashed down on you were really pregnant with his child, your brain has stopped working, you looked at the doctor and back to your cell phone to see he still had not called back.You have changed a place far enough that the word doesn't reach your neighbourhood
“ Yeh abo-ab-abortion ke liye f-f-form bha-bharna tha, abhi mere sh-sh-sh-shauhar nahi hai saath mei….nahi aye ..ne-ne-next t-ti-tim-time”
You clutched the paper in your hand till it crumbled into a ball, you couldn't face your father like this, not the man who raised you with so much love afraid at how you have defamed his name like this, ashamed of what you had done. You stopped the auto at the kabootar khaana- your and Uzair’s safe haven, you threw the paper, watched it loud on the shelf and started taking heavy breaths.
The shower door opened with a click, you were already struggling to breathe and at the sound of it your breath catched, Uzair was here already “ Are jaanu tujhe kaise pata chala mai aagya” You gave him a sheepish smile , body going stiff. “Ph-Phone kyu nahi -u-uthaya Uzair?” “ Naha raha tha sunai nahi diya hoga” He raised his eyebrows in amusement walking out completely naked and without an ounce of shame “ Kya hua dar toh aise hi rahi hai jaise kisi aur se milne aayi thi” he inhaled deeply licking the side of your neck without a word.
“ Yaad aa rahi thi teri” He squeezed your face and you still haven't moved, not even reacted other than a nervous nod, it wasn't hard to tell that something was off and the way your eyes kept flickering to the wall , where the self was.
He was also starving to touch you, feel you after he had not not for more than a whole month now so he did what he was yearning to do, shoving you against the wall capturing your tender lips with his, the water from the shower still trickling down his skin catching on your lips in between. “Kya hua?” he whined impatiently when you didn't kiss back, you came to your sense parting your lips for his tongue to sweep in, you knees bucked at the familiar and the sensation that you craved desperately even in the despairs of your heart you needed to be held in his arm
“ Tu mere liye khud hi aagyi isse accha kya ho sakta hai”
he groaned in your mouth already hardening, hands snaking down to grope your supple thighs and drape them over the crook of his elbow so he could grind himself on you. The rhythm of his lips against your turning frenzied, more passionate from the ache of the curves he had to stay away from. He pulled back abruptly but not before he bit your lower lip, pressing it in between his teeth.
“ Dress bhi le aaya tere liye ab toh kush ho ja” He patted your cheek seeing the still somewhat blank expression there. You forced a smile taking the packet from his hands.
“ Jaa mujhe phen ke dekha” he urged you that you should change in the bathroom so he could get the proper first look, you were already uncomfortable and the cloth sticked to you like a second skin adding to the dreadful pit in your gut and the uneasiness of what you were keeping in your bleeding heart.
The second you stepped out, Uzair whistled, throwing away his cigarette telling you to twirl with the tip of his head, and you did no matter how crushed yourself from inside you did not know how to show it to him right now. “ B-Bas ab u-u-u-u-uta-aaar loon Uz-Uzair? accha nahi lag raha hai” “ Tumhe hi toh phena tha” He remarked, stalking over to you, looming over you with an eerily calm expression. “ Aur vaise bhi utaarunga toh mai hi” he slid his finger between the thin strap that rested atop of your shoulders, “ Uza-Uzair” “ Classes nahi le rahi tum? Mujhe doctor ne call kiya tha raaste mein, Kyu y/n?” “Gh-Gh-Ghar pe k-k-kaam tha” “ Aisa kaunsa kaam tha y/n joh ek mahine se nahi ho pa raha hai, jooth bhol rahi hai tu?” “ Nahi mai j-oo-jooth nahi bol r-rahi” He threw his head back laughing, finally taking out the crumbled up paper out of his pocket, straightening the paper right in front of your eyes.
“ J-j-joo-jooth nahi bol rahi?” he mocked, he mocked it, he mocked the one thing he never commented on the one thing he handled with the most patience, your throat constricted in a painful knot. “ Itna badha decision tumne mujhe bataana jaaruri nahi samajha?” you did not even want to defend yourself, the only thing that replayed in your head was what he just did. “ BOL TOH KUCH!” He slapped his hand beside your head at the wall, your body jolted backing more against the cold concrete.
“Kyu y/n kyu?” he ran his own shaky hands through his dripping hair, “ Hua kab yeh?” You did not reply, “ Pyaar nahi karti toh bol deti mere peeth peeche jaake aisi..aisi harkat karna” You did not love him? You? You wanted to shout, you finally wanted to scream in his face that he was wrong, how much this had hurted you but nothing came out.
Your lips refused to part, heart thrumming loudly against your ribs to break free, hands clenching into a fist at side while he kept throwing accusations after accusations,
“ Har cheez mei yeh masoom se shakal banane se kaam nahi chalega, say something damn it!”
He shouted bitterly, his expression crumbling completely. Your eyes locked to the floor in a lifeless gaze, the action to your brain blocked making you look more and more guilty, dishonest in his eyes. Your lips didn't twitch, not a pinch, and to the outside world and Uzair of course it looked all the same, like defiance, like you willingly chose not to speak. You couldn't speak YOU COULDN'T SPEAK.
Uzair himself was getting teary eyed watching back to back at the paper at the decision you made yourself, to kill something you both created together, his anger simmering into a viscous venom of words. “ Problem yeh hai tumarhi ki tumhe har cheez mei victim banana hai, theek hai bol diya sorry bahut faltu cheez kari maine majak uda ke, par mai joh bol raha hoon abhi uska teri problem se kya lena dena hai y/n, BOL! KUCH TOH BOL!” Your jaw was shut tight hands clenched “ Nahi rahna mere saath abhi bol de” You forced yourself, tried to open your mouth with all the strength that you had only to find yourself failing and standing paralysed in front of him.
“ Bhenchod dimaag kharab ho jayega mera” He snarled under his breath going to open the door and leave, your finger moving just an inch before falling back in place, “ Jaanu?” the worry creeped back into his voice, striding back to you in quick three steps finally seeing over his hurt and betrayal, how your limbs was locked in place and how hard your teeth were grinding .
He caressed your face with the same care of he did the day he met you, you shivered under his hand your mouth refusing to work, he understood something was wrong, very wrong. “ Jaan kya hua?” he patted your cheeks hoping you would come back to your senses, for you to even look up from the ground. He saw the vacant look in your eyes and pulled you close, crushing your chest against his so tight you couldn't breathe but it was the most comforting feeling ever, and you broke down hard breaking into a string of broken sobs and breaths that you gasped to take. He whispered comforting things over your clammy skin till you finally found your voice back, your knees bucking and he let you slide down to the floor with his body acting as a cushion for you. “Mu-Mu-Mujhe lag-laga tum-tum muj-mujhse p-pya-pyaar na-nahi k-karte mai bahut dar gayi t-t-thi” You wailed into his chest, and he just felt like the worst man alive on earth for him to doubt someone as precious as you. “ Mai-Mai bahut d-dar gayi thi” You snivelled one last time to face him, watching the tear that had found its way down his cheeks.
"Mujhe terese mohabbat hai yaar. Haan main befkoof hoon, lekin pyaar karta hoon terese. Aur sun, main kabhi nahi chhorne wala tujhe, kabhi mat sochna aisa, jaanu. Shaadi kar le mujhse, theek hai? Mere ghar aa ja. Tumhein darne ki zaroorat nahi hai, na ab aur na kabhi. Aur agar yeh zindagi tumhare bina guzray, toh mujhe yeh zindagi nahi chahiye" he paused before going off again this time lower more sincere “ "Shaadi, Yeh sab kuch fizool hai tere bina, agar tu sath nahi na toh kuch bhi nahi meri liye sirf shabd ke siwa"
You were almost three months pregnant in a bed decked with strings of jasmine and roses all put together perfectly to cover the dome of the bed, and petals sprawled across the bed. You were married to Uzair, and feeling more nervous than you expected for the marital night, it was not for the act itself but the idea that you finally belonged in his room, your stomach swelling slightly with his child and that you were to spend the rest of your life with him. You weren't unfamiliar with the idea of living with a gangster that you had all your life neither did you doubt a man whose whole life was spent in violence to nurture you,to take care of you because again you had been loved enough by your Abbu the only thing you worried if your condition got any worse and what if you lost the ability to speak to him all together.
Uzair closed the door behind him with a soft click, adorned in an affluent sherwaani, lowering your gaze into the stain of the henna making sure it wasn't as visible to him as it was to you- his name hidden in between the patterns. He laughed softly at the act, the mattress sinking beneath his weight holding both your palm in his hand, he spotted it the second your soft hand rested on his but did not wanted to see that sweet face fall with disappointed, so he furrowed his eyebrows acting out confused for whole three minutes before leaning to press a kiss to the spot where it was concealed from him.
He hadn't said anything neither have you, just sharing long glances and one beating heart. He shifted closer, gently touching your stomach, his touch featherlight against the fabric of your kurta.Uzair lifts his free right hand to chest height, facing their palm outward toward you. He folds his middle and ring fingers flat against his marred palm, keeping them held down by the thumb while his index finger and pinky point straight up, in a silent ‘I love you’ followed by the next action. He points his index finger toward his own chest then shifts his hand to point toward you he rolls both of his hands forward in smooth, circular motions Next, he brings both hands together in front of him, interlocking his fingers tightly ,keeping his hands joined, he moves them forward in a steady, continuous line, ‘ Will you spend the rest of your life with me?”
You teared up, nodding in between your cries before breaking out into a smile that he would remember for the rest of his life
a/n - not happy with how this turned out but I tried , hope you can enjoy it! also have a small series brewing up in mind for toxic,dark Uzair :.) at this point I am torturing myself haha
“In the dust of Lyari, dreams are buried... and obsessions are born.”🥀
Not a safe space—things get explicit. 18+ only 🔥Smut in future parts 👀
Next-part| Masterlist
📜 𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂
Beneath the watchful eyes of the Baloch brothers, independence is a dangerous luxury. (Y/N) thought she was safe as the ward of the Haveli, but Uzair Baloch, the man who once made her childhood a misery, has traded his schoolboy taunts for a predator’s patience. Now, the 'Bhondu' of Lyari is gone, replaced by a king who will burn her books, bar her doors, and break her spirit just to ensure she never looks at another man.
A/N :Welcome to the dark side of Lyari. This Uzair isn’t the ‘bhondu’ you remember from the early days—he’s grown into the king of his own twisted world. Please read the warnings before proceeding. This is a work of fiction and depicts unhealthy relationship dynamics.
