#ulfat

[shippingtheshippers]

Rehman, The Handsome Father

A/N: A Baloch family based chaos. Requested by this cutie @lilymodernfamily I hope it's upto your expectation. I have paired up Naieem and Yalina in this. No hate to Hamza x Yalina. Here I have changed Yalina age. In actual she was almost 3-4 years younger than Naieem but here in this fic they are same age.

Naieem had exactly three problems in life. First, his younger brother Faizal stealing his snacks. Second, baby Innayat belived every electronic button on earth existed solely for her entertainment. And third, His father was unfairly handsome. The thrird problem was currently destroying his life.

It all started when Naieem's class was assigned a science project. Where they have to build a working volcano model and explain chemical reaction. They have to do theproject in pair of two. Naieem as usual paired up with his best friend Yalina on whom he has a crush too. 

Rehman and Jameel Jamali shared an old alliance through Jameel's political party. So Naieem and Yalina had grown up together, playing, sharing toys, Naieem teaching her football, and Yalina teaching him how to sketch. They had stayed close ever since.

Yalina turned to Naieem and adjusted the strap of her bag. "Kal Saturday hai na, toh kal mai tumhare ghar ajati hu. Wahi project complete kar lenge."

Naieem nodded with a smile. "Yeah, sure."

The next day, Yalina arrived at Baloch Haveli. She met Ulfat in the courtyard, who was instructing the gardeners and other staff. Ulfat turned when she noticed her and welcomed her warmly.

Ulfat gave her a soft smile. "Kaisi ho, Yalina?"

Yalina returned the smile and stepped closer "Mai theek hu, Aunty... umm... Naieem kaha hai?"

Ulfat thought for a second before replying, "Naieem shayad apne kamre mein hoga."

Yalina nodded lightly. "Chale mai dekh leti hu. Actually, hume school mein project mila hai, toh uske liye ayi hu."

Ulfat nodded. "Ha mujhe Naieem ne bataya tha ke tum aaogi. Waise bhi sara time woh tumhari hi baat karta hai."

Yalina looked amused and raised an eyebrow. "Sach mein?"

Before anyone could say anything further, Naieem's panicked voice echoed through the courtyard.

"AMMI!"

Naieem jogged towards them, slightly out of breath. "Ammi, Yalina agayi. Aapne bataya bhi nahi mujhe."

Ulfat looked at him. "Abhi toh ayi hai."

Yalina raised her brow and gave him a smirk. "Aunty se kafi kuch pata chala hai mujhe."

Naieem looked at Ulfat and then back at Yalina. He let out a nervous chuckle and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Ammi mazaq kar rahi hongi... chalo na, hum project start karte hai."

Naieem practically sprinted from there, taking Yalina along with him.

They went into the drawing room, and Yalina placed all the art supplies she had brought on the floor. Naieem sat down beside her while she spread out the papers, paints, and sketch pens between them. Soon, the floor around them was scattered with project materials as they began working together.

**************************************************

While they were working on their project, cardboard pieces were scattered across the floor, and paint bottles sat open beside them.

Then a low pattering sound caught Yalina's attention. She looked up first, and there entered baby Innayat, crawling across the floor. She came over and sat right in the middle of everything, looking around as if she were inspecting their project. Yalina watched her with adoration in her eyes.

Innayat's eyes found her big brother, and she threw the toy she had brought with her towards him, asking him to play. Naieem gasped dramatically and looked at his baby sister. He picked up the toy and tossed it gently back towards her. Innayat immediately threw it at him again and squealed, "EHH DAAA!"

Yalina started laughing at the little chaos unfolding before them. Innayat's head snapped towards the new audience. She gave Yalina a proud smile, clearly pleased with her performance. Yalina forwarded her hands towards her, and Innu launched herself into her arms. Yalina gathered her carefully and kissed her soft cheeks.

"Naieem... she is soo cute and adorable."

Naieem kept the toy aside and shook his head. "Yeh tum isliye bol rahi ho kyu ke tumhe pura din iske piche nahi bhagna parta. Yeh crawl karte hue kahi bhi chali jati hai."

Yalina adjusted Innayat on her lap and played with her tiny hands.

"Kuch bhi ho... hai toh yeh bahut cute. Itni chotu si hai."

Naieem smiled too as he looked at his baby sister.

"Innu, Ammi kaha hai? Yaha kaise agayi tum?"

Innayat immediately started explaining in her baby language, waving her little hands around for emphasis. It looked as if she was describing all the struggles she had gone through to reach there. Yalina chuckled and kissed her chubby, soft cheeks. Just then, Ulfat entered the room, looking around.

"Yeh dekho, ise mai sare ghar mein dhund rahi hu aur yeh yaha hai."

Yalina looked up at her. "Aunty, yahi rehne de na ise."

Ulfat smiled knowingly and shook her head. "Nahi beta, yeh tum dono ko project nahi karne degi. 2 minute mein sab cheeze idhar se udhar hongi."

As if proving her point, Innayat reached for a paintbrush lying nearby and paint her forhead. The three of them laughed. Ulfat stepped forward and carefully took Innayat into her arms. Innayat immediately started protesting in baby sounds and stretched her hands towards Yalina, who smiled and gently tapped her tiny nose before Ulfat carried her away.

**************************************************

It was early evening when the main door opened and Rehman entered inside. Not seeing anyone around, he walked straight towards the hall. But Yalina saw him. Though she had seen Rehman before, she had never really looked at him properly. Most of the time, she had only caught glimpses of him from a distance or seen him on news channels. She had not interacted with him much either, as Rehman was usually at work or busy with his responsibilities.

Today, however, she observed him carefully. Rehman was dressed in a black kurta, his hair slightly messy from the wind outside. Yalina looked at him, blinked, then turned to look at Naieem. After a few more seconds, she looked back at Rehman.

"Naieem."

Naieem looked up from the project. "Hmm?"

Yalina continued in a matter-of-fact tone, "Your Baba is so handsome."

Naieem immediately choked on air. "What?"

Yalina leaned closer and lowered her voice as if sharing an important observation. "No, seriously... he's really hot."

Naieem's eyes grew wide. Yalina had never said anything like that before.

"YALINA!"

Yalina simply shrugged. "You know, he looks like a Hollywood actor."

"Yalina, he is my Baba."

"When did I deny that fact?"

Naieem stared at her in disbelief while she returned her attention to the project as if she had said nothing unusual.

"Project complete kar le hum apna."

Yalina nodded casually. "Theek hai."

**************************************************

Outside, Rehman entered the hall and realized someone was in the drawing room. He assumed a guest had come over. Just then, he spotted Faizal rushing outside with a football tucked under his arm. Rehman stopped him by placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Faizal, ghar par koi aya hai kya? Drawing room khula hai."

