Discover Top Posts Tagged with #dsge2026

Baarish

Uzair baloch x reader *⁠.⁠✧

This one shot is my entry for the 'Dhurandhar secret santa gift exchange' event by @dhurandharsecretgiftexchange!! You are a diva for organizing this event!! Kudos to you 🌷🥳

Prompt by and written for @sweetestsummer 💜

A bestfriends to lovers arc between Uzair Baloch and reader/OC, both being oblivious idiots. A jealous Uzair tries his best to deal with his feelings, but ends up having an angry rain confession!

Special thanks to @obsessedwidskincare for helping me figure out the whole plot (more like she gave me the whole plot 😭) and @kamalkafool for making the plot better by her input!!

THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. IT IN NO WAY OR FORM ROMANTICIZES, PROPOGATES OR JUSTIFIES THE ACTS OF CHARACTERS OR ANY REAL LIFE PERSONALITY. IT IS SOLELY WRITTEN IN CONTEXT OF THE CHARACTERS OF THE MOVIE.

Your friendship with Uzair Baloch was a knowledge as common as the fact that rehman dakaiti ki di hui maut badi kasainuma hoti hai. It all started when you were in highschool- you were one of the best in your class but only second in maths to uzair, honestly you despised him for being better at math than you. You prayed for him to score less or worse better fail once so you could be the undisputed topper. However you did not expect the way your wish was about to play off.

#dhurandhar #dhurandhar secret gift exchange 2026 #dhurandhar secret gift exchange #dsge2026 #dsge #Uzair baloch fluff #Uzair baloch x reader #Uzair baloch x reader fluff #dhurandhar fanfiction #dhurandhar fan fiction #dhurandharsecretgiftexchange2026 #dhurandharsecretsantagiftexchange2026

Mr. Obvious (Gurbaaz Singh/Pinda x Reader) (Part 1/4)

summary: your boyfriend is utterly perfect in every conceivable way, save for one minor flaw. the man is not subtle in the slightest.

word count: 2.8k words

author’s note: Happy “dhurandhar secret gift exchange” days to all those who celebrate 🩷✨. To begin with, I’ll like to applaud @dhurandharsecretgiftexchange for taking up such a wonderful initiative and managing the distribution of the prompts so well 🙇🏻‍♀️♥️. Miss ma’am has worked HARD and it takes a whole other level of patience to oversee such an event 🙆🏻‍♀️💕. This is dedicated to @gehra-hua / @geometric-circle 🌷💕! I hope I was able to deliver what you had envisioned 😭🙇🏻‍♀️🤲🏻. It was such a cute prompt and I absolutely loved working on this mini-series because I got to give the Rangi family the happily ever after that they deserved. Special mention to @obsessedwidskincare 🙆🏻‍♀️💕, because on god I was crying in her DMs everyday like a petulant child about how the series wasn’t coming along how I wanted it to and she consoled me every damn time 😭🫂 and ofc my favourite Pinda co-wife @cherryyelixir 💐✨🫵🏻, the apple of my eyes fr fr 🫂🥹🥰. Happy reading y’all ♥️✨💋!

Part 2 — Part 3

prompt: Jassi's suspicions about pinda and reader's secret relationship is proven right when he talks to pinda about a suitable match for reader's wedding and watches him squirm... later, pinda confesses the truth & jassi acts hurt/angry about it before finally agreeing... time skip— some jija-sala bonding maybe + jassi being the sweetest mamu to reader's kids.

Divider by @/olenvasynyt

#gurbaaz singh x reader #pinda x reader #gurbaaz singh #pinda #dhurandhar #dhurandhar the revenge #udaybir sandhu #desiblr #desi fiction #desi tumblr #dhurandhar fandom secret gift exchange #dhurandharsecretsantagiftexchange2026 #dsge2026

Panaah - Part 2

A Rehman Dakait x Reader fic Masterlist a/n: part 2 is here! written for @mainyahaankyunhoon <3, event organised by @dhurandharsecretgiftexchange This fic is VERY canon divergent. It is solely based on Akshaye Khanna’s portrayal of Rehman Dakait in the movie Dhurandhar and has nothing to do with the gangster Rehman Dakait in any way, shape or form. I sincerely hope he is being tortured in the worst way possible, wherever he is. Rest of the notes are at the end! PART 1 | PART 3

Monsoon in Lyari was a disaster cloaked as a season.

The first few showers were welcome — rain washing away the grime on streets that had faced the unforgiving sun for a few months prior, children running outside during the afternoons solely to jump into puddles, adults finally travelling outside without a paper fan in their pockets.

The town would celebrate it the first week, and then, the skies would show their true form — an unrelenting downpour that would destroy the very foundations of life. The streets would begin disappearing beneath muddy water, drains would clog, electricity would become a fond memory, and every conversation in town would somehow circle back to the weather. The roads would be flooded, and when the water finally retreated, it usually left behind enough potholes to swallow a small adult whole. Shopkeepers complained about flooded storefronts, factory workers complained about transport, mothers complained about children returning home soaked to the bone, and politicians complained about everything except the drainage systems they had promised to fix every election cycle.

Rehman watched the rain from the haveli, watching the water create a small pool on the verandah. The boys were inside; Uzair had retired to his room to ‘sleep’, even though he was pretty sure that bufoon was writing love letters to a girl from Clifton who wasn’t aware of his existence, Donga and Siyahi were playing a game of chess, screaming at Akhlaaq whenever the latter tried to distract them, and Rehman himself was sipping on whiskey, both grateful to have finished work before the season began and worried for the raw materials that had to reach the factory. But this wasn’t his first monsoon, and, as he relaxed on his armchair, he knew that he would be able to overcome any challenge the rain posed.

Sometimes, Rehman thought, as his mind drifted to thoughts of the displaced international delivery, being in politics wasn’t such a bad idea. The connections, the power, the wealth… he had them as the head of his gang, if one could even call it that, but he knew his influence would extend all over Karachi if he chose to enter politics. It had been a thought for a while now, creeping into his mind like a little devil in the dark, and while he chose to dismiss it at first, the idea had taken root, and he saw no reason why it would be a horrible choice.

His thoughts were interrupted by Uzair walking into the office with a bunch of flies.

“Soya nahi?” Rehman asked, rummaging his pocket for a lighter.

He huffed. “Kaise so sakta? Baarish meri khidki par zor se pat-pat karti hai, aur aap jaante hain mujhe sone ke liye khamoshi chahiye.”

“Burger baccha.” Rehman chuckled. “Pandrah saal pehle tu bina kambal terrace pe sota tha, aur ab tujhe teri room mein khamoshi chahiye. Wah.”

The younger man rolled his eyes, too used to his antics to take any of his words to heart. He dropped a few files onto the desk before turning to leave.

“School band kar diya?” Rehman asked absentmindedly, eyes still fixed on the rain battering the windows.

Uzair paused and turned towards him again. Rehman had never enquired about this before, and it was so surprising that it took him a second to realise Rehman meant the school next to the haveli. “Shayad. Bohot saare schools bachchon ko ghar bhej rahe hain.”

Rehman nodded in response and placed his cigarette between his lips, turning his attention back to the paperwork scattered across the desk. Outside, the rain continued its assault on the town, drumming relentlessly against the factory roof. Now and then, a call would come in about another flooded road or a vehicle stuck somewhere unfortunate enough to have encountered one of Lyari's newly formed lakes. By mid-afternoon, even the workers had stopped pretending the weather would improve.

The school next to the haveli wasn't faring much better, from what he could tell. He'd caught glimpses of teachers moving children between classrooms from the window of his bedroom, and at one point, a section of the outer boundary wall had partially collapsed under the weight of the rain-soaked earth. Nothing catastrophic, but enough to send administrators into a panic. By now, most parents had probably collected their children, even though it had been barely an hour since classes started, and taken them home over almost impassable roads.

Half an hour passed.

Rehman had just signed the last file on his desk and returned to the verandah of the haveli when movement beyond the gates caught his eye. At first, he paid it no attention. People were still rushing through the rain despite the weather. Then the figure stumbled, nearly disappearing behind a sheet of water before reappearing again.

It was small.

Familiarly small.

Too small to be walking alone in this weather.

Rehman frowned and dashed down the stairs, ignoring Donga and Siyahi’s stares.

The child pushed through the gates a second later, school uniform plastered to his skin, backpack hanging off one shoulder, shoes squelching with every step. Water dripped from his hair into eyes that were red from either rain or tears. A few leaves were stuck in his hair, and his body was shivering, like even the smallest gust of wind could knock him over.

“Ayaan?”

Rehman was out before the name had fully slipped from his mouth, not caring about the rain or the fact that his cigarette had fallen somewhere behind him. Water immediately soaked through his clothes as he crossed the courtyard in a few long strides, trying to get to the little boy who had absolutely no business being soaked to the bone in the torrential rain.