[ 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓢𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂 𝓑𝓮𝓵𝓸𝔀 👇 ]
The sun over Lyari was always unforgiving, casting harsh shadows across the narrow, dust-choked lanes where the scent of diesel and spice hung heavy in the air. Inside the towering walls of the Baloch Haveli, however, the air felt different, thick with a deceptive stillness that whispered of power and blood. You sat in the central courtyard, the marble cool beneath you, as you guided Faisal through his homework. You were the girl the war had left behind, a survivor of the crossfire that claimed your parents, taken in by Rehman Baloch and his wife, Ulfat. To the world, they were the kings of the underworld; to you, they were the only family you had left. You worked hard to repay their kindness, cooking, cleaning, and caring for Faisal, all while clinging to the hope your college education would one day give you a life of your own.
"Baji, ye math wala sawal phir se samjhayein na?" Faisal asked, tilting his head with innocent frustration. You smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you pulled his notebook closer. "Dekho Faisal, agar Rehman bhai ke paas das gaadiyan hain aur do chori ho jayein, toh kitni bachi?" You tried to make the lesson relatable to his world, but your heart skipped a beat when the heavy iron gates groaned open. Heavy boots thudded against the stone. You didn't need to look up to know who it was. Uzair Baloch. Rehman’s younger brother. The man who had spent his childhood making your life a living hell. Back then, he was the 'bhondu'—the awkward, clumsy bully who broke your dolls and hid your schoolbags. But the boy had grown into a predator, and the bullying had curdled into something far more dangerous.
Uzair stepped into the courtyard, his presence sucking the oxygen out of the space. He was covered in the grime of the streets, his eyes dark and restless. He stopped, staring at you with an intensity that made your skin crawl. You immediately looked down, focusing on the notebook. "Faisal, abhi tak padh raha hai? Chal bahar nikal, tere liye naya cricket bat laya hoon," Uzair’s voice was a low growl that vibrated in your chest. Faisal cheered and scrambled away, leaving you alone in the sudden, deafening silence. You stood up quickly, clutching your dupatta.
"Uzair bhai, main zara kitchen mein dekh loon, Ulfat Bhabi bula rahi hongi," you murmured, trying to sidestep him. But Uzair moved with the speed of a snake, blocking your path. His large frame towered over you, smelling of expensive tobacco and something metallic. "Bhai mat bol mujhe. Kitni baar kaha hai?" He leaned down, his breath ghosting over your ear. You stepped back, but your heel caught on the edge of a planter. He grabbed your arm to steady you, his grip lingering a second too long, his fingers digging into your soft skin. "Tum mujhse itna darti kyun ho? Bachpan mein to bada ladti thi mujhse jab main tumhari gudiya todta tha," he teased, but there was no warmth in his smirk.
You found a flicker of courage and met his gaze. "Tab aap sirf shararti the, Uzair. Ab aap... ab aap badal gaye hain." His smirk vanished, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated possession. He stepped into your personal space, forcing you back until your spine hit the cold stone pillar. "Badla nahi hoon, samajhdaar ho gaya hoon. Tab main bhondu tha, samajh nahi aata tha ki tumhare baalon ko kheenchna meri mohabbat thi ya nafrat. Par ab mujhe sab saaf dikhta hai." You tried to push him away, but it was like trying to move a mountain. "Chhodiye mujhe, koi dekh lega." Uzair laughed, a dark, melodic sound. "Dekhne de! Ye ghar mera hai, ye Lyari meri hai. Aur is ghar mein jo kuch hai, wo bhi mera hai. Samjhi?" He traced the line of your jaw with a rough thumb, his eyes roaming over your face with a hunger that felt like a violation.
Later that evening, the haveli was bustling with the arrival of Rehman’s men. You stayed in the kitchen, helping Ulfat Bhabi prepare a feast. Your hands were shaking as you chopped vegetables. "Kya hua beta? Aaj badi khamosh ho?" Ulfat Bhabi asked, noticing your distress. You forced a smile, your heart heavy. "Bas Bhabi, college ke exams ka thoda tension hai." Ulfat sighed, stirring a large pot of biryani. "Pata nahi Rehman ne tumhe itni chhoot kyun di hai padhne ki. Humare yahan to betiyan ghar sambhalti hain. Par khair, tum to humari beti jaisi ho. Jao, ye chai ka cup Uzair ke kamre mein de aao, wo kab se upar hai." Your stomach dropped. The last place you wanted to be was in Uzair’s private sanctuary. "Bhabi, wo... main Faisal ko dekh loon?" "Nahi, wo so gaya hai. Jao jaldi se, Uzair gusse mein hoga, use chai chahiye hogi."
You carried the tray up the stairs as if you were walking to your execution. Uzair’s room was at the very end of the hall, isolated and silent. You knocked softly, hoping he wouldn't hear. "Aa jao," came the curt reply. You entered to find him standing on the balcony, his shirt discarded, his back a map of scars and tattoos. The sight of his bare, muscular torso made you flush with a mix of fear and unwanted heat. You placed the tray on the table, turning to flee. "Ruko," he commanded without turning around. He held a tattered photograph in his hand. You froze, your back to him.
Uzair walked toward you, his footsteps silent on the rug. He stopped right behind you, so close you could feel the heat radiating from his body. "Ye dekho," he whispered, holding the photo in front of your face. It was a picture from your childhood, you were crying because he had pulled a prank on you. "Tum roti hui bhi kitni pyaari lagti thi. Aaj bhi lagti ho jab darti ho." You spun around, your eyes brimming with tears of anger. "Aapko maza aata hai mujhe pareshan karne mein? Kyun karte hain aap aisa?" Uzair reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch was surprisingly gentle, which was somehow more terrifying than his rage. "Maza nahi aata. Sukoon milta hai. Jab tum mujhse darti ho, to mujhe lagta hai ki tumhare zehan mein sirf main hoon. Chahe wo dar hi kyun na ho, par hoon to main hi na?"
You tried to retreat, but he snagged your waist, pulling you flush against his hard chest. "Uzair! Ye kya badtameezi hai? Main koi bazaar ki ladki nahi hoon!" you cried out. His eyes darkened, a flash of something primal and perverse dancing in them. "Badtameezi? Abhi to maine shuru bhi nahi ki. Tumhe lagta hai ki Rehman bhai ne tumhe yahan beti banakar rakha hai to tum bach jaogi? Wo mera bada bhai hai, meri har zidd poori karta hai. Aur meri sabse badi zidd tum ho." He gripped your face, his fingers pressing into your cheeks. "College jati ho na? Sundar ban kar? Wahan ladke dekhte honge tumhe? Batati kyun nahi?"
"Koi nahi dekhta! Main sirf padhne jati hoon!" you sobbed. Uzair buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply before nipping at your skin. You gasped as a sharp pain bloomed there. "Ye nishaan yaad dilayega ki tum kiski amanat ho. Agli baar college jao to dupatta dhang se odhna, warna main tumhare us college ko aag laga dunga." You pushed against his chest, but he was immovable. "Aap... aap bimaar hain, Uzair. Ye mohabbat nahi hai," you whispered brokenly. Uzair pulled back, wiping a tear from your cheek with his thumb, then slowly licking the salt from his skin. "Mohabbat kise chahiye? Mujhe to tum chahiye. Poori ki poori. Tumhari ye dehsat, tumhara ye gussa, sab mera hai."
He let you go suddenly, sinking into a chair. "Chai peeni hai mujhe. Pilao." Your hands trembled as you poured the tea, the clinking of the porcelain loud in the room. He watched you like a hawk, his eyes never leaving your trembling form. "Kal se tum college nahi jaogi. Ulfat se keh dunga ki tumhare liye koi rishta aaya hai." The world seemed to tilt. "Nahi! Uzair, please aisa mat kijiye. Meri padhai... wahi to ek cheez hai mere paas." Uzair slammed the cup onto the table, the tea splashing over the lace cloth. "Tumhare paas main hoon! Padh likh kar kya banogi? Kisi babu ki biwi? Nahi. Tum Lyari ke badshah ki rani banogi. Chahe tumhari marzi ho ya na ho."
You turned to run, but he caught you before you could reach the door, pinning you against the wood. He grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head. "Bhagti kahan ho? Bachpan se bhag rahi ho. Kabhi school ke peeche chhupti thi, kabhi Bhabi ke piche. Par ab kahan jaogi? Ye poora shehar mera qabristaan hai, jahan main jise chahoon zinda dafan kar doon." He pressed his forehead against yours, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Mujhe wo bhondu Uzair mat samajhna jo tumhare rone par pighal jata tha. Ab mujhe tumhare rone se fark nahi padta... balki maza aata hai."
He bit your earlobe, a sharp, possessive gesture. "Kal se tum kahin nahi jaogi. Sirf mere paas rahogi. Faisal ko padhana hai padhao, par sham ko mere kamre mein milogi. Samjhi?" You nodded weakly, the fight leaving your body. You knew Rehman wouldn't cross Uzair when it came to his obsessions. Uzair released you, and you scrambled to your room, locking the door and collapsing against it. You spent the night mourning the girl you used to be. You remembered him as the awkward boy who didn't know how to express his feelings, but that boy was dead. In his place was a man who wanted to own your soul.
Taglist :— [want to be tagged? just ask 🤍] @harrystyleskiwi9 ,
Synopsis: In Lyari, everyone knows Major Iqbal's name. They know the power he commands and the fear he instills. Men obey him while women admire him from afar. He's untouchable and unreachable. For a man who had no use for marriage, desire was still a debt the body demanded be paid. It is bought, used, forgotten, and left behind before dawn. Just another transaction, another closed door, another face he never intends to see twice after sunrise.
Until one transaction quietly becomes another. And another.
Night after night, he returns to the same kotha. To the same room. To the same bed.
The same girl…
Some stories begin with love.
This one begins with a sin.
Inspired by this edit by cutie @wtafananya [He looks like the type of person to like it raw]
Content Warnings: 18+, mature content!!! CNC, dub con, oral, not suitable for minors!
a/n: ahhh ch.2 is finally hereee. Major iqbal is lowkey haunting my dreams now ive had him come 3x now its crazyyy. but now their story is lowkey evolving with more plot ideas but dww ive got loads plannedd for themm for future chapters. hope u enjoy!! dont be afraid to comment and lemme know how u like it!