Faizal glanced towards the drawing room and a mischievous smile appeared on his face.

"Haan, Baba. Aapki hone wali bahu ayi hai."

Rehman frowned in confusion. "Meri hone wali bahu?"

But before he could ask anything else, Faizal broke free and ran off laughing.

"Faizal!"

Rehman shook his head as the boy disappeared outside.

"Yeh larka bhi na..."

Still confused by the strange statement, Rehman turned and headed towards his bedroom, looking for his wife. 

He entered the room and saw Ulfat and Innayat sitting on the carpet. Toys and books were scattered all around them. His face immediately softened, and a smile that was reserved only for his jaan appeared on his lips. He closed the door behind him. Innayat looked towards him and squealed in happiness. Her eyes lit up instantly.

"BABA!"

She immediately accelerated towards him on all fours. Rehman bent down and scooped her into his arms before she could crash into his legs. Innayat grabbed a fistful of his kurta and rested her head against his shoulder for exactly two seconds before trying to investigate the buttons on his collar. Ulfat smiled as she watched them.

"Aj aap jaldi agaye."

Rehman walked further inside and slipped an arm around Ulfat's shoulders, pulling her into a side hug. He replied before placing a soft kiss on her forehead.

"Haa kaam khatam hogaya tha isliye agaya."

Innayat was busy having a serious fight with the collar of his kurta, trying to chew on it, while Rehman tucked a loose strand of hair behind Ulfat's ear.

"Ghar par koi aya hai kya?"

Ulfat brushed a bit of fabric lint from his shoulder "Ha woh Yalina ayi hai."

Rehman frowned for a moment. "Kon Yalina?"

Ulfat gave him a look. "Kya matlab kon Yalina? Jameel bhai ki beti. Naieem ki dost."

Realization settled on his face. "Acha... Yalina."

Then something struck him. "Toh yeh Faizal ne mujhe aisa kyu bola ke meri hone wali bahu ayi hai?"

Ulfat chuckled and took Innayat from Rehman's arms before the baby succeeded in pulling off one of his buttons.

"Faizal na aisi ulti bate karta hai, phir Naieem gussa karta hai."

She made Innayat sit on the floor. The moment her feet touched the carpet, Innayat crawled away at impressive speed. Within seconds, she reached a picture book, opened it upside down, stared at it thoughtfully, then slapped a page with great confidence. Innayat started crawling around her parents, passing between them while they continued their conversation.

"Waise ek tarah se galat bhi nahi hai... aapka beta pasand karta hai use."

Rehman looked at Ulfat with amusement. "Sach? Usne khud kaha?"

Ulfat shrugged. "Nahi, khud nahi kaha... magar maa hu uski, sab nazar ata hai."

As they spoke, Innayat returned dragging a stuffed rabbit that was almost as big as her. Halfway there she got distracted by her own sock and sat down to examine it.

Rehman smiled warmly. "Aisa hai toh achi baat hai. Yalina kafi pyari bachi hai. Mai use apni bahu banane ke liye tayar hu."

Ulfat lightly pushed his arm. "Rehman, bache hai abhi woh dono. Parhayi karne do unhe. Jab bare hojayenge tab sochenge yeh sab."

Rehman smiled and moved a little closer to her. "Theek hai meri jaan, jaisa ap kahe"

While they were talking, Innayat had crawled behind them. Finding her path blocked by her parents standing too close together, she tried squeezing through the small gap between them. When she failed, she looked up in outrage.

"AHHH... BABA... MAMA!"

Her loud squeal immediately grabbed their attention. They both looked down. Innayat was sitting between them with her tiny arms stretched upward, passionately complaining in her baby language about the obstacle that had suddenly appeared in her route.

She pointed at them, then at the floor, then babbled even more as if presenting evidence for her case. For a moment, both Rehman and Ulfat simply stared at her. Then they burst out laughing. Innayat blinked at them in confusion before deciding their reaction was acceptable. She grinned proudly, clapped her hands, and immediately crawled away again in search of her next adventure.

**************************************************

It was dinner time. Ulfat sent Faizal to call Naieem and Yalina for dinner. Faizal entered the drawing room like a storm while shaking one of Innayat's rattles as if he were an officer announcing his arrival.

"Bhai aur bhabhi... mera matlab bhai aur baji, khana lag gaya hai. Ammi bula rahi hai, aap log aa jayein."

Naieem glared at Faizal. If looks could kill, Faizal would have died by now. Yalina pretended she hadn't heard anything and continued arranging the project papers. Faizal completely ignored his brother's glare, grinned proudly at the reaction he had received, and left the room before Naieem could throw something at him.

A few minutes later, they all entered the dining hall. Rehman was sitting at the head of the table with Innayat in his lap. The little girl was currently on a mission to start her own drumming concert. She repeatedly hit a spoon against the table, creating loud clinking sounds that echoed through the room.

"TAK! TAK! TAK!"

Innayat squealed happily at the noise she was making and immediately hit the spoon again. Ulfat sighed and reached over to take it from her. The moment the spoon disappeared from her hand, Innayat's face fell. For one second she stared at Ulfat in disbelief. Then came the protest.

"Aaaahhhhhh!"

She threw herself dramatically against Rehman's chest and buried her face there as if she had suffered a great injustice. Rehman chuckled and took the spoon from Ulfat before handing it back to her. Innayat immediately brightened up and resumed her concert.

Ulfat complained while shaking her head. "Tum aur bigaro ise, Rehman."

Rehman smiled and adjusted Innayat on his lap. "Koi baat nahi, meri jaan. Karne do use."

Satisfied with her victory, Innayat banged the spoon a few more times before becoming distracted by a glass of water. She stretched as far as she could to reach it.

"Na na na," Ulfat quickly moved the glass away.

Innayat frowned at the betrayal. Everyone settled down for dinner. As they ate, Yalina leaned slightly towards Naieem and nudged his arm again.

"I'm telling you again, your Baba is really too handsome. He doesn't even look like your Baba, he looks like your elder brother. In fact, both your parents are too hot to call them your parents and not your elder siblings."

Naieem nearly choked on his food. "What is wrong with you?" he muttered under his breath.

Across the table, Faizal heard her and immediately did a fake cough to hide his laughter.

"uhhu....uhhu..."

Naieem shot him another warning glare. Faizal looked away innocently. Meanwhile, Innayat had lost interest in her spoon and was now trying to steal food from Rehman's plate. Her tiny hand reached forward and grabbed a piece of bread before anyone could stop her.

"Innu..." Ulfat warned.

Innayat quickly stuffed it into her mouth and looked away as if she had done nothing.