Up close, Ayaan looked even worse. The boy was shivering so violently his teeth were chattering, his hair plastered to his forehead, and his tiny fingers were clenched around the straps of his backpack with a desperation that made something unpleasant twist in Rehman's chest.

He didn’t say a thing — years of caring for Uzair had taught him that — just picked the boy up and trudged towards the house, somehow managing to make it within a few seconds. Ayaan was still shivering in his arms, his tiny hands clutching his kurta so hard there was probably a tear in the fabric, but Rehman didn’t care.

“Akhlaaq, garam doodh!” he barked to his cook. “Donge, towel. Aur Uzair,” he turned to look at his cousin, who was staring at him like he had grown a tail, “tere purane kapde. Zaroorat padegi.”

No one moved.

“Sunai nahi diya kya?”

The spell immediately broke.

Akhlaaq nearly collided with a chair in his hurry to reach the kitchen. Donga disappeared inside the haveli at a speed Rehman didn't think the man had, and Uzair finally blinked himself back to reality before shooting off up the stairs like he was possessed by a jinn that was infinitely scarier than SP Aslam himself.

Rehman looked at Ayaan again and wordlessly led him to the bathroom, pocketing his phone from the table where he had left it. The boy was still trembling, and, as soon as Rehman caught the towel Donga threw to him, he crouched in front of Ayaan.

“Ammi ki number yaad hai?”

He nodded.

“Call karega?”

He nodded again and shakily reached for Rehman's phone, small fingers trembling as they pressed against the screen. To his credit, he managed not to cry, even though his eyes were suspiciously red as he carefully typed in a number he had clearly memorised.

Rehman glanced at the digits appearing one by one and frowned.

The sequence felt oddly familiar.

Not familiar enough to place immediately, but familiar enough to nag at the back of his mind as the call connected and the phone began to ring.

~~~~~~

Several flooded roads away, you were currently learning that panic could, in fact, get worse.

Khanani had become unreasonable. His brother was barely in the picture, but you were sure he was a better employer, for which boss would refuse to let a mother go to check on her child in the rain because a plan for the next press conference had not been drafted? It could have been done later. You would’ve finished it by that night anyway. Why did he feel the need to have you in that godforsaken, cramped office with petrichor entering your nostrils while you worried about how your son was going to manage?

You had just requested — desperately pleaded, rather — the rickshaw driver to go a little faster, despite you knowing there was little he could do in this hellhole of a road, where there were more potholes than uninterrupted stretches, when your phone started buzzing.

You took it out of your handbag and frowned.

It was an unknown number.

So it wasn’t Rukhsaar ma’am calling. Or even the principal. Or any of his teachers. Or the health room in the school. Or the nearest hospital.

And if it wasn’t any of them, the number was not important

You ignored it at first. Being Khanani’s political advisor, you got many of his calls, from others like you asking to arrange something for a rally, a conference or a meeting, and many of them were also spam callers who had no other job but to make your life miserable and your phone bill more expensive.

But something about this number stopped you in your tracks. You were known for having a great memory — and you had seen this number in Khanani’s phone when it rang during a meeting, so it couldn’t be a contact he was unaware of. But why would he give your number to a random person? All phone number sharing was done with your explicit consent, since he knew you wouldn’t pick up your phone otherwise.

You stared at the screen, counting five more rings. If someone called beyond the threshold of seven rings, it was usually something important. Most scammers gave up long before that, and colleagues learned quickly that whatever crisis they thought they had could survive half an hour without you. Right now, your only concern was Ayaan, and everyone else could quite frankly wait until you had him safely in your arms again.

It kept ringing.

Your thumb hovered over the decline button.

Khuda, who was this persistent?

With a sigh, you swiped to answer, already preparing to tell some unfortunate soul that no, Khanani's next political moves were not more important than your child.

“Hello?” you snapped, not bothering to hide the irritation in your voice. “Dekhiye, agar yeh—”

“Ammi?”

The world stilled.

You had expected anything, really. Maybe a scammer who was calling to get their commission. Maybe Khanani’s new intern who had no clue what had to be done. Maybe his accountant was calling from a changed number to remind you that the people of Lyari knew about the money laundering and that you had to find a way to suppress it.

But you hadn’t expected your baby.

Was he alright? Where was he? Was he hurt? Had something happened at school? Had someone taken him? You knew some people had probably seen him march into the Baloch haveli two months ago, but surely no one was depraved enough to use that against a five-year-old. Pappu and his men had many faults, but kidnapping children?

No.

No no no no no.

“Ayaan?” you replied, a tremor going through your voice. “Kahan ho? Kiska phone—”

“Rehman uncle ka. Main—”

Your heart stopped.

Why was your son there? Did he not take your warning to heart? Had they taken him? You knew Rehman Dakait and Khanani were business partners of sorts, but he wouldn’t take your son if they had a row, would he? Ayaan was crying too — you could tell from his voice, the sniffles he was trying so hard to suppress — and the flooded roads, the rain, the school, even Khanani himself, faded into irrelevance as pure, primal terror gripped your heart.

“Ammi?”

The small voice on the other end cracked.

And just like that, all rational thought deserted you.

Nothing mattered.

Not your job.

Not Khanani.

Not the storm.

Not even the fact that your son was somehow calling you from Rehman Dakait's phone.

“Ayaan,” you breathed, your voice shaking so violently you barely recognised it. “Beta, tum theek ho? Kya—Kyun—”

He sniffled on the line and burst into tears.

“Aap aa rahe hai na?”

Something inside you twisted so violently that it physically hurt. It didn't matter that he was in a stranger’s house. It didn't matter that he had gone against your instructions and left the school premises. Your son was crying. Your son was scared. Your son, who had spent the last year learning that people left and sometimes didn't come back, was asking if you were coming for him — and somewhere beneath the panic and guilt, you hated yourself for having put that uncertainty in his voice in the first place.

“Main aa rahi hu, jaan, main aa rahi hu,” you said immediately, fighting the tears threatening to spill over. “Bas thoda sa aur intezaar kar, okay? Ammi aa jaayegi.”

The sobs reduced slightly.

“Mera sher hai na tu?”

Ayaan's voice came back shaky, punctuated by little hiccups. “Haan.”

“Brave hai?”

“Haan.”

“Toh ab Rehman Uncle ko phone do, aur unse ek towel maango. Phir dry-dry karke naye kapdon mein aakar baahar baitho. Main aa rahi hu, theek hai? Kahin mat jaana.”

“Pakka promise?”

It took all your willpower not to sob on the phone.

“Pakka promise.”

A pause.

Then, with all the solemnity a five-year-old could muster, he declared, “Theek hai.”

A moment later, you heard some shuffling, followed by a very indignant:

“Rehman Uncle, Ammi keh rahi hai towel do.”

You chuckled on the line despite the rain soaking through your hair as the rickshaw attempted to rush through the crowded Lyari streets, patiently waiting for your son to hand the phone to Rehman Dakait — you ignored how the thought seemed strangely alright now, considering Ayaan was definitely safe — and guided him through a few more instructions on where to put his soaked uniform once Rehman uncle gave him his towel.

A minute later, you were on the line with the man himself.

“Ji main Rehman bol raha hu,” he started, his voice much calmer than you felt. “Ayaan theek hai, bas baarish mein bheeg gaya tha. School ki deewar ka ek hissa gir gaya tha. Bachche ghar chale gaye, aur pata nahi kaise yeh janab yahan aa gaye. Darne ki koi baat nahi hai, woh bilkul theek hai.”

“Main aa rahi hu.” You swallowed, reverting to the habits of a mother whose child had just spent hours in the rain. “Usko kapde badalna aata hai, bas use garam haldi doodh pila dijiye, ek chamach cheeni ke saath. Aur please uska baal sukha dijiyega. Bukhar nahi hai na?”

You could tell Rehman was checking your child’s temperature.

“Nahi, vaisa lagta nahi hai. Use kuch medicines chahiye kya?”

“Dawaai mere paas hai,” you replied, glad Ayaan hadn’t fallen sick yet. It was inevitable, but he would be at home before his temperature rose. “Aap bas usko doodh dijiye. Aur agar kitchen mein soup ho toh thoda woh bhi please, shukriya.”

“Haan, fridge mein thoda hai.”

“Theek hai, voh dijiye. Main aa rahi hu. Aur kuch bhi ho jaaye, mujhe call kijiyega.”

There was silence.

Then, with something suspiciously close to amusement in his voice, Rehman replied,

“Ji, doctor sahiba. Aaram se aaiye.”

A pause, and the line clicked dead.

~~~~~~~

Rehman kept the phone down and turned to face the little vixen, whose face was clearing up at an alarming speed. His eyes were still red from all the crying, but the panic was clearly subsiding, and that was enough for him to know that Ayaan was finally returning to the bubbly boy he was when he first walked through the gates of the haveli.