Chapter 2
The morning light of Lyari arrived softly, piercing through the grime of the windowpanes in jagged, dusty shards of gold. The rays scattering through the heavy velvet curtains, illuminating your resting face and the curls that resided around your temples in a sickly yellow glow. The dim light pooling in your collarbones, catching the sheen of sweat not yet washed away, the dried tears on your face and the torn clothes half-fallen off the bed.
The loud buzz of Lyari rustling up didn't faze you awake, it was the realization of your own wrecked body that finally woke you from your blackout.
For a moment, you lay perfectly still, the haze of sleep still clouding your mind, until you tried to shift. A very sharp, searing hiss escaped your lips as the movement triggered a dynamite of pain.
As your consciousness slowly returned, so did the memory of every single movement Iqbal had forced upon you.
Your body felt as though it had been dismantled piece by piece and put back together incorrectly. Your thighs were trembling to even move another inch, the muscles humming with a dull throbbing ache that radiated from your hips. As you slowly peeled the heavy duvet from your skin, the sunlight finally revealed the brutality of the night.
Deep, violet bruises bloomed like dark orchids across your pale thighs where his grip had been with the faint, red outlines of his fingertips on your hips. Your collarbones and the soft slope of your shoulders were scattered with angry red marks- teeth marks from where he bit down. Your neck was still aching from where he sucked, leaving purple marks across your jawline and throat. Your breasts were tender, the skin flushed and your nipples sensitive to even the slightest brush of the blanket.
And then there was the flesh of you.
A heavy, pulsing soreness resided between your legs, a feeling of being stretched and opened far beyond your limits. Every tiny movement felt like a friction of raw nerves. The pain becoming a searing reminder of the hours he had spent pounding into you. You felt raw and wounded, your flesh broken into, the blood soaked sheets now dark crimson in colour. The evidence of his passion, now dry, salty and lightly crackling on the inside of your thighs.
You felt so utterly spent.
You lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling. You should have felt like a broken thing. You should have felt the coldness of his transaction.Yet, as you looked at the marks, a strange, treacherous warmth flickered in your chest. He had been brutal, yes, even inhumane but he had been the first. The only man to ever see the truth of you. And although he had taken your innocence of 19 years with a cruelty that left you shaking, he had also left a burning memory of him engraved in your mind forever. A bond forged in the heat of a sin.
You rolled onto your side, your limbs feeling heavy, as if your bones had been replaced with metal. Your gaze drifted to the nightstand.
The banknotes were still there, crisp against the dark wood. Beside them, the foil packet glinted against the sunlight. You picked it up, your fingers trembling. The pill becoming a small warning that he intended to keep you unmarked by anything other than his own seed. A sudden unwelcome memory of his dark eyes came crashing down, you remembered the way he commanded you to take it. His deep voice echoing in the depths of your mind.
“Kha Lena”
A shiver ran through you. You weren't ready to be a mother to theMajor's secret lovechild. You weren't ready to be tied to a man who ruled by fear.
With a small, shaky breath, you swallowed the pill, praying that you wouldn't carry a piece of him forever.
As you slowly sat up, the sheets rubbing against your damp and broken skin. You felt a strange, fluttering tension in your stomach, not quite fear, and certainly not love, but a desperate curiosity.
He had told you that no other man would touch you.
Did he mean that? Why'd he say that?
Why me?
Those thoughts were circulating in your mind at a 1000 miles per hour. Until-
The door creaked open.
"Beta? Uth gayi?" Madam Bi’s voice was low, cautious.
You jumped, a small gasp of pain escaping you as you quickly yanked the duvet up to your chin, shielding the bruised landscape of your skin from her experienced, knowing eyes. Your face burned with a sudden, scorching embarrassment, your eyes darting away from her gaze.
"Ji... ji, Madam Bi," you whispered, your voice cracking. She saw the way you winced just by breathing.
Madam Bi stepped closer, her eyes scanning the room, the crumpled sheets, the empty cigar box, the foil packet and the way you were hiding. She didn't need to see the bruises to know what had happened. She had seen the way Iqbal left women, and she had seen the way he looked at you.
"Unhone toh tumhe poori tarah se tod diya," she murmured, a small, sad smile touched her lips. She sat by the bed now.
"Main... main theek hoon," you whispered, your voice raspy and broken.
You were in fact not.
"Ziyada takleef ho rahi hai?" she asked, reaching out to pat your hand.
You nodded, a hot flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck. You didn't want her to know what atrocities transpired last night, how brutally he broke your seal of virginity, how long he stayed inside you nor how much you secretly liked the pain.
Madam Bi sighed, her expression softening into something resembling pity. "Naha lo, apne app ko saaf karo” she gently commanded. “Main tumhare liye chai banati hoon, tumse baat kar ni hai”
“Kis barey main?” you inquired.
“Major sahab ka phone aya tha, unhone kuch.. dusre intizam rakhe hai tumhare liye.”
Oh. He already called.
A low pit started forming in your stomach at the mention of his name.
“T-teek hai, main apse neeche aa kar baat kar thi hoon” you quickly deflected.
You already knew what they talked about.
With a final look of understanding, she stepped out, closing the door with a soft click.
At last, you let out a long, shuddering breath you didn't know you were holding…
Getting out of bed was its own separate trial of endurance. You had to support yourself with the bedside table, your legs buckling as your feet hit the cold floor. The moment you stood straight, you felt a sudden, warm rush between your legs.
You looked down. Thick, white streaks of his seed: the remnants of his passion, was slowly leaking from you, sliding down your inner thigh.
A hot flush of shame and desire washed over you.
After all, he didn't just finish inside you once, he finished countless times in the night until he was satisfied. It was inevitable that most of him stayed inside you as you slept, his finish remaining undisturbed.
You quickly walked to the bathroom with your knees buckled together and thighs instinctively squeezing in a desperate, subconscious attempt to hold him in, to prevent the slickness of him from dripping onto the cold tiles. It felt like carrying a secret that pulsed with each heartbeat. Your muscles screaming in protest.
Slowly, you stepped into the shower.
The moment the water hit your skin, you gasped. The spray was lukewarm, but against your hypersensitive nerves, it felt like hot electric shocks. You leaned your back against the wet wall, finally sliding your legs apart.
As you relaxed, you felt the dam break.
Dense, pearlescent cords of him finally escaped, gushing down your thighs and mixing with the clear water. It swirled around your ankles before disappearing down the drain. You watched it for a second, a strange sense of mourning washing over you. He had filled you so much that the emptiness following the release felt like a sudden drop in temperature.
Your breath paused as you lowered your hand, your fingers trembling as they brushed against your inner thigh. When your fingertips grazed one of the marks he left, a sharp hiss escaped your lips. It was a dull, throbbing ache, but as the water slid over you, the pain morphed into something else: pleasure.
Curiosity drove your fingers higher.
As you reached your flesh, you felt the heat radiating from within. You parted your lips with your fingers, ever so slowly, touching the opening he had stretched.
Bad idea
You immediately jerked back, the skin so sensitive you couldn't even graze it.
You quickly got a small mirror from the cupboard and brought it up to check yourself for the wreckage. The flesh was still raw and pink from the exertion you were put through. Mustering up enough courage, you started to slide a finger inside to clean yourself and you gasped at the sensation. You felt... so open, so penetrated and ruined.
You had always been a haven of untouched purity, a closed door that no one had the key to. But Major Iqbal hadn't used a key, he had broken the door down with the force of a landslide. As you explored yourself, you could feel the vividness of the stretch, the way your walls felt swollen and tender, molded to the shape of him. He had left a void where there used to be a seal, an ache that made you feel exposed even in the privacy of your own shower.
You closed your eyes, your head falling back against the tiles. The water streamed over your face, your luscious curls caving around you, but all you could see was his half-blurred face.
It wasn't love. You weren't naive enough to call this love. Love was soft, love was gentle like the touch of a hand on a cheek. This was something far more sinister. This was a twisted obsession, a dark desire that made your skin itch for the weight of his body pressing against yours.
You traced the line of your jaw, feeling the phantom pressure of his teeth. You felt the ghost of his hand gripping your curly hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat to his mercy. You hated the brutality, the viciousness he used. And you especially hated how the memory of him breaking you made your chest tighten with a desperate need to be broken again.
As the water washed the scent of him from your skin, your mind wondered where he was now. Was he back in his study, smoking a cigar? Was he commanding men to their deaths? Or was he thinking of the way you had wailed beneath hi-
You opened your eyes abruptly.
What am I saying?
The realization crashed over you colder than the water. This man took your virginity with such carelessness, he probably did the same to countless women before you. You were a new flavour for a man who had tasted every delicacy the city had to offer. He probably had hundreds of women lined up for him, to take in future nights. Hell, he might even be with another woman right now, already leaning into the warmth of someone else. A secret mistress waiting in his haveli’s bed, with silk sheets and a sly smile. A woman who knew how to handle his darkness without flinching, a woman… who was far more experienced than you.
The thought felt like a blow to your stomach. You pictured him then: his large, calloused hands tracing another woman's hip, his same lips pressing kisses against a different throat. He would use them just as he used you, leaving them ravaged and hopeful in the low light of dawn while he forgot their face as sson as he stepped into his SUV.
He probably did the same to me. He doesn't care about me.
The words stinging more than the soreness between your legs.
You repeated those lines in your head like a mantra, to find an anchor in the chaos of your mind…
You quickly finished scrubbing and stepped out of the shower. As you wrapped the towel around your naked body, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The livid purple marks around your neck even angrier from the hot water. For a split second, a surge of pride flared in your chest: you were consumed by the most powerful man in Karachi.
Then, as quickly as it came, the pride turned to ash. A mark was just a brand, and a brand didn't mean he loved you, it just meant he owned the body you occupy…
You searched your wardrobe now and dressed in a simple light pink kurta, your movements stiff with anger, every friction of fabric against your skin reminding you of your doomed fate. You made sure to wear an extra long dupatta that can cover all the bruises and bites blooming around your neck. But you knew whatever you did to hide the evidence of your first night, you would be endlessly teased by all the girls in the kotha.
You looked at the door, knowing Madam Bi was waiting with the news of your "arrangement".
You wondered if the arrangement was just another way for him to keep his toy polished and ready for the next time he felt the itch of desire. You weren't a lover, a mistress or even a personal whore.
You were a secret, kept in a room of velvet and sin. But despite all that, you still felt like you belonged to something powerful.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
A Few Hours Earlier
6:23 AM
Major Iqbal’s Haveli
Miles away, in the secure, cold luxury of his private haveli, Major Iqbal stood beneath a rain-head shower that hammered against his broad shoulders like a thousand needles. The water was scalding hot, enough to burn all remaining desire, but he didn't flinch.