Rehman laughed. "Dekha? Kitni masoom hai meri beti"

Ulfat gave him a look. "Jee bilkul apki tarha"

Innayat responded by smacking her tiny palm on the table and laughing at absolutely nothing. By the time dinner ended, everyone was smiling because of her constant antics.

Once they were done with dinner, Yalina finally took her leave and went back to her house. The moment she left, Naieem stood in front of Rehman and Ulfat. He looked at them as if they were the culprits behind all his problems. Meanwhile, Rehman and Ulfat were completely confused. Faizal spoke before anyone else. He leaned forward and grinned.

"Ajkal log bolne lage hain ke aap dono hamare Ammi aur Baba nahi, bare bhai behen lagte ho. Toh mai soch raha tha ke kyu na kal se mai aap dono ko Rehman bhai aur Ulfat aapi bulata hu. Chalega?"

Rehman immediately glared at him. "Mai tumhare kan ke niche bajaoon, chalega?"

Faizal took a cautious step back. Rehman continued, pointing a finger at him. "Parhayi mein dehan do tum. Is baar marks kam aye na toh dekhna, sara football khelna band kar dunga tumhara."

Faizal's smile disappeared instantly. Naieem spoke next. "Faizal, tum chup betho thori der. Tumse toh mai bad mein baat karunga."

Then he looked back at his parents. "Ammi... kya zaroorat thi aapko itne handsome insaan se shadi karne ki?"

Ulfat's eyes grew wide.

"Kya matlab?"

Naieem looked at Rehman, who was now frowning.

"Thora sa kam handsome larka nahi mila tha aapko market mein? Jo shadi ke kuch saal baad change lagne lagta."

From the side, Uzair stepped forward and casually threw an arm across Naieem's shoulder "Mera bhi yahi sawal hai bhabhi se. Kya soch kar inse shadi kari thi aapne, bhabhi?"

Rehman shot him a glare. "Mera bhi Minal se sawal hai."

He turned towards Minal, Uzair's wife. "Kya soch kar is gadhe se shadi kari thi?"

Minal pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.

At that moment, Innayat, who had been sitting on the carpet beside Ulfat, suddenly started crawling towards the center of the room with a napkin she had somehow stolen from the dining table.

"Areyy" Ulfat called.

Too late. Innayat proudly waved the napkin in the air like a victory flag before dropping it on Rehman's foot. Everyone ignored her accomplishment except Innayat herself. She clapped enthusiastically.

Naieem spoke again. "Ammi, meri class ki sari larkiya Baba ko dekh kar impressed hojati hai... Adhi larkiyon ko toh crush hi agaya hai Baba par."

Ulfat bit her lip to suppress her smile while Rehman gave a crooked smirk.

"Well... that's not my mistake...I can't help being handsome"

The room exploded. Everyone start laughing. 

Naieem soul left his body "BABA"

Rehman smirked "skill issue beta"

Faizal chirped from behind. "Bhai ko is baat se masla nahi ke unki class ki larkiyo ko Baba par crush hai." He stepped forward with a mischievous smile directed at Naieem. "Balke is baat se ke Yalina ne Baba ko hot aur handsome bola hai."

Ulfat, Rehman, and Minal all choked on air. Uzair doubled over laughing.

"Beta, yeh toh bahut tough competition hogaya hai aapka."

Naieem looked at Uzair in horror. "Chachu, hase mat."

Then he turned to Rehman. "Aur Baba, aap Yalina ke samne kyu aye?"

Rehman straightened in his seat as if he had been personally offended. "Mai kab aya uske samne?"

"Dining room mein."

Rehman crossed his arms. "Haa toh kya? Yeh mera ghar hai.....mai kahi bhi jasakta hu"

"Uske samne nahi."

Rehman raised an eyebrow. "Ek baat batao. Tumhe kyu itni mirche lag rahi hai? Tumhari toh woh dost hai na sirf?"

Naieem immediately became speechless. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. He started stammering while trying to find an answer.

"Mai... woh... matlab..."

Before he could complete a sentence, Innayat crawled over and grabbed the edge of his trouser. When he looked down, she smiled at him with all four of her tiny teeth.

Faizal nudged his brother. "Bhai, relax. Hum bhabhi ko bol denge Baba ko na dekhe."

Naieem snapped his head towards him. "Tum toh pitoge mujhse, Faizal."

Then he looked towards Ulfat. "Ammi, aapko pata hai? Isne akar bola ke bhai aur bhabhi, Ammi khane ke liye bula rahi hain."

He pointed accusingly at Faizal. "Yalina ke samne usko bol raha tha yeh sab. Mai peet dunga isko."

Rehman nodded in agreement. "Isne mujhe bhi yahi bola ke aapki hone wali bahu ayi hai. Bahut bari cheez hai yeh Faizal." He slowly stood up. "Yeh toh mujhse bhi pitega ab."

Faizal's eyes widened. He looked at his father. Then at his brother. Then back at his father. Realizing both of them were completely serious, he turned around and bolted.

"AMMIIII!"

He sprinted towards the other wing of the haveli.

"RUKO!" Naieem shouted, running after him.

"AJA IDHAR!" Rehman called as he followed behind.

The sound of footsteps echoed through the entire house. Innayat watched them disappear around the corner. For a moment she blinked. Then, deciding this looked fun, she squealed loudly and tried to crawl after them.

Ulfat quickly scooped her up before she could join the chase. "Nahi madam, aap nahi."

Innayat protested by waving her tiny arms. "Da! Da! Da!"

Ulfat shook her head while trying not to laugh. Across the room, Minal and Uzair were still smiling at the chaos. As Rehman and Naieem continued chasing Faizal through the haveli, Ulfat simply sighed.

"Yeh ghar kabhi normal nahi ho sakta."

Then she carried Innayat to their room while the sounds of Faizal screaming for mercy echoed from somewhere down the hallway.

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[tojisloft]

idiots in love [uzair x oc] [01]

next chapter

i can’t believe i’m actually doing this but to be cringe is to be free and whatnot, also. idk what this is ?? atp but yeah it is what it is.

word count: 2.5k (not proofread, not edited)

it goes without saying that the characters (except for my ocs) in this story are solely based on the fictionalised version depicted in aditya dhar’s dhurandhar and are not meant to glorify any of their real life counterparts.

Mira knew her marriage was always going to be a political affair, she had made peace with it. She knew her father and his ways, she had learned early on that it would be better for everyone if she just kept quiet and endured it. That it would never matter what she said or what she felt as long as he willed it.

Amal Rasheed had never been anything more than a businessman. He saw his own marriage too, as nothing but a means to an end, a golden opportunity to expand his business empire, pushing him one step closer to his mission, establishing himself as one of the most influential figures in real estate, owning most of the properties in Karachi and nearby cities.