Donga knocked on the door and slipped a towel in, wisely deciding that entering without permission was an excellent way to shorten his lifespan. Rehman muttered a distracted thanks before kneeling in front of Ayaan again.

“Chal,” Rehman sighed, draping the towel over the tiny head and rubbing vigorously despite Ayaan's indignant protests. “Doctor sahiba ki hukum hai. Pehle dry-dry karte hain, phir doodh piyenge.”

Behind the closed door, he could hear hurried footsteps, servants rushing about, and Uzair loudly arguing with Akhlaaq over whether a child who had survived a monsoon deserved one biscuit or five.

Idiots. How were they supposed to have families of their own if they didn’t know the basics of children’s food needs?

He rubbed Ayaan's head until he was reasonably confident that whatever water remained would surrender to the ceiling fan eventually, then stood up with a satisfied grunt. The boy, now wrapped in a towel that made him resemble an irritable burrito, sniffled once more and blinked up at him with watery eyes.

“Ab tum apne body ko dry-dry karo, main ek bada kapda lekar aata hu. Theek hai?”

Ayaan nodded, and Rehman left the bathroom, shutting the door behind him before barking at Uzair to stop laughing and hand over one of his old kurtas. The younger man, still entirely too amused by the sight of Rehman playing nursemaid, surrendered a plain white one with the solemnity of a man giving a prop to the side character of a roadside skit.

A few minutes later, Rehman knocked lightly and slipped the garment through the door.

“Khud pehen lega?”

“Haan.”

Rehman didn’t believe him at first, fully intending to slip in if he didn’t manage to wear it in five minutes, or, worse, if a crash came from the bathroom. To the boy's credit, however, he apparently could. There was a great deal of shuffling, a muffled ‘uff’, and something made of plastic falling to the floor, but eventually the bathroom door creaked open.

Rehman blinked.

The kurta absolutely drowned him.

The sleeves — short sleeves for Uzair — nearly swallowed the kid’s arm, the collar hung somewhere near one shoulder, and the hem swept the floor, already wet from where Ayaan had stepped onto the tiles with damp feet. His hair was sticking up in strange directions despite Rehman's best efforts, and his tiny face looked comically serious, as though he had just completed an operation of national importance.

For one ridiculous second, Rehman was reminded of a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes.

And then Ayaan looked up hopefully.

“Achha lag raha hu?”

Before Rehman could answer, Uzair walked up to him and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Main Uzair hu, aur aap bilkul acche lag rahe hai. Shezaade jaise.”

Ayaan's eyes widened immediately.

“Shezaade jaise?”

“Haan,” Uzair nodded. “Bilkul.”

The boy looked down at himself, taking in the absurdly oversized kurta, before frowning.

“Lekin shezaadon ke paas crown hota hai.”

Rehman was going to use that moment to give Ayaan his milk, but before he or anyone else could do anything, Siyahi gasped dramatically from the pillar he was leaning against.

“Maaf kijiye, huzoor! Hum abhi lekar aate hain!” he cried, bowed to Ayaan till his head almost touched the floor, and took off towards the storage room.

Rehman had barely opened his mouth to ask where on earth he was going when Siyahi returned with what looked suspiciously like a piece of cardboard cut into something vaguely crown-shaped. It was crooked, uneven, and had probably been assembled in under forty-five seconds, but the boy handled it with the pride of a master craftsman as he carefully placed it on Ayaan's head.

“Shehenshaahon ka shehenshah, Lyari ka badshah, Ayaan zindabad!” Siyahi declared, punching a fist into the air like a royal herald announcing the arrival of an emperor.

“Zindabad!” Uzair echoed immediately.

Everyone joined in, even Akhlaaq yelling from the kitchen before emerging with a wooden spoon held against his chest like a ceremonial sword. Between them, they escorted the newly crowned king to the comfiest armchair in the sitting room with all the pomp and dignity of a coronation, each man bowing so dramatically that Ayaan dissolved into another fit of giggles. Praises were showered the various feats ‘King’ Ayaan had accomplished, including but not limited to: defeating a rival king while riding a unicorn, flying over the Arabian Sea to defeat a sea monster and using the power of his magical cricket bat to win a game for Pakistan. Ayaan listened with rapt attention, interrupting only to correct minor historical inaccuracies.

“Nahi,” he frowned. “Unicorn white tha.”

“Maaf kijiye huzoor,” Siyahi said gravely. “Unicorn white tha.”

By then, Uzair had disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a steaming mug of milk, which he placed carefully into the little king's hands. “Hamaare badshah ke liye mazboot magic doodh!” he bowed with a flourish, making Rehman raise his eyebrow.

Ayaan obediently took a careful sip, then looked up with a small, satisfied smile. “Achha hai.”

“Bas achha?” Uzair asked, clutching his chest in mock offence.

The boy giggled. “Bohot achha.”

“Ab baat bani.”

“Thank you, Uzair bhaiya,” Ayaan said after he downed the entire glass, and Uzair looked unbearably pleased with himself.

Rehman, who had been observing the ridiculous exchange, immediately straightened. He was completely fine with housing a little kid in his house and letting everyone play with him; indeed, many of them had never had proper childhoods themselves, any semblance of innocence taken away after facing Lyari’s unforgiving streets, ones that taught you that if you had to survive, you had to be ready to sacrifice your childhood, even if you didn’t understand that sacrifice fully. He was one of them, and he had faced many insults in life, but somehow, this one, even though it was said in jest, surprised him the most. “Bhaiya?”

Ayaan looked at him innocently. “Haan.”

“Aur main?”

“Rehman Uncle.”

A look of profound betrayal crossed Rehman's face. “Main uncle aur yeh bhaiya?”

Uzair burst into laughter so suddenly that he had to grab the back of a chair for support. “Sun liya sabne?” he wheezed. “Budha ho gaya.”

Rehman’s cheeks turned pink. “Chup kar.”

“Nahi, Rehman Uncle.”

That was all it took. Donga laughed loud enough to startle himself, Siyahi nearly dropped the cardboard scraps still clutched in his hand, and even Akhlaaq had to retreat into the kitchen before he dropped the potato he was peeling.

Still grumbling under his breath, Rehman watched as Ayaan finished the last of his milk.

“Soup piyega?” Akhlaaq called from the kitchen, and Rehman knew he was all glees behind the glass wall, comfortable in the knowledge that Rehman wouldn’t murder him for laughing with a child.

The boy nodded enthusiastically.

A few minutes later, he was perched regally on his armchair once more, cardboard crown slightly askew, oversized sleeves rolled almost to his elbows, happily slurping spoonful after spoonful of hot soup while the entire household looked on, like feeding Lyari's proclaimed king was the most important task of the day.

It was in the middle of that peaceful, ridiculous scene that the front door burst open with enough force to make everyone look up.

You stood in the doorway, drenched from head to toe, chest rising and falling so violently that for a brief second, Rehman wondered whether you had run the entire way from wherever you were. Rainwater pooled beneath your sandals, your dupatta clung uselessly to your shoulders, strands of hair plastered across your forehead, and your eyes, wide and frantic from fear, searched the room like you were trying to find an elixir that would push life back into your lungs.

They found Ayaan.

The bowl of soup hit the table before the boy had even realised you'd arrived.

“AMMI!”

He scrambled off the armchair, cardboard crown tumbling onto the carpet as he sprinted across the room.

You met him halfway.

Rehman had seen mothers hug their children before. He had seen fathers throw sons into the air after winning cricket matches. He had seen families reunited after prison sentences, hospital stays, and funerals.

The scene in front of him was none of those.

You dropped to your knees so abruptly they struck the marble floor with an audible crack, arms wrapping around Ayaan with such force that the child squeaked. “Allah ka shukr...” you whispered into his damp hair, over and over again. Your hands moved constantly — checking his face, his shoulders, his arms, brushing his hair back, searching for injuries that didn't exist.

“Ammi,” Ayaan mumbled, burying his face into your neck, “main theek hu.”

“I know.”

Your voice cracked.

“I know.”

The room had fallen silent. Uzair quietly took the soup away before it spilt. Akhlaaq retreated into the kitchen without a word. Even Siyahi, who usually found something to joke about in every situation, looked away.

Rehman simply watched. He remembered being so jealous when he saw moments like these as a child, seeing that he hadn’t received any care like that, but watching you hug your son like he was the only reason for you living broke something in him he didn’t even know he had. It wasn’t regret, it wasn’t hate, just the fact that he would never experience the same kind of love that was pouring out of you and Ayaan.

Eventually, you looked up. Your gaze landed on him, and before he had a chance to say anything, you stood.

“Shukriya,” you breathed, finally letting Ayaan go. “Sach mein. Main ghabra gayi thi aur aap… agar aap nahi hote toh kya…”

Rehman saw tears welling in your eyes and instinctively looked away, shifting his weight uncomfortably. Being thanked for settling disputes or delivering favours was one thing. Being looked at like he'd performed a miracle was another entirely.