He stayed under the stream, the water pouring against his jawline. He ran a hand along his hair to push it back, the movement tightening the rippling muscles of his back, revealing the spoils of the night. Scattered across his forearms and shoulder blades were faint, angry red crescents, marks left by your nails digging into his flesh in desperation.
A slight smirk touched his lips, his gaze sweeping over them. He liked that he had pushed you to a point of agony where the only thing you could fight against was him.
He leaned his forehead against the marble wall, eyes closed, the steam curling around his sculpted tanned frame. His mind, usually an impenetrable wall of logic and strategy, churning a million different plans about his work, was plagued by a singular, vivid image: the look of your body beneath him.
He was back in that dim, velvet-heavy room. He could still hear it, the sound of you. Not just the screaming, though there had been plenty of that, but the way your voice had wailed under him.
Iqbal was no stranger to that sound. He had taken many women’s virginities before: some bought, some coerced, some who had offered themselves up in hopes of winning him, it was nothing new. He knew the feeling of a first time, the resistance of their hymen, the tight friction which he usually had to break through, the rush of blood, the frantic gasps, the initial thrashing that eventually melted into submission.
But this... this had been different.
With you, it hadn't just been about the physical tightness. There was a purity to your reaction, a defiance that had triggered his most primitive side. He remembered the feeling of your skin, too soft, too untouched for a man like him, made of iron.
As the water streamed over his chest, Iqbal’s hand drifted downward.
A low groan escaped his throat. His fingers gripping the thick, pulsing length of his cock, the other hand stretched out straight in front him against the wall. Even now, hours later, the memory of how you had held him made him harden instantly. He stroked himself slowly, imagining the way your nipples hardened, your thighs squeezing.
He had liked the way your eyes had gone wide, searching for some mercy he didn't possess.
He let out a sharp exhale, his grip tightening even further, stroking even harder.
He didn't feel affection. He didn't even know your name. To him, you were still a transaction, a beautiful object he had purchased and used. And yet, as he pictured the image of your tears falling down your face, it triggered a raging surge of heat in his gut.
Most women in Lyari were practiced: they knew how to perform, how to satisfy, how to play the part of the seductive whore. But you... you hadn't been any of those things. You had been innocent.
He shut off the water and stepped out, the water dripping from his toned thighs and calves, leaving wet footprints on the polished floor. He didn't bother with a robe, wrapping a single white towel loosely around his hips, the v of his pelvis visible and defined. He walked toward his master bedroom, his expression returning him to a state of cold authority, though his eyes spoke of hunger.
You were a sin he hadn't finished committing…
He picked up his phone and dialed Madam Bi.
"Ji, Major Sahab?" her voice came through, cautious as always.
Iqbal didn't waste time with pleasantries. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble.
There was silence on the other end. Madam Bi sighed. "Ji, Major Sahab. Woh abhi sirf unnees (19) saal ki hai. Maine usay bacha kar rakha tha-”
"Kyun nahi bataya?" he interrupted, his tone sharp. He wasn't angry, but rather he was irritated that he wasn't told the whole truth about you.
"Maafi chahti hoon, Sahab," she stammered. "Mujhe laga aapko farq nahi parta..."
"Farq parta hai," he countered, his voice dropping an octave. "Ab se, koi aur mard usay ek ungli se bhi nahi chuyega. Na hi koi aur uske kamray mein qadam rakhega”.
He walked across his room, the towel low on his hips, his muscles rippling with every movement. The thought of another man even glancing at you, let alone touching the skin he had just taken, sent some heat through him.
Madam Bi hesitated. "Lekin Major Sahab, agar woh sirf ek hi mard ke liye rahegi, toh mera nuqsaan- "
Iqbal cut her off, his voice absolute. "Nuqsaan ki fikar mat karein. Jitna woh kamai gi, us se do baar (twice) dounga, balke do bar se bhi zyada.”
After considering his more than generous offer, Madam Bi finally agreed to this arrangement.
"Ji, Major Sahab. Jaisa aapka hukum." Madam bi whispered.
Iqbal didn't hang up immediately. A flicker of curiosity crossed his mind.
“Wese…uska naam kya tha”, his voice a low velvety sound. His elbow now leaning against the doorway.
“Y/N, Sahab”
He tasted the name in his mind, putting the face to the title you now possessed. He didn't say anything for a few seconds, letting the name settle in. Then finally-
He took a sharp breath.
“Aaj raat, usay mere liye tayyar rakhein.”
He hung up without waiting for a response. He didn't need her permission, he had already bought the air you breathed.
He tossed the phone onto the bed and walked toward the window, looking out over the grey, rain-soaked horizon of Lyari. Soon he would be back in the depths of your haven again.
He got dressed with methodical precision, sliding into a crisp, ironed navy blue buttoned shirt that contrasted deeply with the tanned skin of his chest. He put on his tailored suit and as he buttoned the cuffs of his sleeves, his eyes drifted back again to the faint red marks on his skin that were already beginning to fade.
Although the Major had finally returned: cold and untouchable, beneath the medals and layers of clothes, his skin still hummed with the memory of your screams.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
Present
Madam Bi’s Kotha
You walked down the narrow corridor leading downstairs, your fingertips grazing the peeling wallpaper. Usually, you were always invisible: the girl who brought the chai, the one who cleaned, the one who stayed in the shadows. But today, you were a spectacle.
A dozen eyes fell upon you. The other girls stood across the stairs in cheap satins and heavy jewelry, their kohl-rimmed eyes tracking your every movement.
Does everyone know already? Great…
"Dekho toh zara, hamari choti pari (fairy) ko," a girl sneered, her voice dripping with false sweetness. Her gold bangles clinking as she crossed her legs. "Pehli raat, aur nakhre toh aise hain jaise poore Karachi ki malkin ban gayi ho.”
You kept your gaze downward, making sure not to interact with the other girls, but your heart hammered against your ribs.
“Uffoo” another voice called out. “Ohoo” another girl cried out.
As you walked even further down, you were met with Zoya and Meher. “Major Sahab ne toh isse apni jaidad samajh liya hai. Bechari... ya shayad khush-naseeb?" Zoya called out, loud enough for the whole room to hear.
A ripple of giggles erupted both loud and mocking. “Lagta hai sirf ek khilona ban gaye" Meher added, her eyes narrowing. "Kal jab Major Sahab bore ho jayenge, toh usko phenk deng gei."
The words stung, but you didn't respond.
You entered the dining room, where Madam Bi sat perched on her velvet chair, sipping tea from a porcelain cup. The room smelled of cheap incense and the aroma of fresh chai.
"Baitho, beti," Madam Bi said, her voice calm, gesturing to the stool across from her.
You sat, your fingers trembling as you took the cup of chai she pushed toward you.
“Madam Bi...” you started, your voice barely a whisper. “Sab aise kyun baat kar rahe hain? Yeh meri niyyat nahi thi.”
She took a big sigh.
Madam Bi then spent the next 20 minutes explaining the phone call she had with the Major. What it meant for you to be his and only his. How you will no longer have to serve ten men in a single night to make a living. You will have to serve one, in exchange for your loyalty and… your body.
But even with all those explanations, one question still churned in your head.
“Lekin, mein kyun?” you whispered, looking up at Madam Bi. “Yahan itni auratain hain... zyada khubsurat, zyada tajarba-kar (experienced). Us jaisa aadmi... mujhe hi kyun chahay gei?”
Madam Bi set her tea cup down with a soft clink, her eyes softening with a pity that felt heavier than any jewelry she wore.
"Beti," she began, her voice drifting like smoke, "kuch phool isliye nahi khilte kyunki unka waqt hai, kuch isliye khilte kyunki unka khilna kisi ek nazar ke liye maqsad hota hai.”
“Aur tumhara abhi maqsad ussi phool banne ka hai Major Sahab ki samne” she finished.
You looked out the window, where the sun still fell warm across the garden, but none of that warmth reached you. You weren't a flower to him, you were the grass he walked over to get to one.
"Tayyar rehna," Madam Bi added casually, her tone shifting back to business. "Woh aaj raat phir ayenge.”
You looked away sharply, your gaze fixing on the worn patterns of the rug beneath your feet, unable to meet anyone's eyes.
From the corner of the room, Zoya let out a dry, mocking chuckle, clearly jealous.
But one of the older women in the kitchen, who had seen a thousand men come and go through the kotha, leaned toward you.
"Ek baat yaad rakhna, choti," her eyes scanning the bruises peeking from beneath your dupatta. "Wapsi ko mohabbat samajhne ki ghalti mat karna. Woh apni zaroorat ki liye atte hain. Dil mat lagana, warna tootne ka shor sirf tumhe hi sunayi de ga."
You nodded lightly at her, yet her words carried a coldness foreign to you.
You shifted slightly, and a sharp sting shot through your lower back. You thought of your body, the tenderness between your thighs, the purple bruises, and the mental exhaustion that drove your head like a hammer against nails.
You felt broken, in a way that made you feel like you shattered. The thought of his large hands gripping you again, his mouth on your throat, his cock inside you agai-
It felt like too much. You didn't know if you had the strength to survive another night of being his doll. But in the world of the Major, "no" was a word that didn't exist, and your exhaustion was just an invitation for him to be more ruthless. You had no choice. You were a bird in a cage.
All of a sudden, the walls of the room felt like they were closing in on you. You needed to feel the wind on your face, away from prying eyes and the suffocating expectations of the house. You needed to remember that you were a person again.
With a shaky exhale, you wrapped your dupatta tightly around your shoulders and quietly slipped out of the kotha while everyone was busy to the only place that could cure your racing thoughts….
The market was a sensory overload, a chaotic scene of shouting vendors, the clatter of rickshaws, and the smell of frying pakoras and diesel. For a few moments, the noise drowned out the screaming anxiety in your head and gave you a chance to appreciate the life around you. You walked aimlessly, your gait stiff, weaving through the crowd like a ghost.
You stopped at a street cart and bought a glass of chilled mango juice. The sweetness was sickening, the ice stinging your lips, but as the cold liquid slid down your throat, you felt a small sense of peace. You watched the world go by: mothers arguing over the price of tomatoes, children chasing each other with kites, and for a second, you imagined you could be one of them, a free person.
As you turned a narrow corner, away from the main bustle, you spotted a small, discreet shop with a velvet curtain draped over the entrance. There was no sign, but you could tell it was a boutique. A women’s garment store.