She expected to marry someone she had never known, but she never expected that someone to be one of the most terrifying men she had met. She knew her father was cruel, but to barter her to a family of gangsters? That was a new low. She had expected to be paired with the son of some low life politician or even a struggling businessman, but never to Uzair Baloch, Rehman Dakait’s terrifying shadow that destroyed everything in its path.

She knew they frequented her house and she knew of their work, and how her father hired them to do his bidding. One could never succeed in Karachi without getting his hands dirty.

The girl simply failed to understand her father’s intention behind his decision, Rehman's gang already provided him with the best of their services (for which they were fairly compensated). Nor did she understand why the Baloch brothers agreed for the union, there was nothing that they couldn’t have, and if their goal was to coerce her father for more money or land, they could very well manage it on their own, they had enough power.

The entire ordeal left a bitter taste in her mouth.

She didn’t know why he had agreed in the first place? She had no choice, no say in the matter, but he did. She was just a pawn in their games, but he was a king, he could do anything he wanted and no one would bat an eye.

She sunk into the couch, shrinking herself as much as she could. She had stopped listening a while ago, drowning out the sound of her father’s voice as her thoughts ran a mile a minute and her fingers tugged on her dupatta in a desperate attempt to ground herself.

It was suffocating and could feel his eyes on her, she refused to look up, practising what little power that she held.

“Baccho ko akele baat karne de?” Her eyes snapped to Ulfat Baloch, the woman’s gentle smile held equal amounts of sympathy and understanding. It was the first time that someone had even thought to consider her opinion, Ulfat didn’t look at Rehman or her father when she voiced her thought, her fierce eyes settled on Mira.

It was as though she was the only one in the room who acknowledged Mira’s quiet presence, who even remotely seemed to value her opinion. Her eyes stung, but she bit her cheek and nodded slowly as she met her father’s hardened eyes. Of course he didn’t want to leave them alone, his knew his daughter and her sharp tongue, he didn’t want anyone ruining his plans.

It was the first time she had met the woman who held the key to Rehman’s heart, and something didn't add up, she radiated warmth and grace as opposed to her husband, whose every move was cold, lethal and calculated.

Soon, the elders cleared out of the room leaving her and Uzair in deafening silence. He was toying with a glass of whiskey. He cleared his throat and she braced herself, her fingers once again fidgeting with the edge of her dupatta.

“Aap ko manzoor hai ye rishta?”

She almost laughed in his face, the sheer audacity of the man, as if he wasn’t sitting in this very room when her father had announced it.

“Mere abbu ko manzoor hai. That’s what matters.” She reminded him, and if he heard her voice crack, he didn’t say anything. It was his turn to look away, he was well versed with how her father operated.

“Aap mujhse kuch puchna nahi chahti?” He couldn’t take the silence that had settled between them.

“Kyun? Aapko mujhse aur kuch puchna hai kya?” She snapped at him.

It was new for him to not know what to say. He was always ready with witty comebacks or a snide comment. He had never been the one to walk on eggshells, but this was new and he didn’t know how to navigate through it.

“For what it matters, you can do whatever you want after we get married,” he spoke softly after a moment had passed, the concern lacing his tone was evident, it was something he never thought he was capable of. “I heard you were studying and I’m not going to be the one to stop you.”

How generous, she scoffed to herself, but even so, relief coursed through her veins at that. It was the least he could do for her, and even though she did her best to hide it, his eyes spotted how her shoulders slumped and her fingers stopped fidgeting.

“And what about you?” The words slipped out of her lips before she could think. “What about your work?”

“That’s the last thing you have to worry about.” He answered in an instant, and she took a note of how he tensed at that.

She knew that was impossible, and a helpless shiver ran down her spine, she was once again painfully reminded of his world that revolved around blood, carnage and violence. He was a warlord and his hands would always be covered in blood no matter how many times he’d wash them and she didn’t know how to live with that, the violence that clung to him like a shadow, that followed him everywhere like a devoted lover.

The pain behind her eyes seemed to worsen, travelling to her temples.

“I’m going to my room.” She informed him, suddenly getting on her feet. “Abbu puche toh unhe bata dena, I have a headache.”

—

The date was set, her father had decided it, of course.

A few days later Ulfat showed up again, seeking out the younger girl and taking her shopping. It was all an excuse to get to know her of course, Ulfat knew the girl didn’t have a mother, and wanted to make the transition for her as smooth as possible, given the circumstances. Besides, every girl had the right to enjoy her wedding, and if Ulfat had to drag her out of her father’s house just to see her smile for a while, then so be it.

“How have you been?” She laid a soft hand on her shoulder, her tone laced with understanding, and Mira realized that Ulfat was the only one who could even try to comprehend the torrential storm of emotions brewing inside her.

She appreciated the older woman for it. It had been a long time since someone had thought for her, and of her well-being, whereas her father had other, better priorities that needed attending. He had left the very next day whatever new business he had occupied himself with.

“I’m okay,” Mira admitted with a reluctant sigh. “It's just, I don’t know, baji, sab kuch itna jaldi ho gaya.”

Ulfat offered quiet comfort, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Ab ye sab baatein chodo, we’ll enjoy ourselves today. It’s been a while since I went shopping, and you need to get out of your room.”

The two of them spent the whole day switching between shops and malls, trying to find the perfect match of fabrics and dyes.

She learned a lot about Ulfat that day and how her world consisted of her two boys (she would’ve never guessed that Rehman was the family type), how the two of them had taken in a young Uzair when his parents had passed away, how she liked her tea a certain way and promised to make some for her, how Naeem and Faisal, her two boys found a way to conjure up chaos in the house. She smiled at that, she had always felt the quiet loneliness of being an only child, at least their house wasn’t plagued by silence that could wound a soul.

Ulfat also shared some stories from when she and Rehman got married but Mira could not fathom the man being domestic in any way whatsoever, she made it seem as if he was completely and wholly at her mercy.

Despite the darkness in her husband’s life, Ulfat shined brighter than ever, she seemed the perfect epitome of glowing kindness and warmth that seemed to envelop Mira in a comforting embrace. She had gone above and beyond to make her feel comfortable and welcome, reassuring her and chasing her worries away with a maternal warmth that Mira had never experienced before.

Before they knew it, the day came to an end. They had rummaged through thousands of fabrics and myriad shops that Mira never even knew existed. To say that she was exhausted was an understatement, her feet ached, and her hands were tired from lugging around the bags.

“I can’t thank you–” Mira began, reaching for her hand. The two of them had certainly gone over the top, one must’ve thought they bought all of Karachi.