“Aapko shukriya kehne ki zaroorat nahi,” he muttered. “Maine bas—”

“Nahi.”

Your voice cracked.

“Aapne Ayaan ki jaan bachayi.”

The words landed far heavier than he expected.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

In his mind, he'd done what any decent person would have done after spotting a terrified child standing alone in the middle of a storm. He hadn't wrestled anyone. Hadn't pulled the boy out of a burning building. Hadn't even gotten hurt.

He had simply opened his front door.

Yet judging by the way you were looking at him, that simple act had changed the course of your entire day.

Rehman cleared his throat.

“Bachcha akela tha,” he said quietly, almost as though explaining the obvious. “Usko ghar ke andar lana hi tha.”

You lowered your gaze, blinking away another wave of tears before managing a small nod.

“And... I'm really sorry,” you said, a tired, embarrassed laugh escaping you. “Pata nahi is bacche ne kya kya harkate ki hongi. Hum chalte hain. Aur... thank you. Phir se. Doodh aur soup ke liye bhi. Aur...” You glanced apologetically at the trail of rainwater you had left across the marble floor. “Aapke floors bhi geele kar diye.”

You bent to pick up your handbag from where it had slipped onto the floor and motioned to Ayaan, who had just picked up his crown to show you, but even he seemed to understand that you had to get back to work. Rehman assumed you would leave him with someone at home until you returned, and, judging by the way you were still standing there in your soaked clothes, he doubted you had given yourself a second thought.

Looking at you up close, coupled with the familiarity of both your phone number and the ID card still hanging around your neck, Rehman couldn't even blame you. He had seen you at Khanani's office often over the past year — always moving through the corridors with a stack of files in one hand, phone pressed to your ear, untangling problems that the bastard had either created or refused to deal with himself like the swine he was. You had probably seen him too, standing outside his office after one of their endless meetings, though neither of you had ever exchanged more than a passing glance. Back then, he had simply registered you as another overworked member of Khanani's staff. Now, watching the way your gaze kept drifting back to Ayaan every few seconds, he realised there was far more to your life than the hurried footsteps and neatly organised files he remembered.

“Chalo, beta.”

Your son hesitated.

Rehman saw how your face broke before hardening again, and he suddenly gained a new level of empathy for single mothers — they were rare in Lyari, but he had viewed them merely as a statistic before, and now, he was watching the sacrifices you had to make in real-time.

He glanced past you towards the courtyard. The rain had shown no signs of relenting; if anything, it was falling harder than before, sheets of water blurring the iron gates into little more than a dark silhouette.

“Baith jaiye.”

You looked up.

“Ji?”

“Is mausam mein kahaan jayenge?” he asked matter-of-factly. “Aap abhi aaye hain, aur baarish rukne nahi wali hai. Aadhe raste toh paani mein doobe hue hain.”

You shouldered your bag and pushed a few strands of hair out of your face. “I have to get back to work.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“In kapdon mein?”

Only then did you seem to notice your own condition. Your kurta clung to your arms, your dupatta was still dripping onto the floor, and your sandals squelched every time you shifted your weight. The cold hit you suddenly, the adrenaline flowing through your veins dropping, and you shivered for a split second before catching yourself again.

“Akhlaaq,” Rehman called without taking his eyes off you. “Kuch garam khana laga do.”

“Ji.”

“Nahi, zaroorat nahi hai,” you protested quickly. “Main waise bhi—”

“Aapne khana khaya?”

The question caught you off guard.

You hesitated.

“…Nahi.”

He nodded once, as though that was exactly the answer he had expected.

“Toh pehle kha lijiye. Baarish ruk jaaye, paani thoda utar jaaye, phir chale jaiyega.” He paused before adding, almost as an afterthought, “Aur Khanani ko main phone kar dunga. Agar usse itni hi jaldi hai toh do minute intezaar kar sakta hai.”

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

“Khanani aur koshish?”

That earned a short laugh from Rehman.

“Nahi,” he agreed. “Woh aadmi waqai musibat hai.”

The words escaped him so casually that you found yourself laughing too, the tension in your shoulders easing for what felt like the first time all afternoon.

Once you had finally sat down with a fresh plate in front of you and Ayaan had resumed happily occupying himself beside Siyahi, Rehman spoke again, his tone as conversational as if he were discussing the weather, low enough for Ayaan to drown it out in the noises of him playing with a cardboard roll.

“Aap roz itni late hoti hain?”

You shook your head.

“Roz nahi. Lekin... meetings lambi ho jaati hain. Kabhi scandal, kabhi conference, kabhi koi emergency. Aap jaante honge Khanani vakaai businessman hai, lekin unke siyasti connections bhi bahut hai aur in fact, usme bhi kaam karte hai. Aur monsoon mein toh sadkein bhi…” You trailed off with a helpless shrug.

He nodded thoughtfully, his mind running at a million thoughts per second. For the first time in years, he found himself bothered about someone so young, the last person being Uzair, back when he was a little boy who had just been orphaned. Then, Rehman didn’t have even a tenth of the resources he did now, and he was faced with a similar situation: except this time, the stakes weren’t that high, and he didn’t have the inherent responsibility to take care of the kid.

For a few moments, the only sounds were the rain against the windows and the clinking of cutlery.

Then he said, “Ek kaam karte hain.”

You looked up.

“Jab tak yeh baarish chal raha hai, agar aap late ho jaayein... iska matlab nahi hai ki Ayaan school mein hi rehna chahiye.”

You frowned slightly.

“Matlab?”

“Abhi school ki diwar gir gayi. Ayaan us situation mein safe nahi hai.”

You nodded and ate another piece of the roti.

“School mere ghar ke bagal mein hai,” he continued, gesturing vaguely towards the wall separating the two compounds. “Main use le aaya karunga. Yahan rahega, khaana khayega, homework kar lega.” He shrugged. “Aap araam se kaam khatam karke aa jaiyega. Ayaan mehfooz hoga aur aapko tension lene ki zaroorat nahi hogi.”

You stared at him.

Rehman wondered if he had overstepped, but refused to show it on his face. If this meant Ayaan didn’t have to fear a wall falling on him or have a late lunch, it was worth it.

“Aur agar aap pareshan hai…” he added quietly, “main khud principal se baat kar lunga.”

You ate in silence for a minute before setting your cutlery down, looking at him with the steady, piercing gaze he had only ever seen you wear across Khanani's conference table.

“Rehman ji,” you began carefully, “aap jaante hai aapki zindagi khatarnak hai.”

He almost laughed.

That was certainly one way of putting it.

“Aapne aaj jo kiya...” You glanced at Ayaan, who was enthusiastically explaining to Siyahi why unicorns were faster than horses. “Main uska ehsaan kabhi nahi bhoolungi.”

A pause.

“Lekin main yeh nahi chahti ki ise 12 tables yaad hone se pehle bandook pakadni aa jaaye. Aur agar aapki zindagi usko Lyari ke…” You waved your hand in the air as you sipped on some water, rainwater still dripping from your hair where it hadn’t dried yet, “main apne aap ko maaf nahi kar paaungi.”

You took another bite of the roti. Rehman waited for a second before speaking.

“Aapki fikr bilkul sahi jagah hai,” he said quietly. The answer had come to him long before he'd even put it into words. “Magar main Ayaan ko meri duniya mein kabhi nahi aane doonga.”

His gaze drifted to the boy, who was currently trying to convince Uzair, who didn’t even follow cricket, that Pakistan needed a desperate change or they would be in a horrible position the next series.

“Uske liye main sirf Rehman Uncle rahunga.”

He paused, then added, his voice steady.

“Na usse pata chalega main kya karta hu, na kaun mere paas aata hai, na kis baat ki meetings hoti hain. School se seedha yahan aayega. Homework karega, khaana khayega, sabko pareshan karega...” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Aur aap aake le jaayengi.”

Rehman sat back.

He had made his offer. Whether you accepted it or not was entirely your decision.

He watched your expression instead. It was the same look you'd worn countless times across Khanani's conference table whenever someone proposed an idea you didn't trust fully. Analytical. Weighing every possible consequence before committing to anything. You never evaluated the person then, just the feasibility of the plan and the risks associated with it, and it occurred to Rehman that you weren’t evaluating him, even in a situation where most people would.

You were evaluating the risk to your son.

Outside, the rain continued to lash against the haveli. Inside, Ayaan had somehow convinced Uzair to wear the crooked cardboard crown, much to everyone else's amusement.

“Ammi!” the boy called, pointing triumphantly at the scene. “Dekho!”

You looked over instinctively.

Your shoulders, tense since you'd burst through the front door, softened a little as you listened to his babbling.

He noticed.

Once Uzair occupied Ayaan again, Rehman turned to you. “Sochiye,” he said, voice even. “Aaj agar woh school mein akela rukta rehta toh? Baarish mein fas jaata toh?”

You closed your eyes for the briefest moment before opening them again.