Curiosity, mixed with a boldening urge, led you inside.
The moment you stepped through the door, a chime rang out, and the scent of vanilla and expensive silk swallowing you. And there, displayed on headless mannequins like sculptures of sin, was the lingerie.
You froze.
Up until now, your understanding of "undergarments" was limited to what Madam Bi provided, functional, modest pieces of cotton or the occasional net set for the higher-paying clients. But this? This was daring, translucent, and unbelievably provocative.
The garments were works of art.
Your eyes were wide as your fingertips grazed racks of fabric. You found yourself staring at a display of lace that looked more like spiderwebs than clothing. There were designs that left nothing to the imagination, strappy harnesses, sheer mesh, and cuts that dared your body to slip out.
What would he like?
The thought was as unwelcome as it was wanted.
Despite what he did to you, you still felt an urge to please the man who terrified you. You envisioned Major Iqbal’s dark eyes scanning your body like he did with your red net set. He favoured the dirty unfiltered version of lust. Would he prefer something loose that he could rip away, or something so scandalous that it provoked him further.
You imagined him seeing you in something like this, something he could unravel slowly. Heat slowly crept down your legs to meet the bruises there.
As you drifted deeper into the store, your eyes landed on a piece that stopped your heart.
It was a sheer black baby doll lingerie set. The fabric was a whisper of midnight lace, so thin it was almost translucent. It came with a matching bra, tiny, precarious pieces of lace and a thong that had a slit underneath that was little more than a string designed to hug the curve of a woman's hips.
You reached out and touched the material. It was bold. It was seductive. It was everything you weren't.
“Bohat haseen hai yeh. Bilkul aap jaisi.” a soft voice spoke beside you.
You jumped, turning to see the shopkeeper, a poised woman with an elegant bun. She looked at the piece in your hand and then at your blushing face.
“Shukriya” you answered with a soft smile.
You looked back at the sheer black fabric, the lace so delicate it felt like it might dissolve if you breathed on it too hard. For a girl who had spent her life in the shadows of Madam Bi’s house, you wanted to treat yourself to look like the woman you wanted to become. Your own act of rebellion.
“Main... main yeh lena chahti hoon” you whispered, your voice barely audible.
The shopkeeper smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes. She took the set from your hand and began folding it into a piece of gold-foiled tissue paper with practiced ease. As she worked, she leaned in slightly, her tone turning conversational.
“Aapka shauhar bada khush-naseeb hoga” she remarked softly. “Lagta unhein thodi shararat pasand hain.” Her face had a slight smile now.
Your gaze quickly dropped to your own bare toes peeking out from your sandals.
The word “husband” took you off guard, immediately sending needles through your body. Major Iqbal and marriage didn't seem like they belonged in a sentence together. You thought of him, the coldness of his eyes and how they lacked the warmth of a wife beneath them. He wasn't your husband. He was your owner, your patron, the man who took your chastity and blackened it. The idea of calling him a husband felt like a dangerous yet dazzling lie.
“Woh... woh mera shohar nahi hain” you stammered, the truth feeling heavy on your tongue.
The shopkeeper paused, her expression softening. She didn't push further, she simply smiled and slid the elegantly wrapped package across the counter. “Koi baat nahi. Aap ismein bohat haseen lageingi.”
As you walked back into the humid streets of Lyari, you clutched the package to your chest. The soreness between your thighs no longer felt like the pain of defeat, it felt like a secret. A secret you wanted to play with.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
ISI Headquarters, Karachi
Inside the conference room, no one spoke above a murmur.
Maps of Karachi were projected across the wall. Satellite images. Grainy photographs of warehouses with red circles marked around locations in Karachi were posted.
The moment the doors opened, every conversation died instantly.
Major Iqbal entered in, his stature rigid and straight exuding fear from everyone around him.
Senior officers who had been speaking moments before straightened immediately in greetings. A young female intelligence officer nearly dropping files in her hand when he passed.
"Assalam-o-Alaikum, Major Sahab." they all called out.
He acknowledged them with nothing more than the slightest inclination of his head.
"Baith jaiye." Major Iqbal ordered with a single hand gesture.
Only then did they sit. Iqbal sat at the head of the table, his dark eyes sweeping across every face before settling on the digital map projected against the wall.
A young colonel stood up and cleared his throat, ready to begin the briefings for the day.
"Major Sahab... humein maloomat milli hai ke kal raat ek container Karachi Port par utara gaya hai."
Iqbal folded his arms.
"Andar kya that?"
"Kaghzaat ke hisaab, construction machinery."
The colonel paused for a second.
"Lekin humein yaqeen hai ke asal mein usmein hathiyaar hain."
Iqbal's expression didn't change.
"Aur?"
The colonel clicked another photograph onto the screen. There was a grainy surveillance image, a single man, his face partially obscured.
"Is aadmi ka naam Rashid Qasmi hai."
Major Iqbal suddenly paused, his eyes narrowing. He recognized that man. He was one of his closest comrades during training before he turned against the agendas of ISI, becoming one of the main financiers of Lashkar-e-Jhangvi, an extremist terrorist group. Rashid Qasim was his estranged enemy.
The officer continued. "Yeh Lashkar-e-Jhangvi ke sabse bada aadmi hai. Sirf paisa nahin deta... hamlon ki planning bhi karta hai."
Iqbal looked at the photograph for only a second.
"Mujhe ise zinda chahiye."
The colonel nodded. "Ji, Major Sahab."
Another officer hesitated and quickly stood up. "Sir... ek masla hai."
Iqbal looked at him now. The man visibly swallowed.
"Pichhle do operations mein... hamari har movement pehle se leak ho gayi thi."
Iqbal's gaze hardened almost immediately.
"Matlab..."
The officer lowered his eyes. "Hamara shak hai ke... koi andar ka aadmi maloomat pohancha raha hai."
No one spoke. Iqbal slowly removed a cigar from the silver case inside his pocket. He rolled it between his fingers, he was thinking. His mind churning a million possibilities of who could be the mole.
Finally-
“Jo bhi aadmi hai, mujhe uski gardan chahiye hai”
His voice remained frighteningly calm.
"Is martaba agar khabar bahar gayi...toh mujhe dushman se zyada gaddar (traitor) mein dilchaspi hogi."
No one moved, nobody even dared clear their throat. Because if Major Iqbal even sensed a hint of hesitation from anyone, it would be their last day on the job.
Iqbal closed the file.
"Meeting khatam."
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
The hours slowly lulled into a blur. The afternoon sky bled into a crushed purple, then deepened into a deep, velvety violet that shrouded the skyline of Karachi. High above the smog, a few solitary stars flickered, completely oblivious to the thirst waking up in the city below.
When you returned back, the scent of heavy perfumes and the loud laughter of men filled the halls. You hurried to your room, locking the door behind you with a soft click. The room was dim, lit only by a single flickering lamp and a few candles.
You stood before the slightly cracked full-length mirror, your heart hammering against you.
He’ll be here soon.
Slowly, you unwrapped the tissue paper, revealing the black lace.
You stripped off your simple cotton kameez, your skin still exhibiting all the marks of the previous night’s passion.
As you slid the baby doll set over your head, the fabric felt like a cool, soft caress against your broken skin. It was a cruel joke of a garment, so sheer it felt like you were wearing nothing but a shadow. The thin lace bra pushing your breasts to their peaks, leaving the curves and dip of your waist exposed under the flare of the baby doll. Then came the thong which gave nothing but exposure. You adjusted the string, feeling the slit underneath that left you completely exposed from behind and the front. The strings were starting to slightly burn against your hypersensitive flesh but you tried to suppress it. Pain and pleasure are synonymous right.
It's only for tonight, you murmured.
You looked at yourself in the mirror. You felt like an invitation to the devil. You didn't look like the shy, invisible girl of 19 who swept the floors. You looked like something... wanted. Something desired.
Will he like it?
A sudden knock at the door made you jump, your heart leaping into your throat.
“Beti? Major Sahab aa chuke hain,” Madam Bi’s voice called out from the other side, sounding urgent.
The air in the room seemed to vanish. Your pulse quickened, a mixture of dread and anticipation. You thought of wearing something else. But you didn't have time to change. Panic surged through you, but as you looked in the mirror one last time, a spark of defiance ignited inside you. If he wanted a body, you would give him your whole self. If he wanted a toy, you would be the prettiest doll he had ever owned.
A few seconds later, you heard the floorboards groan outside.
You didn't put on your robe to cover. You simply stepped toward the door, your breathing shallow, the thin black lace barely hiding the trembling of your body.
When you opened the door, he was standing right there.
Major Iqbal didn't enter the room immediately, he stood in front for a few seconds. He was still in his suit, the navy blue fabric stretched tight across his broad shoulders, the shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar, his aviators covering his half-lidden eyes. He held a cigar in his hand, the scent of expensive cologne and musk washing over him.
But the moment his eyes fell upon you, he instantly noticed your new garment. His eyes quickly raking down your body before he brought it up again. He took a long drag of his cigar, the cherry glowing a fierce, angry red in the shadows. As he exhaled a plume of smoke to your face, he started to step towards you while having his gaze locked right at you. The polished leather of his boots clicking against the floorboard rhythmically. Your feet immediately started to move back without you thinking. He slowly stepped inside, pushing the door in front with one hand.
The click of the door closing behind him sounded like a gavel bringing a sentence down upon you. The room, already small, suddenly felt even smaller, consumed entirely by his stature.
You were trapped now.
Major Iqbal didn’t move. He stood there for a heartbeat, the cigar still clamped between his fingers, the smoke drifting up. He started scanning you from behind his aviators, his eyes frighteningly calm. It was a slow descent, starting at the crown of your head and dragging down to your lips then lower. It felt like being touched.
He watched the way the black lace of the baby doll was glued to your skin, the fabric so sheer it left no modesty to strip. His gaze found your breasts, the lace straining against the peaks of your nipples, before descending to the dip of your waist and the thin string of the thong that carved a deep valley into your hips. He didn't miss the bruises, the purple marks reminding him of his own greed from the previous night. His eyes narrowed, tracing the red marks from his fingerprints on your inner thighs all the way down to your toes curling against the cold floor.
Even though you were dressed, his gaze made you feel stripped completely naked, too exposed. You felt an urge to cover your body, but you forced your hands to stay on your sides, your fists clenching hard.
He could tell you were nervous.
He finally brought his cigar up and exhaled a slow, thick cloud of smoke that swirled around you, his voice a low vibration that seemed to rattle in your very bones.