“Shh, we’re almost family now,” Ulfat smiled, gently tucking a strand of Mira's hair behind her ear. She ignored how her stomach churned painfully at that. Family.

“Let’s go, Uzair must be waiting outside.”

Mira froze for a second before gaining her footing. “What?”

“He’s driving us home,” Ulfat explained as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, grabbing Mira's cold hand. “Chalo.”

She spotted his tall frame standing outside the mall, he was smoking a cigarette leaning on the side of the black jeep. A fresh wave of anxiety washed over her, everything was getting too real, the shiny fabrics and time spent away from home could only distract her for so long. Every time she remembered who he was, the pit in her stomach worsened and the fear left her paralyzed. She couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t just his broad physique, but his presence was loud and insanely overwhelming, suffocating, something Mira wasn’t sure how to digest.

When he saw them, he took long strides to reach them, effectively taking the shopping bags off their hands. And fingers brushed against hers, she ignored it.

The car ride home was silent. They didn’t talk a lot, much to Ulfat’s dismay, Mira even dozed off on her shoulder for sometime, tired from walking around all day.

When they finally reached the Baloch residence, Mira decided to thank her once again before taking her leave, but Ulfat insisted Mira stay for dinner, and she paled at that, the thought of spending more time in the house where the two of the most feared men of Karachi lived made her chest throb. She felt like she was willingly walking into the lion’s den.

“Baji, aap kyun takleef le rahi hai,” Mira started in an attempt to convince her otherwise, but Ulfat remained adamant.

“Arey,” it was Rehman that spoke this time, making his way to the verandah, his voice impossibly considerate, something Mira couldn’t imagine. “Isme takleef kaisi, beta, aur waise bhi Rasheed sahab toh bahar gaye hai na?”

“Aa jao, chalo.” That was the final nail to the coffin, his words were final, and Mira had no say in the matter as Ulfat once again dragged her inside.

Their haveli was gigantic, tucked into a silent corner away from the chaotic streets of Lyari, spanning across multiple acres, with wide balconies and ceilings that stretched to the skies. It was well-lived in, and had a calm, tender, homey feeling to it, even with all the skeletons buried in their closets. In a way it was extremely grounding.

The dinner was anything but quiet, with Naeem and Faisal loudly complaining about their day at school, and being excited that someone new had joined them today. They began telling her stories about Uzair, most of them made her second guess if he was the same man that the streets of Karachi feared. Mira in response, shared some of her funny stories from when she was young.

Uzair helped her clean the table afterwards when Ulfat had gone to put the kids to bed, the two of them working with practised ease as if they had been doing it since ages. Mira once again chose to ignore the warmth in her chest.

“Uzair,” Rehman nodded at him, lighting a cigarette. “Bacchi ko ghar chod ke aa, it’s late.”

Ulfat bid Mira goodbye with a gentle, affectionate hug that felt dangerously warm, she didn’t want to let go.

The two of them were alone and once again, the silence was a pinching reminder of her cruel, impending fate.

“Did you enjoy yourself today?” Uzair asked, he hoped she wouldn’t notice the way his fingers tapped on the steering nervously, glancing her way from the driver’s seat.

She nodded and hummed in agreement. He was putting some effort, making small talk, the least she could do was reciprocate, and respond to his amateur attempts to get a conversation going.

“Yeah, it was nice getting out of the house.”

“How was your day?” She shut her eyes as soon as the words left her lips, mentally cursing herself. Who even talks like that?

He bit the inside of his cheek, contemplating his next words, though he wasn’t sure if she’d like anything he had to say about his work. He noticed the way she tensed up whenever they were alone, how her fingers nervously played with the edge of her dupatta. It was clear as day that she was apprehensive of him, and he didn’t blame her for it, any sane person would be.

She looked over at him only to find his knuckles gripping the steering in a death grip, and she chided herself.

“It was okay,” he finally replied, his fingers drumming along the steering. “Bhabhi ne bataya unko aaj maza aaya.”

She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or concerned about his lack of response even though she had seen the deflection coming from a mile away.

“Yeah,” she smiled, remembering the day she had, and spared a dismissive glance at the numerous bags that sat in the back. “Unhe toh aur bhi shopping karni thi, unka bas chale toh pura Karachi khareed leti.”

That fetched a small laugh from him. “Of course.”

The air between them had started to feel familiar, it felt easier to talk.

“So, tell me, did you really hit the ball in your team’s goalpost?”

He groaned in annoyance. “It was one time!”

“That’s not what I heard.” She teased, surprising herself.

“Don’t listen to everything Naeem says, he exaggerates a lot.”

She laughed at that. It was nice, for a moment she was able to forget that was a lethal killing machine, for a moment was able to pretend that he was simply a guy who played football with his nephew, that was much easier for her to accept than the reality.

When the car finally pulled into her driveway, he hurried to her side, opening the door before she could reach for the handle, he carried her bags and everything before following her inside.

He scribbled his number on a random piece of paper before handing it to her, it was for emergencies, he had told her. The reality struck her like a physical blow when realised what he meant by emergencies.

She wasn’t just inheriting the Baloch name with the marriage but also their enemies, his enemies, and he was worried for her, despite her house being in one of the most expensive areas of Karachi, he still didn’t want to take any chances.

She couldn’t sleep that night either.

me as i’m 5k words into a fic i never thought i’d write

mira realising she’s getting married to uzair

also her approaching every situation w the anxiety of an animal being hunted for sport

a/n: i don’t usually do taglists, but lmk if you guys wanna do that ?? i’m used to posting to the void 😭 i also cannot go w/o making memes which you gusy alr saw

this fic is supposed to be slowburn if i pace it right and most of it will be pre dhurandhar, though i’m not yet sure if i will write cannon events into this but i do want to include some scenes from the movie, so we’ll see. i suck at planning. also the title is just a random ao3 tag lmfaoo i couldn’t think of anything else but i think it fits. for the time being my inbox is always open, but please bear w/me as i’m a full time student and i might not always be quick to respond.

also spent the whole weekend catching up pre reads so this was supposed to be posted on friday but here we are,,, happy monday i guess. i also dk if this is an uzair fic or ulfat fic bc LMFAOOOO ulfat bbg <33 i guess this is also a diff perspective than most bc i know all of them are hot as fuck but if i ever saw them irl i would RUN AWAY !! but mira my baby does not have that option so she’s doing her best ok. give her some credit.

you’d think the way i’m obsessed w akshaye i would write abt him but this idea was plaguing my mind ok

also if any of you are into jujutsu kaisen, cod, one piece, dr who (or superwholock) and ofc formula one, etc etc hello hi !! you can find some of my works in my masterlist and i’m also working on a one piece fic which is going to be so fucking long ohmygof but yeah !!