“Aap use bahar nahi jaane denge? Akele ya aapke…” you looked around, trying to find the right word. “ladko ke saath?

Rehman shook his head. “Nahi. Agar voh mere ye mere ladkon ke saath kahin hoga, toh voh sirf haveli mein hoga.”

“Aur aap uske saamne aapke komm ya aapke kaam ke baare mein baat nahi karenge?”

“Nahi.”

“Aur agar aapki haveli par hamla ho gaya toh?” you asked quietly. “Woh mehfooz rahega?”

Rehman didn't answer immediately, even though he had considered that. It wasn't because he didn't know what to say, because in his decade-and-a-half years here, nothing had ever happened, so the chances of an attack were low. He knew that, he assumed you knew that, but the possibility remained, and Rehman couldn’t bring himself to assure you that it would never happen. He was many things, but he was never going to lie to a mother about her kid’s safety.

“Hamla hone se pehle khabar mil jaayegi,” he said after a moment. “Aur jis din zara sa bhi shaq hua na… us din Ayaan school se seedha ghar jayega. Haveli nahi.”

You continued watching him.

He understood why.

“Aur agar kabhi aisa waqt aaya,” he continued evenly, “toh meri pehli zimmedaari use yahan se nikaalna hogi.”

He paused, deciding to tell you about many secret passageways he had built in the haveli later. His gaze followed a scrunched up paper as it rolled back to Donga’s hand, who had created a game of cricket using an old slab of cardboard and a paper that was probably torn from that day’s newspaper.

“Use meri duniya se jitna door rakh sakun,” he murmured, almost to himself, “utna hi behtar hai.”

When he looked back at you, your expression had changed slightly. Of course, the caution was still there, and it would probably always be, but the fear your face held was replaced by careful consideration.

“Theek hai,” you said finally. “Sirf baarish ke waqt.”

Rehman nodded.

“Sirf baarish ke waqt.”

It wasn't a victory.

It wasn’t a deal.

It was trust, born out of desperation and the urge to keep a child safe.

But as Rehman watched Ayaan laugh so hard that the cardboard crown slipped over his eyes, he had a feeling it was enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a/n: Ayaan is giving me baby fever man 😭 he's so cute! Please comment or dm if you want to be added/removed from the taglist.

Tags: @ishq-e-rehman @minnielovesme @shadylovedhurandhar @rini4everdreaming @satorustorm @cloudmast @layinglowkey @gulaabjamun08 @humsafarhumhihai @mrgrungusthefrog @quillbyana @sea-breeze-in-my-hair @goodasaysboo @debsreads21 @tanipartner @sunf1over @oinswiftie @rhopalocera23 @poetry-beauty-love-writez @theuselessdaydreamingidiot @rosesandpeoniesthings @potashii @idonthavechatpateusernamed @virtualship @alyssafasil @granddynamonovajbvgjjj @itstiaofficial @rutvii

#azhagiwrites #dhurandharsecretgiftexchange2026 #dsge2026 #desiblr #dhurandhar #desi tumblr #rehman dakait #rehman x reader #rehman baloch #rehman x oc #uzair baloch #hamza ali mazari #rehman fluff #rehman dakait fluff

Ehsaan

First of all, kudos to @dhurandharsecretgiftexchange for arranging such a magnificient event! The amount of amazing fics that have been produced as a result of this event has me all excited to read them! Thank you very much for giving me this beautiful prompt by @cvclee! ❤️ Y/n calming a drugged, grief-stricken Uzair after Rehman’s death while he spirals from guilt, rage, and the warrant against him during his D2 crash out scene. I know you had a different request initially, and I am sorry that you had to change it! But I really hope you like this and enjoy reading it!

The colourful specks of light seeped in from the large stained glass window into the lavish living room of the Baloch haveli. The haveli, which was always buzzing with its residents as well as the men of the gang, had found a rare peace and quiet today. Y/N sat on the sofa in the arms of her husband, who had finally managed to take some time out for her from his very ‘busy’ schedule.

She frowned as she stared at their box television which displayed the highlights of the 2006 FIFA World Cup, the commentator rambling a little too enthusiastically about Zinedine Zidane’s aggressive header on Marco Materazzi because the latter had insulted his sister. Y/N sighed and leaned against Uzair, glaring at him. This was not the plan. They were supposed to watch a romantic movie, which was going to premiere on TV today. Everyone was talking about it. Ishq Junoon Deewangi. But Uzair with his honey-sweet words, had somehow managed to bargain with her so he could watch his match highlights.

Y/N huffed and turned her attention back to the TV. Suddenly, the lights around them flickered twice and then went off completely. Huh, maybe a power-cut. But the TV was still on. And it was not showing the football match highlights anymore.

It was showing Uzair. Bloodied, sweaty and deranged. He had a butcher’s knife in his hand, and he was tossing around a head. A human head. Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. He had beheaded Arshad Pappu and he was kicking the head, blood still spluttering from its mouth and eyes still wide open in horror, like it was merely a football. He thrashed the large blade onto it and cursed his audacity to work against Rehman Baloch. The crowd of Lyari surrounded the gruesome sight, and whispered about how the ‘Heir of the Baloch Gang’ had gone insane.

The news reporter was stating with a horrifying amount of calm and detachment, the atrocity Uzair Baloch had committed, and what a dreaded man he was.

No. No. No. What was this? This was not her Uzair. Her Uzair was sitting right beside her, after they had stayed back home when the entire family had decided to go on a short picnic. Afraid, she grabbed his hand resting on her shoulder, but a sticky warm fluid stained her fingers. A gasp escaped her lips. It smelled like blood. She knew it because the Baloch haveli was well-accustomed to the sight and smell of blood.

Shifting away, she turned towards Uzair. But he was no longer there. The spot where she had been resting against him moments before was now empty and cold. She held onto the couch as she looked around desperately for him. Her mind couldn’t wrap around how he had faded into sheer absence.

A sharp clang rang behind her. She snapped her gaze towards the noise, and there at the door stood Uzair. Bloodied, sweaty and deranged. Looking down at someone who was pleading inaudibly, he raised the butcher’s knife dripping with blood, and brought it down in a flash.

Y/N woke up gasping for breath and hoping that whoever was under the attack of the knife was still alive. As she clutched at her chest and grounded herself to her surroundings, she realized that she was still in her bedroom. It was a nightmare. Thank the merciful God, it was just a nightmare.

Taking a shaky deep breath, she glanced at the phone she had slept holding onto. Six missed calls from her Abbu. Nine from her brother. A moment later, she switched the phone off, turning a blind eye to the unanswered calls and messages.

The day after Uzair had killed Arshad Pappu, her father and brother had arrived at the Baloch haveli to take her back with them. According to them, it was too risky to leave their daughter alone in such a household. They had known about the black businesses of the Baloch family even before the wedding. But with Rehman gone and Uzair acting like he was not in his right mind, they worried, rightfully so, that the harm would sooner or later find its way to their daughter as well.

Y/N hadn’t actually understood the gravity of Arshad’s murder until the next day, when the video of Uzair kicking his head around was broadcasted on the news. It formed the headline of that day. She had come so close to fainting after seeing the brutality with which her husband had orchestrated his nemesis’s death. While she was aware of Uzair’s cruelty, it was the way he did not even look like himself that had put her off. The promise in his threatening words and his bloodthirst was not what Uzair was made of, even after being Rehman Bhai’s ruthless enforcer.

It suddenly made sense why ever since coming back home, Uzair had locked himself in the room. The only ones who were allowed, or tolerated inside were Hamza and his men. Not even her. Not even his wife. Y/N wondered if he had felt it too. She wondered if after washing off the blood, Uzair had faced the ugly truth that he had lost himself somewhere between Rehman Bhai’s death and his vengeance.

And because Uzair was locked away from the world, he had no idea that it was trying to take her away from him in the pretense of safety and protection.

Another day, another hopeless attempt to get past the locked door.

Except this time as Y/N stood in front of it, she found it slightly open. Her hands curled into fists at her sides and she mustered whatever courage there was left in her to finally face him, in whatever condition he would be. She pushed open the door, and the distinct smell of alcohol and smoke clouded around her. Disappointed but not surprised, she stepped inside.

And there he was. Sprawled out on the couch with his head thrown back, as he stared at the ceiling absent-mindedly, looking particularly lost. She looked around and registered the ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, the glasses of alcohol half-empty and the gun lying on the table. He had still not noticed her presence.

A pang of pity shot through her heart looking at what he had become in just a matter of a few days.

“Darwaaza kaise khola?”

Her quiet voice sounded strange even to herself, as if she had temporarily forgotten how to speak with him. She saw how he flinched at it, and it made her feel like she was not welcome here at all. Uzair was quick to take the gun from the table and push it under a pillow, without looking away from her. He blinked, his own isolation staring back at him in the face and making him realize how ignorant he had been towards her in the fury of the last few days.