“Bara kamal ka libhas penha hua hai”
He didn't wait for a response. He stepped forward, stopping inches away from you. His height overwhelming your senses, as you stood tiny against him, trying to look up at him. He raised his hand, and the back of fingers, warm and firm, touched your cheek.
You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut.
Slowly, with accurate precision, he dragged the back of his hand down your face, tracing the line of your jawline to the sensitive skin of your neck straight down. When he reached the bruised marks he had left there, he stayed there for a split second, his touch a teasing pressure. You winced slightly.
The trail continued, his hand gliding over the swell of your breast, barely grazing the lace, then sweeping down the flat of your stomach with an agonizing slowness that made you hold your breath still. His hand stopped exactly where the black string started, at the very top of your mound, the pressure of his knuckles grazing the start of your slit through the thin fabric.
Before you could gasp, his hand clamped around your waist with bruising force, and in one swift motion, he spun you around. Your back slammed flush against his chest, the hardness of his muscles and the cold metal of his belt pressing into your spine. Your backside was completely exposed to him, the backless thong offering nothing but exposure to every inch of him.
He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his hot breath sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
"Humari yaad aayi?"
As you froze, unable to find words, he dug his fingers into your hips even more. His other hand moved to your neck, his eyes on the bruises there. His thumb pressed lightly into the soreness. You winced, a small, broken sound escaping your throat. He didn't let go, using the pain to force you to acknowledge him.
"Jawab do" he commanded, his voice dropping an octave.
“J-...Ji.” You nodded frantically, your head rubbing back against his shoulder.
He let out a dark, satisfied hum. His hand slid down from your neck, bypassing your waist to grip your hip again, suddenly pulling you so flush and tight against him that you could feel evidence of his arousal digging into your back.
He paused, his tone shifting into something more predatory. He remembered your age, the fragile age of nineteen.
"Goli li thi?" he rumbled. His hands wandering around the expanse of your waist, dragging across your stomach.
You nodded frantically, unable to find your voice.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, his voice deep. "Main janta tha... tum is umar mein maa nahi banna chahogi. Hai na?” His lips slowly pressing wet kisses along your neck, avoiding the bruised areas, his tongue dragging slowly with his lips down your neck. His beard grazing along your throat. You were starting to feel the warmth of him radiating at you.
Without another second, his hand came sneaking down your waist to your backside and started to grope your ass. His fingers digging deep into the soft flesh of your cheek, kneading the muscle with such intensity that it bordered on bruising. Then, with a sudden tug, he hooked his fingers into your very thin g-string of your thong. He didn't pull it off this time, he instead hauled the string slowly upward, dragging the thin string deep into the sensitive curve of your heat. The lace bit into your skin, creating a searing, burning friction that sparked a jagged line of pain through the pleasure. You let out a broken whimper, your body arching against the intrusion.
Iqbal paused, his lips still on your throat, his breath hot and heavy against your ear. A knowing smile touched his lips as he felt you tighten the space on his growing bulge by arching.
"Dard ho raha hai?" he rasped, his voice a low vibration of some sick amusement. He didn't wait for an answer, enjoying the way you shivered in his grasp.
But the pain acted as a catalyst, igniting a sudden urge to take back some control. You didn't want to be used like this again, where you were at his mercy, in the unknown of what he will do to you next. In a blur of motion, you twisted your body around, now facing him to wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. You gazed at the crook of his neck, diving in to press your lips against his warm pulse point in a frantic attempt to take some piece of him back.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Before your lips could truly even graze his skin, his hand shot up, fingers tangling ruthlessly into your curls. With a sharp, sudden jerk, he snapped your head back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of your throat. The force of the movement made you gasp, your eyes wide and blinking as you stared up at him, breathless and trembling.
"Abhi se bahaduri?" he murmured, his dark eyes scanning your flushed face with an evil sort of hunger.
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a very low vibration that bordered on a whisper. "Iska anjam dena pare ga."
He released you abruptly, the sudden loss of his warmth leaving you shivering. He walked toward the heavy, mahogany chair in the corner. He sat down, sprawling his legs apart with ease, the fabric of his trousers straining against his thighs with his his bulge was fully erect.
He looked up then, his eyes dim behind the aviators he still hadn't removed.
"Yahan ao" he commanded.
You obeyed because you remembered what happened last time you didn't listen, your legs trembling, the black lace fluttering with every hesitant step.
"Ghutno par" he murmured.
Trembling, you sank to your knees, your cleavage now utterly exposed to him. The cold floorboards pressed against your skin as you crawled toward him, your movements slow, your eyes fixed on his polished boots. You felt small, stripped of everything but your desire to please the man who held your life in his hands.
From this angle, he looked like a mountain of a man. You looked up at him now, your eyes shimmering with a mixture of submission and a flickering spark of rebellion. You didn't move to touch him, you simply waited, your breath uneven waiting to see what he would do.
Iqbal leaned back, his gaze scanning your face. He noticed the way you were looking at him, not just with fear, but with a quiet defiance. It intrigued him. He liked things that resisted, it made the eventual breaking so much more satisfying.
"Badi zid hai tum mein," he remarked, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. He quickly took one of your hands and forced you palm his hard bulge now straining to fling out. He pressed your hand harder against himself.
Your hand trembled as he moved it up and down, your fingers gripping him through the expensive fabric of his trousers. You tried your best to remember how he liked it from last night, moving your hand with the rhythm that was burned in you because of him.
"Aise hi," he murmured, his eyes closing for a brief second. Realizing how quickly you learned what he liked, he reached out, his large hand gripping the back of your neck, forcing you closer until your face was inches from his lap. He slid two fingers, holding them just in front of your lips.
"Chooso" he ordered.
You froze. The command was blunt, stripping away any sense of gentleness. You felt a surge of pride, a desperate need to hold onto some shred of control. You tightened your lips, shaking your head slightly, refusing to open your mouth.
The silence stretched, tight as a wire. Iqbal’s expression didn't move, but the air around him grew colder. He didn't like being denied.
The response was instantaneous. His hand tightened on your neck, not enough to choke, but enough to steer you. In a ruthless motion, he shoved his fingers into your mouth, forcing your lips open. You let out a muffled gasp, your eyes widening as he used his fingers to touch inside, taking the interior of your mouth the same way he used for everything in his life.
He watched you struggle for a moment, your cheeks flushing a deep crimson,your tongue forced to swirl around his thick digits, before he slowly withdrew them, leaving your lips parted and glistening.
"Ab dikhao nakhre" he mocked, a dark glint in his eyes.
He reached for the fastening of his trousers. The sound of a leather belt being unbuckled echoed like a gunshot in the room. The metallic clink of the buckle was the only warning before he freed himself, his cock now straining and pulsing with a frantic beat, his veins pumping blood down his lenght. Pre-cum was glistening from his brown tip as he felt the open air on himself.
Even though you had seen his cock before, it still shook the core of you at the sight of him. So big and girthy like the man himself. Your eyes had gone wide, locked onto his throbbing cock.
He noticed the way your eyes were stuck on him, a sly smirk forming at the thought of you so mesmerized by his length, the defiance in you now gone.
He gripped the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair forcing your face upward so you had no choice but to look at him.
He gripped his cock and brought it against your lips, the heat of it kissing against your skin.
"Muh kholo" he whispered, his voice dropping to a lethal tone. As you obeyed, he pushed himself into you, forcing you to take the head of him, his hand still firmly gripping your neck, guiding the rhythm.
The sheer girth of him was a brutal invasion, he was so thick and long that he reached the back of your throat almost instantly, leaving you breathless. You started to gag, your eyes watering and red, the primal instinct to recoil fighting against the desperate need to obey. Your throat constricted, the pressure of his tip hitting the back of your throat, forcing a wet, muffled sound from your lungs.
The pressure was absolute. The gagging sounds you made didn't make him slow down, he drove himself even deeper for the rest of his length, the blunt head of his cock reached inside your throat now, triggering another violent, instinctive gag reflex. Due to his extensive length, he realized the remaining length wouldn't fit in no matter how much he pushed unless you passed out from a blocked airway. So he took both your hands and made you wrap around the rest of him near his pelvis. Your eyes squeezed shut now, the tears leaking from the corners. But for Iqbal, that struggle was the point. He liked the feeling of your throat trying to reject him, the tight pulsing of your esophagus rubbing against his tip.
He let out a low groan, his fingers tightening in your hair, anchoring you to his lap.
"Sahi se hilo," he rasped, his voice thick with heat.
You tried. You tried to mimic the motions you’d seen other girls do, but your movements were awkward, jerky, and completely stripped of rhythm. You were fumbling, your jaw aching from the girth of him, your head bobbing in a way that was more clumsy than sensual. You were a complete novice, a girl who had spent her life in the shadows, now tasked with satisfying a man who demanded perfection in every move.
Iqbal noticed. He felt the hesitation, the lack of technique, the way your lips didn't quite know how to mold around him. Amusement flickered in his eyes. He realized then, that while he had taken your virginity from the world, you were still an utter amateur to this. The thought of your inexperience made him want to teach you the art of submission, so that you can satisfy him without help.
In your struggle to find a pace, your jaw tightened, and the sharp edge of your teeth accidentally grazed the skin of his shaft.
Iqbal slightly recoiled, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth. He didn't pull away, but his grip on your hair turned bruising. He pulled your head back slightly, forcing you to look at him, his eyes warning.
"Daant nahi... zaban istemaal karo," he commanded, his voice a lethal, low vibration.
He didn't leave it to chance. He reached down, his large hand cupping your hair, and began to guide you. He moved your head in a slow, circle rhythm, forcing you to feel the exact speed and depth he craved. "Aise... haan". His other hand took your hands on the top of his length and started twisting them to match your mouth’s pace.
As he dictated the pace, you began to catch on. You stopped fighting the invasion and started submitting into it. You learned to swirl your tongue around the tip, to suck with a desperate plea that made his hips jerk slightly. The clumsiness vanished, replaced by a frantic need to please him.
Seeing the shift, Iqbal stopped guiding and started demanding more.
He gripped the back of your hair now, his fingers digging into your scalp. He began to bob your head with a ruthless speed. He wasn't being gentle, he was using you now. Each thrust was deep and violent, his length hitting the very center of your esophagus, forcing a wet, choked sound from your throat.
The sound of it, the wet slap of mouth against skin, the muffled whimpers of your struggle, and the heavy, ragged sound of his breathing filled the small room. You were drowning in him, your world reduced to the scent of his expensive cologne, the taste of salt and musk, and the feeling of his cock in your mouth.