© tojisloft 2026. All rights reserved.

[tere-naal-nachna]

The Price of the Snatched Prayer

WARNING - Extreme torture. Don’t read if you don’t like gore, screams or blood.  Please read Part 1, linked in the 'Note', again to feel the satisfaction of the torture, we need that anger in ourselves alive to enjoy it. NOTE - This part is the continuation of the 'His answered prayer' written by this talented lady @cloudmast. I just took the responsibility to write the torture part <3

The factory’s rusted doors groaned shut behind them, sealing the dim interior in a thick, metallic hush. Fluorescent tubes flickered overhead, casting a sickly pallor over the concrete floor littered with oil stains and broken pallets. 

In the centre of the space stood a heavy wooden chair, its back bolted to a steel frame, the seat slick with old grease. Shehzad was already bound to it, thick ropes biting into his wrists and ankles, his chest heaving as he tried to draw breath through the terror that clung to his throat like a second skin.

Rehman Dakait, the father, stepped forward, his shoes striking the concrete with a rhythm that matched the pounding in his chest. In his hand he gripped a thick iron rod, its surface pitted from years of use. He lifted it, eyes locked on the trembling man before him, and without a word brought it down, against the soft flesh of Shehzad’s groin.

A guttural scream ripped from Shehzad’s throat, a raw, animal sound that echoed off the walls. ‘Ahhh!’ he choked, his hips jerking involuntarily as the rod struck again, this time angling upward to crush the base of his cock. Rehman’s jaw tightened, each blow was a deliberate punctuation to the words he whispered, voice low and furious, matching the cadence of the diary entry he’d clutched in his other hand.

‘I wanted to come home…’ Rehman said, the rod descending again, striking the shaft just below the glans. Shehzad’s body convulsed, a spray of precum and blood misting the air. ‘I wanted to go back to them…’ Another blow, this time targeting the left testicle, the impact sending a shock of white‑hot pain through his pelvis. He gasped, tears streaming down his cheeks, his mouth forming silent pleas that were swallowed by the roar of his own agony.

Uzair and Hamza moved like shadows, their massive frames locking the chair’s legs in place. When the force of Rehman’s swing threatened to tip the seat, Uzair slammed his shoulder against the left leg, Hamza braced the right, their muscles bulging as they held the chair immovable.

Their hands clamped Shehzad’s hair, forcing his head up so his eyes locked onto Rehman’s blazing gaze. Each time Rehman’s lips moved to recite the diary line, the two men’s grips tightened, a silent promise that there would be no escape, no mercy.

Outside the immediate circle of violence, Ulfat, the mother, stood like a statue carved from ice. Her arms were crossed, her gaze fixed on her husband’s relentless assault. When Rehman’s eyes flickered, when a tremor of grief threatened to break through his hardened exterior, she lifted her chin and gave him a single, cold look. The world seemed to still, the fury in Rehman’s jaw hardened, his grip on the rod became viselike, and he drove it down again with renewed ferocity.

‘I want to live in the haveli again…’ The rod struck the right testicle this time, a sickening crunch accompanying the impact. Shehzad’s scream rose to a piercing wail, his body bucking against the ropes, his breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps. Sweat and blood mixed on his skin, slicking the rod as Rehman pulled it back for another swing.

The blows continued, each one a brutal punctuation to the words from the diary, each one a reminder of the life that had been snuffed out inside his daughter’s fragile body. The room filled with the wet, meaty thuds of iron meeting flesh, the sharp intake of Shehzad’s breath, the low, animalistic grunts of Rehman’s exertion, and the choked sobs that escaped the husband’s lips when the pain became too much to bear.

After what felt like an eternity, Rehman lowered the rod, his chest heaving, his knuckles white from the strain. He stepped back, the rod clattering to the floor with a dull clang. Shehzad hung limp in the chair, his groin a ruined mess of bruised, swollen tissue, blood seeping through the ropes and pooling on the concrete beneath him. His eyes were wide, unfocused, staring at the ceiling as if trying to flee the horror inside his own skin.

Ulfat finally moved. She slipped from the shadows, her bare feet silent on the gritty floor. In her hand she cradled a small, gleaming scalpel, its edge catching the weak light. She approached Shehzad with the calm of a surgeon preparing for a routine incision, her expression devoid of any flicker of emotion, no pity, no rage, just an empty, terrifying stillness.

She leaned close, her face exactly in front of his face, and whispered in a voice that sounded like a lullaby gone wrong, ‘Tell me, did you like the way she screamed when you…?’ Shehzad’s eyes darted to hers, terror widening them further. He tried to speak, but only a choked whimper escaped his lips.

Ulfat’s smile was a thin line. She lifted the scalpel and, with a precision that made the air feel colder, began to trace a thin line along the ridge of his left cheek. The blade kissed the skin, parting it with a whisper of hiss, as a thin line of blood welled up, dark and slow. She did not flinch, her eyes remained fixed on his, unblinking.

‘Did you like the way she begged?’ she asked, her tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. She pressed the scalpel deeper, the cut widening, a small flap of skin peeling back like a petal. Shehzad’s scream tore from his throat, a raw, ragged sound that seemed to shake the very rafters. Blood spurted, hot and slick, running down his jaw and staining the collar of his shirt.

Ulfat paused, lifted a small dish of coarse sea salt, and let a pinch fall into the fresh wound. The salt hissed as it met the exposed flesh, a burning, searing pain that made Shehzad’s body convulse violently. He bucked against the ropes, a guttural howl tearing from his lungs, his eyes rolling back as the agony exploded across his face.

‘Did you like the way she cried?’ Ulfat asked again, her voice unchanged. She took a fine needle, its tip glinting, and began to stitch the wound shut with thick, black thread. Each pull of the needle was a slow, deliberate tug, the thread biting into the raw edges, sealing the pain inside. Shehzad’s whimpers turned into moans, each stitch, a fresh wave of torment that made his whole body shudder.

Uzair and Hamza watched from a few feet away, their faces a mixture of awe and unease. Even these hardened men of Lyari felt a chill run down their spines at the sight of Ulfat’s unflinching precision. When she whispered a command “Pass the needle” they obeyed without hesitation, handing her the next instrument as if they were assistants in a macabre operating theatre.

Ulfat moved on to his eyes. She lifted a tiny, curved blade and, with a whisper of air, sliced the lid of his left eye open. The globe of the eye bulged, a wet, glistening sphere exposed to the harsh light. Shehzad’s scream was a raw, animal howl, his body thrashing as tears of blood streamed down his cheek. Ulfat did not blink, she simply held the eye open, her gaze never leaving his, as she began to peel away the thin membrane, layer by layer, exposing the raw nerve endings beneath.