He rubbed his eyes and sat up straighter, noticing how clean she looked compared to the blood and dirt on him. He could have sworn, with the sunlight that she brought along with her in the room, that she was a hallucination of his. Similar to the ones where he had been seeing Rehman Bhai.

She walked in further with the gait of carefulness that had not been there before. And Uzair noticed it all too well.

“Hamza Bhai keh rahe the tumhe Dubai jaana hoga…”

The rush of anger made its way back to Uzair. Hamza had been persistent in his convincing, and now he had the nerve to involve her in it. Uzair gritted his teeth and retorted sharply, his voice coming louder than he intended to. “Main kahi nahi jaa raha! Uss SP ka sar qalam karne se pehle toh kahi bhi nahi!”

Y/N’s brows knitted tightly at his stubborn ambition. Hamza had told her about it and Uzair’s insistence on revenge. She stepped forward, as she spoke. “Uzair, tumhe samajh nahi aa raha! Tumhare khilaaf ATA warrant jaari-”

The ATA warrant. Dubai. That was all everybody cared about. Hamza, Jamali and now, even his wife. Did nobody realize that Rehman Bhai was gone? Nobody cared that his Rehman Bhai had died. At the hands of that bastard SP. Nobody understood that he ought to take the revenge for Rehman Bhai. If anything, the drugs heightened his frustration. He stood up and took a step towards Y/N swiftly, and yelled at her. “Are- mujhe nahi faraq padta kisi ATA warrant se! Jab tak uss SP ka sar kaatke main Lyari kabristan ke bahaar nahi lagaata, tab tak main yahan se kahi nahi jaa raha!” Y/N flinched, staring at him in disbelief. In all these years of their marriage, he had never once spoken to her like that. She was very proud of that fact. But it also never taught her how she should react in this moment. Uzair felt apologetic the second he realized what he had done. She had taken an involuntary step away from him. He had made her flinch. She was scared of him. Oh, he had made her afraid of him. He wondered if Arshad Pappu’s dirty blood on his hands was what drove her away too. He rubbed a hand over his face and let out a frustrated groan. “Tum yahaan se chali jao!”

The shocking words hit Y/N with a blunt force. How could he ask her to leave just like that? After spending days avoiding her entirely. The words carried more sting because everyone around her was asking her to do the same. Leave him alone. And she was fighting very hard against all the people, all alone, for his sake. How was she supposed to keep fighting if the very reason for her fight was himself asking her to give up?

“Main kahi nahi jaaungi!” Uzair fluttered his eyes close for a moment and pinched his brows in exasperation. He should have expected this to happen when his wife was just as stubborn as him. He lowered his voice, and muttered again. “Y/N, yahan se jaao! Hum baad mein baat karenge!”

“Nahi! Baad mein tum phir se apne aap ko ek kamre mein band kardoge, aur mujhe phir se bahaar tumhara intezaar karna padega! Tumhari fikr karni padegi!”

Uzair was taken aback by her agitated words. He hadn’t even thought of what she must be going through while he ruined himself in isolation. His next mistake was speaking without thinking. “Toh mat karo mera intezaar! Mat karo meri fikr! Maine nahi kaha tha tumse ye sab karne ke liye!” Y/N’s lips parted in shock. All she could manage was a glare, as she felt the tears of frustration blurring her vision. “Hashr dekha hai apna? Biwi hu main tumhaari! Hoti hai tumhaari fikr! Nahi chhod sakti main tumhe!” Uzair faltered when he saw the tears in her eyes. This was not what he had meant to do. Even in the high, he knew this shouldn’t have happened from him. With a heavy sigh, he stepped forward slowly. Carefully. “Mera kehne ka woh matlab nahi tha…maine tumse kaha yahaan se chali jao kyunki- kyunki main yeh nahi chahta ki tum-” He felt his own throat tighten around his words that refused to come out without being accompanied with sobs. He swallowed that lump of words in his throat, and leaned down to her level. His hands hovered awkwardly around hers, with an uncertainty of whether he should touch her or not. Whether he even had the right anymore. “Y/N, tum jaanti ho na…main tumhe kabhi chot nahi pohochaunga? Main kabhi aisa kuch nahi karunga jisse tumhe takleef ho. Tumhe mujhse darne ki zaroorat nahi hai, mai tumhe kuch karne ki soch bhi nahi sakta. Tum jaanti ho, na?”

Y/N wanted to give him a thousand reassurances, because she couldn’t bear it to tell him the truth when he sounded so vulnerable, like a child desperately trying to make sure he hadn’t made a life-altering mistake. The truth was bitter. The truth was that she did feel scared of his newfound bloodthirst. Not him. But he looked so scared of scaring her away, she could not bring herself to say it aloud.

Instead, her control shattered. The tears slipped from her eyes as she broke down into sobs, feeling a strange guilt for not being able to deny his fears.

That was all the answer Uzair needed. His heart sank with the realization that he had indeed made her fear him, without wanting to do so. He was desperate to explain himself. He hesitantly grabbed her hand and made her look at him. “Uss din maine jo Cheel Chowk mein kiya, woh-woh maine Rehman Bhai ke liye kiya. Woh Arshad usi laayak tha! Uski himmat kaise hui mere Rehman Bhai ke khilaaf ye saazish karne ki!” His voice trembled and the rage coiled in his chest, as he continued.

“Aur mein uss SP ko bhi yahi sazaa dena chahta hun! Usse lagta hai ki mere Bhai ko maarke woh apna badla pura karega! Dikha dunga usse badla kaisa hota hai! Aesi berehem maut dunga ki uske jaane ke baad bhi uske daftar mein uski cheekhe gunjti rahegi!”

He had once again been distracted by his vengeful agenda. He turned his attention back to her, and his voice softened a little.

“Par ye sab main Rehman Bhai ke liye kar raha hoon! Koi samajh nahi raha! Rehman Bhai chale gaye, par kisiko kuch faraq nahi padh raha hai, maheru! Koi samajh kyun nahi raha! Unke bina ye haveli saans kaise le rahi hai? Rehman Bhai-” It was Uzair’s turn to break down into inaudible cries, as he collapsed down on the floor with exhaustion. Y/N was next to him within a moment, as she tried to steady him and rubbed his back. It was painful to see him lose his composure like this. “Main samajhti hu, Uzair! Main jaanti hu!”

She tried to console him through her own tears. “Nahi! Nahi, tum bhi nahi samajhti! Rehman Bhai aise mujhe akela chhodke nahi jaa sakte! Main unke binaa kya karunga?” Y/N cupped his face and wiped his tears, shushing his broken cries. “Shaant ho jaao, Uzair!” “Tum jaanti ho, mai jab chhota toh aur Bhai mujhe haveli mein pehli baar leke aaye the na, tab mujhe bohot bure sapne aata the! Mujhe- Mujhe mere ammi abbu dikhte the. Aur woh bure log, jinhone ammi abbu ko maara tha, woh ab mere peeche daud rahe the!”

Y/N stilled at his words. He was sharing a part of himself that he had never revealed to anyone before. She had heard of his dark childhood from everyone, except himself. Uzair sniffled, and recalled his buried memories. “Tab main bohot darr ke uthta tha, aur Rehman Bhai ke kamre mein aake unko bhi uthaa deta tha! Kuch din baad, Rehman Bhai ne mere kamre mein sona shuru kar diya. Jab bhi mujhe bure sapne aate the, main unko pukaarta tha aur woh uthke mujhe shaant kar dete the!” A small humorless smile appeared on his lips, like he had remembered a particular fond memory.

“Aur woh unki aadat hi ban gayi! Bade hone ke baad bhi, jab bhi main unko pukaarta tha na, woh ekdum darr kar uth jaate the! Kabhi kabhi toh Ulfat bhabhi bhi nahi utha paati, par phir mein chote se chote awaaj mein bhi unhe bulaata tha na, toh jald se uth jaate the! Hum sab unka issi baat pe mazaak udaate the!” His face twisted and he lowered his gaze. Y/N’s heart felt like it was twisted into a knot because she knew he was thinking of that unfortunate day. “Uss din,” his voice was almost audible as he spoke. “Uss din, aspatal mein bhi maine unko pukaara! Dheere se nahi haan, main jor jor se chilla raha tha, keh raha tha unse ki Rehman Bhai, utho, main aaya hun! Aapka Uzair! Par phir bhi-”

The tears spilled down his cheeks and his chest heaved with hiccups. “Phir bhi woh nahi uthe, Y/N!”

Y/N’s own tears were difficult to hold back, as she rubbed his back in a comforting manner and wiped his tears. “Sab meri galti hai!” Suddenly, Uzair sounded angry again. But this time, he was angry at himself. “Meri hi galti hai! Mujhe Rehman Bhai ke saath rehna chahiye tha! Main agar wahaan hota, toh aisa nahi hota! Toh phir aisa nahi hota na, Y/N?”