He was close, the muscles in his thighs straining, his breath becoming uneven. He pushed you further, forcing your face deep into his lap, ignoring the way you gasped for air, wanting only the friction, the heat, and the absolute surrender of the girl beneath him.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
As the minutes went by bobbing on his cock, a few stray strands of your hair escaped, falling forward to veil your face. For a split second, the brutality paused. His large, calloused hand reached down, and with an unexpected tenderness, he tucked the hair behind your ear. The gesture was so soft, so almost loving, that it created a dizzying contrast to the ruthless pace he started up again. He was cradling your head with one hand while the other gripped your neck, his body working you over with him.
Iqbal was nearing the edge. You could feel his cock get larger, pulsing violently against your throat, the veins standing out like cords of steel.
You were drowning in him, your lungs screaming for air, your head now violently bouncing under his hands. Just as the first surge of his release hit, the intensity became too much. Your instincts took over, you wrenched your face away, gasping for air, your mouth slipping off him at the exact moment he burst.
He let out a low groan as he spent himself. Because you had pulled away, the thick ropes of his climax didn't find your throat. Instead, they splattered across the dark mahogany of the floor and splashed against your chin, a few hot droplets dripping to the curve of your jaw.
Silence fell over the room again, broken only by your ragged, sobbing breaths and steady hum of chatter coming from the other rooms. Iqbal leaned back, his chest heaving, his heavy cock smeared with cum still out. He looked down at you, kneeling, glistening with his mark and an evil grin curled his lips. It wasn't a smile of affection. He reached down, his thumb grazing your chin to slowly wipe away a streak of his cum, his eyes dark and hooded.
"Kitni haseen lag rahi ho.”
You jerked your face away from his hand in anger. The tenderness of the gesture didn't fool you, it only highlighted the power he held. He didn't offer a hand to help you up, instead he looked at the scraps of black lace you were still wearing, the fabric so soft against your body.
His gaze hardened, the hunger returning, to the rest of your body.
"Ab ye faltu kapray utaro" he commanded, his voice snapping back to the tone of a Major ordering a soldier.
You remained on your knees, shivering, the cold floorboards leaving marks on your legs. He reached out, his hand locking around your wrist. With a sudden, powerful yank, he pulled you upward. The force of it sent you stumbling forward, your legs barely supporting you as you landed squarely between his splayed thighs.
You were breathless, your chest heaving. His gaze traveling slowly from your tear-streaked face down to the swell of your breasts, held precariously by the thin straps of your baby-doll. Your cleavage was right at eye level to him.
Without warning, he buried his face in the valley of your cleavage, his nose pressing deep into your skin, inhaling you as if you were a drug he couldn't get enough of. You gasped, your hands hovering uncertainly in the air. His kisses weren't gentle, he sucked viciously at the soft skin above your breasts that will for sure leave dark, blooming marks the next day.
While his mouth remained locked on your skin, his hand wandered. He found the clasp of your bra, his fingers agile and quick.
He’s probably done this a million times.
As he worked the clip, a plea started forming in your mind. This set, this delicate, black lace, was the only thing in this house that felt like it belonged to you and not to this kotha or anyone. In this fabric, you felt a sense of beauty, a glimmer of the woman you wanted to be. You prayed, silently, that he would be careful.
Please, just this once, don't ruin it. Don't tear it.
But Iqbal was not a man of care.
As he yanked the fabric down, the lace snagged against his fingers. For a second, there was a tension, a stretch of fabric that reached its breaking point. Then, a sharp rip echoed through the room.
A small whimper escaped your lips. You looked down to see a tear running through the lace, the delicate material shredded under his strength.
He felt your tremor. He heard the heartbreak in that sound. But he didn't stop. His hand slid lower beyond the ruined babydoll, his palm grazing the curve of your stomach before his fingers hooked into the thin string of your g-string. He slowly pulled it down your hips, seeing the indents it left on your flesh.
The garment pooled at your ankles in seconds, leaving you exposed to him. You stood there, trembling and bare, the vulnerability of your position making your heart hammer.
Iqbal leaned back, his eyes hooded, scanning every inch of your shaking form.
"Ab tumhare paas chupne ke liye kuch nahi raha, na haya… na kapray” he remarked, his voice dropping.
He quickly stood up and carried you in his arms to the bed. His grip on your thighs was bruising, his fingers digging into your soft flesh as he traversed. The moment your back hit the mattress, the air left your lungs in a sharp puff.
Before you could even breathe, he was over you, his heavy frame pinning you down. His trousers were still unzipped, his cock, still slick and pulsing from the previous act, hanging heavy and menacing against his thighs.
He quickly took off his suit’s jacket, still leaving on his shirt and with a sudden movement, he seized both your ankles in one hand. The strength in his grip was a reminder of his years of warfare. He yanked your legs back, forcing your knees toward your chest, exposing every intimate fold of your being to the amber light of the room. You were wide open, your raw cunt now exposed. At his sudden movement, your cunt released invisible, clear slick sliding down your slit. And it didn't go unnoticed.
“Itni pyaas?” he questioned mockingly, his eyes dark with hunger as he stared at the glistening heat between your thighs.
He didn't go for the kill immediately. He wanted to torture you with anticipation. With his other hand, his calloused fingers traced the sensitive skin of your bruised inner thighs, moving downward with agonizing slowness. When he finally reached the center, he pressed a heavy finger deep into your folds, testing your patience even though he could clearly tell your flesh was still irritated and wounded from last night by the colour.
You let out a strangled cry, your hips jerking instinctively. You were wet, terrified, yes, but the body has its own traitorous reactions to a man like Iqbal. The slickness of your arousal only fueled his arrogance.
“Abhi se itni geeli?” he mocked, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.
He began to explore you with a ruthless curiosity. He used his fingers to stretch you, probing the tight walls of your entrance, pushing and pulling until you were sobbing into the air, it all burned so badly against you. He played with your clit with a bruising pressure, ignoring your whimpers for him to just finish it.
He takes his heavy cock suddenly and starts tapping ypur clit with the head of his cock a few times.
You couldn't take it anymore.
“Aap andar bhi dal dijiye!” you scream out impatiently, squirming under his touch. He quickly raises his hand and CRACK spanks your ass with full force. Your whole body jerked and shifted under his hand. You let out a loud cry, your eyes now teary. The spot where he slapped, now burning with tension.
“Sambhalo khud ko” he commanded. His eyes too fixated on the movement of his cock between your lips. Your slick trickled down to your other puckered hole, the sheets beneath you already getting wet.
He moves the length of his cock up and down, the head catching on your clit multiple times. Each time it goes down, he slips the tip in, then pulls it back out to repeat the cycle again. It was so agonizing and frustrating.
“Aap bohot-” you began to say.
CRACK. He slaps your ass again now. The imprint now red and pulsing on your skin.
You let out another cry.
“Meh kya? Hm?” He teases. It’s a game to him. Seeing how far he’d push you before you start yelling or crying.
Today, it was crying. He heard the sniffles first, and when he looked at you, a few tears of frustration were already falling down your cheeks. His cock twitches at the sight, a bead of precum falling right on your puffy clit.
“Kya hua jaan? Bohot zyada ho raha hai?” his voice dripping in darkness.
You nod with another sniffle as he lets go of your ankles, letting each one rest on one of his shoulders. You can finally look at his face now, your eyes glossed over with tears and need. He leans over, pushing you into a mating press, and starts kissing in the crook of your neck, pushing your head further against the pillows.
Then, he positioned himself. The head of his cock brushed against your tiny opening. Although he stretched you far beyond your limits the first time, your hole still managed to close up enough to where it was almost invisible. But Iqbal, having years of experience, knew exactly where it was hidden, caught by the deep red colour your opening developed from him railing you to madnesslast time.
He didn't ease in, with one brutal, singular thrust, he drove himself inside.
The scream that tore from your throat was muffled by his large hand. You were still too tight, too inexperienced for a man of his girth. The sensation was an overwhelming invasion, a feeling of being split apart from the inside out. Your internal muscles clamped around him in a desperate, instinctive reflex, which only made him groan with the sheer pleasure of your tightness.
“Abhi bhi tum kitni choti ho” he hissed, his muscles locking as he buried himself to the hilt.
He shifted his grip, his large palms sliding to the backs of your thighs. With a sudden surge of strength, he shoved your legs back even further, forcing your pelvis to tilt upward in a more brutal mating press. The angle was devastating. He drove his length further in using his hips, he was buried so deep that the head of his cock seemed to press against the very walls of your womb and hit all the way to your cervix.
A sharp hiss of pain escaped your lips, a sound of pure physical shock. You felt as if you were being unfolded, your body forced into a shape it wasn't meant to take. You tried to push your legs into a more easier position but his grip was unyielding, preventing you from shifting.
"Sabar karo." he murmured, having no comfort in the sound.
He began to move.
He used an assaulting rhythm, jamming himself into you. His hips slammed against yours with a loud thud, with his trousers rubbing against your inner thighs causing you to feel the burn of it. Every thrust was a blunt force trauma, a ruthless pistoning that ignored your whimpers and the way your body shuddered under the impact. He was driving into you with a singular, focused need, his jaw locked, his eyes dark with terrifying intensity.
You tried to arch your back, to find some shred of leverage and ease from the hard momentum he had going, but he caught the movement. As he pulled back, nearly exiting you completely, he reached down and delivered a stinging, open-palmed crack across your swollen ass.
The slap was so loud it seemed to echo. Your hips jolted, a sob catching in your throat, but the pain only served to heighten the electric tension between you.
"Aisi harkatein acchi nahin lagtein," he growled, his voice a guttural rasp.
He didn't give you a second to recover. He lunged back in, the friction of his girth stretching your walls to the point of agony. You were drowning in him, the way his heavy chest crushed your breasts and the way his cologne filled your lungs, stealing your breath.
As the pace accelerated, the brutality shifted into something very sensual. He started to grind, his pelvis rotating against yours, catching your clit with every heavy, sliding stroke. You began to moan, a broken, desperate sound that you couldn't control. You hated how your body was betraying you, how the very man who was breaking you was the only thing you wanted in the moment.
Iqbal felt the shift, he's always very observant of your body and what makes you tremble under him.
He increased the speed, his movements becoming a blur to you. He gripped your waist, his fingers leaving deep, purple crescents in your soft flesh, anchoring you so he could drive himself into you with everything he had.
Suddenly, he shifted.