‘Did you like the way she begged for mercy?’ she asked, her voice a soft murmur that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. She pressed a dab of salt into the exposed cornea, the sting making Shehzad’s entire head jerk back as if trying to escape his own skull. He choked on his own blood, a wet, gurgling sound escaping his lips as the pain radiated through his sinuses.

When the left eye was reduced to a ruined, pulsing mass, Ulfat turned to the right. She repeated the process, cut, expose, salt, stitch, each action performed with the same eerie calm. The room filled with the soft, wet sounds of slicing, the hiss of salt meeting flesh, the faint, wet tug of thread pulling through skin, and the incessant, broken cries of Shehzad, whose voice had devolved into a series of ragged whimpers and broken gasps.

Meanwhile, Uzair and Hamza had moved to the brutal, drawn‑out methods of the streets. They dragged a heavy coil of barbed wire from a corner, its ends frayed and rusted. With a grunt, Uzair wrapped the wire around Shehzad’s left wrist, pulling it tight until the barbs bit into the flesh, drawing thin lines of blood that welled up and trickled down his forearm. Hamza did the same to the right wrist, the wire biting deep, each twist a fresh scream from the captive.

‘Saale madarchod’ Uzair snarled, his voice raw with anger. ‘Kya laga tujhe? Baloch ki beti ke saath ye suluk karega aur bach jayega?’ He yanked the wire harder, the barbs tearing through skin and muscle, exposing the pale tendons beneath. Shehzad’s wrist twisted unnaturally, a sickening crack echoing as the bone gave way under the pressure.

Hamza, meanwhile, produced a set of rusted pliers from his toolbox. He clamped them onto Shehzad’s left pinky finger, the jaws biting down with a crushing force. ‘Let’s see how you like losing what you think makes you a man,’ he growled, twisting the pliers. The finger snapped with a loud, wet pop, the joint dislocating, the nail tearing away from the nail bed. Shehzad’s scream was a high‑pitched shriek that seemed to slice the air.

Uzair moved to the other hand, repeating the process, pliers, twist, snap, each finger broken in turn, the sound of bone breaking and flesh tearing filling the factory. By the time they finished, both hands were a mess of shattered bones, torn ligaments, and exposed marrow, the fingers bent at grotesque angles, useless lumps of meat that twitched involuntarily with each pulse of pain.

They then turned to his feet. A car battery sat nearby, its terminals exposed. Uzair slapped the red clamp onto the sole of Shehzad’s right foot, Hamza attaching the black clamp to the left. A jolt of electricity surged through his body, making his muscles spasm violently. He arched off the chair, a choked scream tearing from his throat as the current coursed through his nerves, setting every fiber alight with fire. The smell of burnt flesh and ozone filled the air.

‘Feel that?’ Uzair yelled, his voice hoarse from exertion. ‘Humari bachhi ke saath ye sab nahi karna chahiye the Shehzad!’ He increased the voltage, the current surging stronger, making Shehzad’s body convulse in a grotesque dance. His eyes rolled back, his tongue lolling out as saliva and blood frothed at the corners of his mouth.

Through it all, Ulfat stood beside Rehman, her hand resting lightly on his forearm. She watched the spectacle with the same detached interest she had shown while suturing his wounds. When Rehman’s gaze drifted to her, searching for an anchor, she met his eyes with that same cold, unblinking stare. The look was enough to rekindle his fury, to steel his resolve against any hint of weakness.

Rehman rose from his chair, his movements slow, deliberate. He walked over to the battered form of Shehzad, who now resembled a broken doll, limbs twisted, face a mask of blood and tears, chest heaving with each ragged, painful breath. Ulfat slipped a small, snub‑nosed revolver from the holster at her hip, its metal cool against her palm. She lifted it, aimed at the center of his ruined face, and pulled the trigger.

The report was deafening in the confined space, a sharp, deafening crack that seemed to split the very air. A blossom of blood and brain matter exploded from Shehzad’s forehead, his head snapping back violently. His body went limp, the ropes slackening as the life drained out of him in a final, shuddering gasp. The smell of gunpowder mingled with the iron tang of blood, thick and suffocating.

Ulfat lowered the weapon, the smoke curling lazily from the barrel. She turned to Rehman, her expression still devoid of emotion. ‘It’s done’ she said, her voice a flat, calm whisper that seemed to echo off the walls.

Rehman nodded, his jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving the corpse. He reached out, took Ulfat’s hand in his, his grip firm, his fingers intertwining with hers as if to draw strength from her icy resolve. Together, they turned and walked away from the factory, the heavy door clanging shut behind them, leaving the broken remains of Shehzad to lie in the dim, blood‑slicked silence, a testament to the ruthless, unrelenting vengeance of a father and a mother who had become judge, jury, and executioner in the heart of Lyari.

SO HERE WE GO! OUR FIRST COLLAB!!!!!! DO TELL US HOW WAS IT SWEETCHEEKS <333

Tags - @peonies7002 @geometric-circle @manjari08 @chaotickittydreamer @lakshana-ke-lakshan @patrakilekha @harrystyleskiwi9 @cakiebleh @rolarcoster @nainash @sanpiece @mainyahaankyunhoon @sincerelyemmekay @ashnotashkechum @shippingtheshippers @depressedgiftedburnout @buchanana00 @vcantwrite @trishnayaaah @rehmandakaitswife @girlonfloralcrack @eternalstarrynight @nervouscashrascalflowers @akshayekhannadilf @desi-brownie @fellivra @dc-reign @rini4everdreaming @sparksfromhell @yaadonmein @wan2bey-n @severusthings @dumbestchaos @noor-archive @marlena-marlena @shadylovedhurandhar @scentedwolfdragon @goldenharrysworld @aaglagibastimainhumapnemastimain @layinglowkey @vakalatnelagadiye @tanipartner @desigurlie @lessbutliving @hazeljisulatte @y0uneversawmehere @goodnightkatherine @tere-ni-kararan @laal-pari @cloudmast @warnermeadowsgirl @mandaakiniii

[nazmnotes]

The weight of the Veil -

گھونگھٹ کا بوجھ

Taglist; @maraudersbitchesassemble @yalina-rangi @hum-suffer @ramayantika @seongjeholic @maooyinysparkle @dearrosary @feministmenlover @jj293 @houseofbreadpakoda @luuuuuuvshoon @desi-brownie @bonradswiftie @trippitoas27 @professor-cant-fuck @daydreaming-in-moonlight @thatsaneblogger @mylifesalreadyfucked @severusthings @ooopssssu @suvarnarekha @nooriyat @bigbrainenergytingz @stark1433000 @gloomilyblazingvoyage @strawbxx-blog @erenfox @12tan20 @tomzrdjcill @rehmandakaitswife @dc-reign @akshayepaglu @chaoticnerdsublime @mariaaysbusjs

Pairing: (young) Rehman Dakait x Ulfat

Note: MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT. This content is intended for audiences 18+ only.