She nodded in approval of his words, but a very large part of her, which was too selfish, was glad that Uzair hadn’t gone with Rehman Bhai. The thought ashamed her, but if a cross-fire was so lethal as to spare no survivors, she couldn’t imagine losing her Uzair in it. He was broken to shreds like this, but at least he was in front of her. Breathing and alive. Before she could assure him that he was not at fault in this, Uzair was grabbing on her sleeve and speaking more to himself than her. “Par Hamza Bhai ke saath tha! Donga aur Siyahi bhi toh the! Aur Hamza, Hamza toh hamesha sabko bachata hain, na? Yaad hai, usne hi Faizal ko bachaya tha! Hamza ne toh Rehman Bhai ko bhi SP ke arrest se wapas laya tha? Woh toh har baar kamiyaab hota ha na? Phir iss baar, iss baar hi kaise usne-” He clicked his tongue in disapproval and buried his tear-streaked face in his palms, as he cursed himself.

“Sab meri galti hain! Rehman Bhai mujhe maaf nahi karenge! Mujhe unke saath jaana chahiye tha!” Y/N wiped away her tears and then pulled his hands away from his face. She held him and made him look at her. “Uzair, meri baat suno! Isme tumhaari koi galti nahi hai! Koi bhi galti nahi! Agar tum jaate phir bhi shayaad-” She left the painful part unsaid, before continuing. “Agar yeh hi khuda ki marzi thi, yeh hi taqdeer ka faisla tha, toh isme tum kya Hamza kya, koi bhi kuch badal nahi paata, Uzair!” His eyes narrowed at her, like he was almost believing her words about the inevitable destiny. Almost. But then the thought of an invisible power taking away his dear brother felt too offensive to him, and he leaned away from her touch. “Mujhe aisi qismat pe bharosa hi nahi jo mujhse mere Bhai ko cheene!”

He looked at her, the stubborn defiance in his gaze wavering before cracking down entirely. Because no matter how vehemently he denied the truth, it was there staring at him in the face. The truth reminded him of itself when he walked into the factory cabin and found it empty. He saw it behind the locked doors of Ulfat Bhabhi’s rooms. He heard it in the eerie mournful silence between the gang members. The truth was all around him, and he could only go so long with avoiding it.

Y/N was right. The truth was inevitable.

His shoulders shuddered with the held back sobs before his lips quivered and his eyes shut tightly, giving away to the tears welling in his eyes and flowing down his face. “Main aise nahi jee sakta, Y/N! Rehman Bhai ke siva- mujhe kuch samajh nahi aa raha main kya karoon! Mujhe unki zaroorat hai! Maine kabhi aisi duniyaa dekhi hi nahi hai, jisme woh na ho! Aur ab woh nahi rahe, mere paas kuch nahi bachaa hai!” Y/N couldn’t watch him like this, so devastated and helpless. She wrapped her arms around his large trembling frame and tried to calm him down, patting his head. She knew what Rehman Bhai meant for Uzair. For him, Rehman Bhai was his God and he was nothing in himself, if not his most ardent devotee.

Uzair held onto her tightly, as his body shook with a struggle to breathe and the sobs that wrecked out of him. “Mere paas kuch nahi bachaa hai, mujhe bohot akela mehsoos ho raha hai! Main bilkul khaali mehsoos kar raha hun!” He jerked away Y/N’s hand and grabbed his chest, like it was physically paining him to experience so much grief. Y/N shifted on her knees and placed a hand against his on his chest, and rubbed it in a way that was meant to soothe him. Her voice cracked, as she shook her head and met his eyes through tears. “Nahi, aisa mat kaho! T-Tumhaare dil mein mere liye jagah hai na? Bolo, hai na?”

Uzair glanced up at her, crying endlessly. But because after everything, he couldn’t deny that she didn’t hold a place in his heart, he nodded slowly. She owned a major part of his heart, if not entirely. He loved her completely, hopelessly, perhaps- no, surely just as much he loved his Rehman Bhai. His shoulders slumped down and he allowed her to hold him. Y/N hugged him tightly, wrapping her arms around his neck while his tears stained her sleeve. She weaved her fingers through his hair, and whispered. “Tum akele nahi ho, Uzair! Main tumhaare saath hoon! Mai humesha tumhaare saath hoon!”

Uzair nodded against her shoulder, wiping his tears with the back of his hand.

“Aur haan,” Y/N added. “Rehman Bhai bhi humaare saath hai. Woh hume upar se dekh rahe hai, aur tum chahte ho na, ki woh tumpe naaz kare! Toh phir ye nasha karna band karo! Ye ATA warrant aur Dubai ke baare mein hum kaal baat karenge, main toh yahi hoon!” Uzair’s heart ached to think of Rehman Bhai looking down at him and feeling ashamed of what he had become over the past few days. He wrapped his arms around her waist, letting himself feel the comfort of her embrace “Main, main nahi chahta tum mujhse darr jao. Isliye main tumse door raha. Isliye maine tumhe jaane ke liye kaha! Mai nahi chahta ki tum yahan se chali jao!”

Y/N exhaled slowly and tightened her grip around him. She hummed, and pulled away just enough to look at him, as she brushed a thumb against the hints of tears on his cheek. “Main kahi nahi jaa rahi. Main yahin hoon.”

Uzair held her hand in his, like he was ensuring this was real. He wanted to believe her, but he did not believe he deserved this kindness from her. He lowered his head and kissed her knuckles, before pressing her palm against his chest, where she could sense his frantically beating heart.

“Mujhe chhod ke mat jao, Y/N! Mere paas sirf aur sirf tum ho! Tumhaare alava aur koi nahi hai! Mujhe kabhi bhi chhod ke mat jaana!”

His pleading requests tugged at Y/N’s heart, and this time she could give him a thousand reassurances. So she nodded, and managed a weak smile on her tear-streaked face. “Main yahin hoon, Uzair. Tumhare saath. Hamesha.”

Hearing her words, Uzair felt like he had been returned a breath that had been stolen from him years ago. He moved forward and pulled her into a suffocating hug, and muttered gratitude. Two rooms away, Y/N’s phone was being flooded with missed calls from her family, but it didn’t truly matter at this moment.

After all this, after the brutal murder and the blood that still remained under his fingernails, after the drugs and the avoidance and after the accusations of insanity, she had still chosen to stay with him. For Uzair, that was the biggest favour she had done for him. The biggest ehsaan which he wouldn’t ever be able to repay.

#dhurandhar #dhuranandar2 #dhurandhar the revenge #uzair baloch #uzair baloch x reader #dhurandharsecretgiftexchange2026 #dsge2026

5 Times Siyahi Asked A Question (And the One Time He Couldn't)

(Dhurandhar Secret Gift Exchange Fic)

Giftee: @prahelika-fics

Prompt: Anything focussing on Rehman's relationship with his gang members, hurt/comfort, angst.

A/N: I'd really like to thank @dhurandharsecretgiftexchange for organising this event, such a cool idea! The amount of effort to coordinate everything must have been absolutely insane. You da goat fr.

#dhurandhar #rehman dakait #rehman baloch #rehman x ulfat #uzair baloch #ulfat baloch #hamza ali mazari #dhurandhar fanfic #dhurandhar fanfiction #dhurandhar fic #siyahi #donga #naieem baloch #faizal baloch #dhurandharsecretgiftexchange2026 #dsge2026 #dhurandharsecretsantagiftexchange2026

Hello, hello and welcome to

✨ Dhurandhar Secret Santa Gift Exchange 2026 ✨

I am @natures-marvel, your host for this event and I welcome every content creator of this fandom in this event 🤗

So, firstly here are some things I'll clarify before we move on to other parts :

Now what exactly is this event?

This is a gift exchange event where you will make a gift in the form of art media for Dhurandhar fandom (such as fanfiction, art, edits, moodboard, web weaves, etc.) to the person according to the prompt and the media you will be assigned by the host.

I will assign the prompts according to the media you can make and your preferences as much as possible so you will not have to worry 😊

Also, you will be given time of at least one month (or even 45 days if the timeline sets like that) so you can have ample time to think and work on your prompt.

How do I sign up for this?

I will make a seperate detailed post for the sign up and rules but just to keep things simple, you will be required to message your participation on this blog and I will confirm your participation.

Please avoid the signup process in the askbox because it will be hard to keep track 😕

However, if any questions and queries about the event or the process of the event are totally welcome in the askbox 😊

(who knows you might unknowingly answer someone else's same question as you because of your ask)

When does the signup start?

Today itself!

Signups are open from 1st May to 10th May.

Signup Rules

Timeline Post

Masterlist Post

Please keep an eye on this blog because all the updates regarding this event will be posted here!