With a grunt of effort, he gripped your waist and flipped your body over in one fluid motion. Your face was shoved hard into the pillows, the scent of old roses and dust filling your nostrils as you were pinned face-down. Your hips were hoisted high, your curly hair covering your upper back, your spine arching in a forced, vulnerable curve that left you completely exposed from behind.
He didn't pull out, he still remained buried deep within you, the thick length of him stretching you in a different way in this new position.
He looked down at the sight before him: your pale skin against the crumpled sheets, and your backside, flushed a deep, angry crimson from his palms, now tilted upward like an invitation. The sight of those red marks, his marks triggered something sick inside him. He got one hand and held your ass, palming to capture the flesh hard.
The first thrust from behind was overwhelming. Because of the angle, he hit your cervix with a blunt, bruising force that made your toes curl and a cry escape your throat. He began to pound into you with a ruthless precision hitting the exact spot he found last night, his large hands gripping your hips so hard he was practically lifting you off the mattress with every strike.
Slup. Slup. Slup
The sound of his pelvis hitting yours was the only thing ringing in his ears. all your sobbing and whimpering was muffled by the giant pillows stuffed in your face. Every time you tried to crawl forward, or escape the depth of him inside, he would yank you back by the hips, forcing you to take every inch of him.
"Kahan ja rahi ho?" he growled, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your shoulder blade. "Abhi saza baaqi hai."
The friction was becoming unbearable. As he continued the assault, his grip shifted from your hips to your hair, wrapping the strands around his fist and pulling your head back just enough to expose the nape of your neck.
He watched the way your muscles quivered, the way your breath came in short, broken hitches. He didn't want this to end quickly. He wanted to savour the way you felt under him, the way you made his inner most darkest wants come out.
He leaned his full weight onto you, crushing you into the mattress, his movements becoming pulverizing. At that moment, for you the world narrowed down to the point of impact. The sound of skin hitting skin, the smell of sweat and his tobacco, and the haunting presence of Major Iqbal, looming over you, demanding your absolute surrender.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆
The hours that followed were not measured by the clock, but by the degrees of your exhaustion. Major Iqbal did not operate on mercy, he operated on his presing drive. And his drive was a landslide, a surge of testosterone that no single release could quiet. Every time he finished, filling you with ropes of cum that made your insides pulse, he didn’t leave. He stayed on top, his heavy chest crushing your lungs, his heartbeat thumping against your spine, until the friction of your own slickness brought him back to a rigid, pulsing hardness.
He moved you like a doll, rearranging your limbs into positions that felt unnatural, almost impossible. He dragged you to the edge of the bed, then to the middle, to the headboard then the edge again. He forced your eyes open as exhaustion came over you, his thumb pressing into your cheek to keep your gaze locked on his, watching the light fade into a glazed, mindless haze of pleasure and pain.
There was something profoundly primal about the way he worked. He didn't just fuck, he used. A body to him was a body to rupture according to his whims. He was a man who had spent a lifetime suppressing his tension in the field, only to let it all leak out in the bedroom.
By the third hour, your body felt as though it no longer belonged to you, it belonged to the Major. Your voice had grown hoarse from screaming which only seemed to fuel his appetite. You were utterly spent, a ruined thing vibrating with a level of overstimulation that made even the touch of the air feel like a knife cutting into you.
Eventually, the storm subsided.
Major Iqbal sat back against the headboard now, a sheen of sweat coating his sculpted chest and forehead. He didn't bother looking at you, instead, he reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. The glow of the ember illuminated the sharp lines of his face and the shadows reflected on his aviators.
You were curled on your side, facing away from him, your body a map of fresh red marks and old purple blooms. The heavy duvet was pulled up to your chest, shielding your nakedness from his piercing gaze. You felt small, shattered, and extremely tired, your breath coming in shallow hitches.
As you shifted slightly, a strand of your curly hair slid aside, exposing the pale, delicate curve of the back of your neck.
As his gaze swept over you, his eyes locked onto something.
There, cutting through the softness of your skin, was a jagged, silvered line, a scar that didn't belong on a girl of nineteen.
Iqbal’s eyes, trained by years of war to spot the smallest disturbance, caught it instantly. He had spent decades analyzing wounds, bullet holes, shrapnel tears, torture. He knew the difference between an accident and assault. And he saw that there was violence etched in your scar.
Without a word, he reached out. His large, rough hand: the same hand that had bruised your hips, touched your most intimate flesh, slowly traced the line of the scar with a surprising tenderness.
The moment his finger touched the mark, you jerked away with a sudden flinch. You scrambled to pull your hair over your shoulder, desperate to hide the imperfection, to shield the evidence of your shame from his judging eyes. You felt wretchedly insecure.
"Kyun chhupa rahi ho?" he murmured. His eyebrows furrowed together.
You kept your back to him, your voice a fragile whisper. "Kuch nahi...aap fikhar na karein.”
He didn't use force this time, but he was firm in the way he reached out and gripped your shoulder, slowly rotating you around until you were forced to face him.
He didn't let go. He hooked his fingers into the curls of your hair and pulled them away from your neck, exposing the scar once more. He raised one of his eyebrows, his dark eyes scanning the mark with intense focus.
"Ye kaise hua?" he demanded.
You tried to look away, but his grip was holding. "Main theek hoon, Major Sahab. Please..."
"Batao," he commanded. The word wasn't a request, it was an order.
You didn't want his pity, and more than that, you didn't want him to know the ugliness of the world you had come from before Madam Bi. But the vulnerability of the scar, combined with your exhaustion stripped away your defenses, and you finally broke. You pulled your knees up to your chest, curling into a ball of trembling flesh, and the words spilled out like a wound opening up.
"Mere... mere waalid" you whispered, your voice cracking. "Wo... jab nashe mein hote thhe... unhone ek tooti hui sharab botal se… mara tha.”
You closed your eyes, the memory of the cold glass and the heat of the blood gushing out flashing vividly in your mind.
Major Iqbal was listening closely, his full attention to you, his eyes suddenly holding a warmth you saw for the first time. His silence urging you to go on.
You then told him about the house that felt like a prison, the screams that were ignored by the neighbors, and the ugly day you were finally sold to Madam Bi. You spoke of the void where a childhood should have been, the way you had learned to be invisible just to survive.
The warm dim light highlighted his dark eyes under the aviators, staring deep in your glassy ones.
Iqbal didn't speak. He was a man of violence, but he recognized a soft spirit in the brokenness of your soul. He saw the flicker in your eyes, the same flickering light of a survivor who had seen the abyss and decided to keep breathing.
A surprising wave of sympathy washed over him. He reached out, his large hand cupping the back of your head, pulling you against his chest.
"Tum bohat mazboot ho," he muttered against your hair, his voice devoid of its usual amusement.
He had broken you tonight for pleasure, but the thought of someone else breaking you out of cruelty stirred something strange within him.
For a moment, you weren't a transaction. You weren't a body for him after midnight. You were a woman who carried burdens and he was a man who understood the weight.
For the first time, you heard the steady beat of his heart. It was a powerful sound, a drumbeat of life and strength that seemed to pull you to the earth. You closed your eyes, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, the hardness of his muscles against your cheek.
He wrapped his heavy arm around you, pulling you flush against his side, shielding you from the world outside the room. He pressed a soft, almost subconscious kiss to the top of your head.
"Ab tum yahan ho" he murmured, his voice a deep, comforting rumble that vibrated through your entire being. “Koi tumhein dobara nuqsaan nahi karega bina meri ijazat ke.”
In the dim light of the room, the Major was no longer your captor, and you were no longer the prey. For one fragile second, the sin was forgotten, and all that remained was two broken souls finding a strange, silent comfort in the wreckage of each other.
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1:00 PM
Madam Bi’s Kotha
The sunlight in Lyari never truly felt bright, it was always filtered through dust and the city’s noise. But as you stirred awake, the light felt different. It was soft, dancing across the ceiling in golden slivers. You woke up slowly, your body humming with a dull, heavy ache. You didn't know when you fell asleep in his arms and when he left, you barely felt anything once you blacked out on his chest.
You suddenly remembered the weight of his arm around you, his voice against your hair, the kiss on your head and the terrifyingly beautiful promise he made. For a few hours, he had become a protector, and that change had left a warmth in your chest that no amount of physical pain could extinguish, like a flickering candle in the dark, blooming in your chest.
You shifted under the sheets, feeling the sticky residue of his finish inside you, and a shiver ran through you. It was a confusing feeling, to crave the touch of the man who had treated your body with such savagery.
As you sat up, the duvet sliding down to reveal the blossoms of purple and red on your skin, your eyes caught something on the vanity.
Three oversized, obsidian black boxes, tied with pink silk ribbons in perfect bows that looked like they belonged in a high-end boutique. Your breath paused. You slid out of bed, your legs trembling slightly as you walked toward them.
The boxes were from a label so exclusive that only the elite of the elite women ever bought from them. You carefully untied the ribbon, the silk sliding through your fingers like water, and opened the lid. Inside, nestled in layers of champagne coloured tissue paper, was a midnight black baby doll set of the finest silk and French lace. It was so delicate and beautiful, it looked like an elevated version of the one you wore.
You opened the second, then the third. A deep, blood red set that matched your crimson lips you had on the first time he saw you, and a pale ballerina pink silk set that looked like a rose in spring. Each set came with a matching, floor-length silk robe that was as soft as the feathers on a swan.
A small, choked sob escaped your throat. You remembered the sound of the black lace ripping under his grip last night, the tear of fabric as he stripped you. He had noticed. He had remembered how you looked when it tore.
Then, you saw it.
Lying flat on the bedside stand, held down by his heavy ashtray, was a thick stack of crisp 1,000 rupee notes. Twenty thousand. A sum that could feed a dozen families in Lyari for a month, left there as if it were mere pocket change. It was a staggering amount, far more than the standard rate Madam Bi would have collected for your time.
You stared at the money, then back at the lace.
A hot, prickling sensation rose in your cheeks. You knew who Major Iqbal was to the world, a man of blood and iron, a commander who broke souls and crushed enemies. To the girls of the kotha, he was a monster that left them bruised and breathless.
But to you, the brutality of the night before began to mix in with a confusing, overwhelming tenderness. He had used you yet he had also shielded your soul with a gentleness you didn't know he possessed.
You knew you were playing a dangerous game. You were a girl sold into a house of sin, and he was a man who bought his pleasure by the hour. But as you pressed your face into the silk, a small, traitorous smile touched your lips.