#dhurandhar #dhurandar the revenge #dhurandharsecretgiftexchange2026 #dsge2026 #dhuranandar2

The Sandgrouse 'nd the Jacaranda Tree

Dear @pavbhajisupremacist! You wanted to witness Rehman x Ulfat and told you'd be happy to read anything with these two, thus, I can only wish tis' gonna be less of a disappointment and more of an enjoyment! ☄️

Dear @dhurandharsecretgiftexchange! I am grateful to the grave for the event.

Dear @cvclee! Sorry being late!

Since tumblr doesn't support the original format, the title is now a link.

The flower bud, its blooming beauty,

Is said to heal the hearts of men,

And god’s lil’ birds, twirling and trilling,

Please them as well.

It happ’ns suchwise, for Allah’s creatures

Know best that sky is all more blue

Above the boles o’ virile features…

Lo, well such wisdom was accrued.

____________

Havelis are at peace.

Embraced by night and tame fire,

Ahl Allah sleep with ease.

Shall sound pass?

Shall it disturb the silence?

Nevermore,

Because when years ago,

When time felt less like shore,

And storm of it could us abhor

And throw to ash and thrive on our corpses,

One hand did not dissolve in air thin,

And never will another let them sting.

Thereafter threads create the melody each day;

The homestead, erstwhile bitter, waxed a bay.

Havelis slumber.

They see dreams.

And so must those within.

____________

“Ulfat! Where are the kids?”

“At school, my love,

But why yell in my ear?”

“Sheer nonsense! Little bastards!

It’s Sunday, and I’ve told them very clear—”

“Oh, dear husband, Monday is today:

You drank too much and skipped a day!”

“Ulfat, our chef made it just way too salty…”

“Oh, beauty, you could’ve said “I do not want it”,

And I will make exactly what you crave.”

“… Yes, please. I cannot live without your cooking.

All dishes that you make deserve a rave.”

“Fine words butter no parsnips, darling!

And even though you get away with not more than a warning,

Hence, bear in mind, that hush is the bulbul

Without the fondest longed-for treasure:

The warm embrace of crimsoned gul.”

“Ulfat? My love? Where are you, dear?

I’m sallying forth for days out here!..

Will you, please, see me out?”

“What? Where? Why and how?

I am not ready, so are you!

Or shall I ‘ccompany you nude?”

“Allah, I swear, one more word!—”

“And I will kiss you on your throat,

Which looks susceptibly exposed.

Why pouty face? To show me lips?

As if I could forget your rizz!

Come… hither forthwith, oh my ravenous baloch!

Your wife will get you something for your crotch;

Along I’ll pick a suitable and nice array

In lieu of what is crude even to name.”

____________

“Who is that youth?”

“You have a fiancé!”

“But he stares at…”

He smirky grinned.

____________

The night had started weaning

Off painting, needlework;

The day went on with seeking

What goods he was to off’r.

She kissed him, he was leaving —

A blessing all it was.

His tissue was her weaving;

She was forever lost.

For setting sun souls waited,

For dark to take the reins;

She touched her lower belly;

Dreams made his waiting worse.

The noons morphed into evenings;

The hazy ones —

The best.

Him, leaking into aangan;

Then — her,

Absconding from zenana.

“Rehman, my God, my reigner.”

“Ulfat, my Deity utmost.”

Her cheeks were rosy blossoms,

And hair made night come green.

His eyes caught candle glimmer,

And body — just as lean.

Muffled breathing, sighing, moaning,

And choked “I love you”, pled.

The “meri jaan”, when coined,

Was laid on kindred bed.

Sheets messed with serrate prayers

Which shouldn’t have been voiced.

Desire bruised in layers

The breasts tintlessly chaste.

For suchlike lust, with no doubt,

If there were prying eyes,

All people of the city’d

Heap curse’ upon their heads.

Imams would call them paapis;

Mullahs would be enraged.

Who spared them from this fate

And saved from court to face?

“We have committed zina,”

There was a whisper faint.

“I care not when you’re near,”

He put it simple, plain.

____________

“Rehman, come, take a look, right here.”

“I’m more than comfortable on your bed.

If you want me to be somewhere near,

I would suggest—”

“Oh, no! Not that request!

But I will let you lie, my lazy treasure.”

“Your ruby smile shines,

And I, mere man, can now foresee

There’s something to divine

For me.”

“Ah, rascal, you, stop flust’ring me!

No treat will one receive with such demeanor.

Whilst maybe afterwards I’ll lay with you—”

“That phrase can make me only keener!”

“Rehman, I beg, return your mind to th’ written text of mine.”

“I will, my love, but first I'll hear you whine.”

____________

“Rehman, oh, mere aaftab,

Will you reject the glass today?”

“Why so?”

“Because I ask you to.

And keep a watchful eye.”

“On whom?”

“On those who ogle you just as I do.”

____________

Perpetual must be belief,

But that is not more than a myth.

One who insists — naught but a liar,

For everlasting is desire.

____________

At times when sun grows way too idle,

Rejoicing so delightfully in sloth,

His moon approaches with a bridal bridle,

Surrounding herself with veily cloth.

As if it’s not at all haram,

He seemly shucks off his dread arms,

Lets him be one to hold sway over,

And nature takes its course till morrow.

He’s sighing, whining, melting, crying,

He’s clutching at the pillows while

She’s tracing kisses down his spine

To where their bodies well align.

She kisses charming, madd’ning shoulders —

How hers he caressed all these years! —

His fingertips are sweetly vicious

There, where they are now clawing skin.

She tells to still, whispers “beliya”;

He closes ears with shaky hands.

He asks her not to leer at him;

She savors shyness in his breath.

The act of lech’rous veneration,

Without a doubt, over draws on,

And there’s a bit of condemnation

Seen through the tears of lavish joy.

____________

“Rehman, my one, is something both’ring you?

Your brows are furrowed, eyes are darksome.”

“Oh, love, Ulfat, could you give me a clue?

The thing you once said ’bout our names.

Ah, hell, forgetting’s nettl’some!”

“Oh, little, lovely husb’nd of mine!

Allow me feel and taste your tongue;

Your cussing makes my body young;

Your words are petals at the shrine!

The phrase you’re trying to remember

I said when, measuring us both,

I found out you’ll need a ladder

To match in height! A tiny, though.

Right after that — while you were slumb’ring —

A small calligraphy design

Appeared in my mind, so rousing,

And I made letters intertwine.”

And interweaved were now their bodies

On grass, its emerald-shade green,

Just as on paper sandgrouse whirling

Around his Jacaranda tree.

____________

The flower bud, its blooming beauty —

T’s’ what makes a little bird come nigh.

The sandgrouse makes its nest with duty

Between huge roots, beneath th’ vast crown.

It happens thus for blissful creatures,

And people creatures are as well.

Rehman is sleeping tight, enfolded;

Ulfat envelops him in arms.

#dhurandhar #dhurandharsecretgiftexchange2026 #rehmat #rehman x ulfat #rehman dakait #rehman baloch #ulfat dakait #ulfat baloch #dhurandhar art #dhurandhar fanart #dhurandhar fanfic #dhurandhar ff #poems and poetry #dsge2026 #dhurandhar fanfiction #dhurandhar smut #dhurandharsecretsantagiftexchange2026 #dseg2026

✨ Masterlist of works for the @dhurandharsecretgiftexchange Event ✨

Mr. Obvious (Gurbaaz Singh/Pinda x Reader) by @twinblueflamee for @gehra-hua

Chapters : one, two, three, four

Baarish (Uzair x Reader) by @mainyahaankyunhoon for @sweetestsummer

The Olive Green Temptation - The Major's Undoing (Major Iqbal x Reader) by @hereforfanfictionsfr for @tere-naal-nachna

5 Times Siyahi Asked A Question (And the One Time He Couldn't) (Gen) by @pavbhajisupremacist for @prahelika-fics

Unraveled (Rehman × Hamza) by @tere-naal-nachna for @iwascouldbewillbebygodstillam

Abbu Se Pooch Ke Aao! (Uzair x Reader) by @mainyahaankyunhoon for @hereforfanfictionsfr

The Sandgrouse 'nd the Jacaranda Tree (Rehman x Ulfat), Poem by @iwascouldbewillbebygodstillam and Edit by @cvclee, for @pavbhajisupremacist

Panaah (Rehman Dakait x Reader) by @allthingsmythology for @mainyahaankyunhoon

Part : one, two, three

Ehsaan (Uzair x Reader) by @sweetestsummer for @cvclee

Rawaani (Rehman Dakait x Reader) by @prahelika-fics for @baddiefication101

Mere Naam Tu (Uzair × Sana) by @tere-naal-nachna for @twinblueflamee

#dhurandhar #dhurandar the revenge #dhuranandar2 #dhurandharsecretgiftexchange2026 #dsge2026

5 Times Siyahi Asked A Question (And the One Time He Couldn't)

(Dhurandhar Secret Gift Exchange Fic)

Giftee: @prahelika-fics

Prompt: Anything focussing on Rehman's relationship with his gang members, hurt/comfort, angst.

#dsge2026

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#dsge2026