A/N: Hii guys! I'm so sorry this comes later than planned, but I had a little Family emergency that I had to take care of. Thank you for being understanding! - This is my first canon x canon fic I wrote, and I love Rehman and Ulfat together sooo much, so yeah this is a bit different from the things I wrote before, but I hope you'll still like it! Enjoy!

Warnings; flashback, wedding-night themed, nervous!Ulfat, arranged marriage, instant chemistry between the characters, wholesome!Rehman, a bit of humor, SMUT. body worship, heavy tension, dirty talk, oral (both recieving (kinda), hand job, unprotected sex, virginity loss, overstimulation.

The air inside the upper chambers of the house was thick, not with the breeze from the Arabian Sea but with the suffocating, sweet weight of tradition. The scent of crushed jasmine buds—motia—strung into heavy garlands clung to the velvet curtains, mixing with the sharp, expensive musk of sandalwood incense.

Downstairs, the rhythm of the dholak thudded like a heartbeat against the floorboards, accompanied by the high-pitched laughter of girls singing wedding songs, but up here, in the sanctuary of the bridal suite, the world felt suspended in gold.

​Ulfat stood behind Yalina, her reflection a matured, sharpened mirror of the girl sitting before her. At forty, Ulfat carried the stillness of a woman who had survived storms and learned to command them. Her hands, decorated with deep mahogany henna that reached her wrists, were steady as she pinned the heavy, emerald-encrusted jhumar onto Yalina’s side-swept hair.

​Yalina’s fingers were knotted together in her lap, twisting the gold bangles that clinked nervously. Her ghungat—the heavy bridal veil of deep crimson—lay pooled like a spill of blood across her shoulders, weighted down by a king’s ransom in gold embroidery.

​"He's a good man, really is, Chachi.."

Yalina whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant thumping of the drums. "Hamza... he is honorable. He protects us. But he is so restless. Whenever he sits, his foot is tapping. Whenever he speaks, his eyes are searching the door. He is like a flame that cannot find a wick. I am afraid that when we are alone, that restlessness will turn into... into disappointment.. What if I am too quiet for a man who never stops moving?"

​Ulfat paused. She looked at the girl’s reflection— a girl she knew for years, seeing the trembling lip, the eyes heavy with kohl and apprehension. A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corners of Ulfat’s mouth. It wasn’t a smile of pity; it was the smile of a general who knew the secret map to a fortress.

​"You think his restlessness is a fire you must fight, meri jaan?" Ulfat asked softly. She picked up a bottle of attar and dabbed a drop behind Yalina’s ears, the scent of earth after rain blooming between them. "You think because he is a man of action, a man of the streets of Lyari, that he requires a woman who is a riot?"

​She placed her hands firmly on Yalina’s shoulders, grounding her.

​"Men like Hamza—men who live their lives with their hands on the hilts of their swords—they do not need more motion. They are restless because the world demands they be on guard. They are like the sea, Yalina; always churning, always hitting the rocks. But even the sea has a floor. Even the sea has a place where the water is still.."

​Ulfat leaned down, her cheek brushing against the silk of Yalina’s veil.

​"My Rehman... you see the pictures of him now..you know him long enough.. You hear the stories. They talk about him as the most dangerous man of Lyari.. They talk about the man who broke the law and wrote his own. But they didn't see him when the door of the nikkah chamber closed. They didn't see the man who was young and unsure, with a heart that beat so fast I could see it through his vest.."

​She felt Yalina’s tension begin to ebb, the girl leaning back into her touch.

​"I was younger than you at my Wedding.. eighteen," Ulfat continued, her voice dropping to a silken hum. "I was terrified. I thought he was a predator, and I was the lamb. But I learned something that night—a secret that has kept me as the queen of that man’s heart until this very day and years to come. Men are easy creatures, Yalina. They are simple in their needs, even the most powerful ones. They do not want a woman who is a soldier.. They want a woman who is their safe place."

​Ulfat’s fingers traced the gold border of Yalina’s dupatta. "When he is restless, you do not move with him. You become the anchor. You touch his hand—not with force, but with a gentleness that says,'you are safe here.' You look him in the eye, and you show him that his storm cannot shake you. A man like that... he doesn't melt for gold or for beauty. He melts for the woman who isn't afraid of his silence. He melts under a gentle touch because it is the only thing in this world that he can not fight..and-"

​A sharp, rhythmic rapping at the heavy wooden door startled them. "Ulfat Bi!" a voice called out—one of Yalinas Cousins. "The makeup artist is insisting on the final touches!"

​The room seemed to vibrate with the sudden influx of excitement. Yalina took a jagged breath, her eyes searching Ulfat’s one last time.

​"Go," Ulfat whispered, kissing the girl’s forehead. "Remember. You are the stillness he is searching for. Do not be afraid of tonight."

​As the room filled with the flurry of cousins, bridesmaids, and the sharp scent of hairspray, Ulfat stepped back. She watched as they swarmed Yalina, adjusting the heavy fabrics, reapplying the gold leaf to her eyelids, and ushering her toward the mirror for the final transformation.

​Slowly, Ulfat backed away, slipping out of the circle of light and toward the shadowed corner of the room near the balcony. She leaned against the cool stone of the window frame, her breath catching in her throat.

​The chaos of the wedding—the shouting of the men outside, the cracks of the celebratory gunfire in the distance, the smell of the biryani cooking in massive cauldrons in the courtyard—all of it began to blur.

​She was alone with her thoughts now, the noise of the present becoming a muffled hum behind the roar of her own memory. She looked down at her palms. She could almost feel the weight of a different red dress—stiff, new, and smelling of the trunk it had been kept in.

​She remembered the way her own breath had sounded in the silence of a room much humbler than this one. She remembered the sound of heavy boots echoing in the hallway, the way the floorboards had groaned under the weight of a man who carried the world on his back.

​She wasn't the widow of a legend in this moment. She wasn't the aunt or the matriarch. She was eighteen again, sitting on the edge of a bed covered in rose petals that felt like thorns, waiting for the door to click shut. She remembered the fear, yes—but more than that, she remembered the exact moment she realized she held the power to turn a man like Rehman into melting soft butter in her hands.

​The ghost of a young Rehman moved in the shadows of her mind, his eyes dark, his movements jagged with that same restlessness Yalina feared now.

​Ulfat closed her eyes, letting the memory pull her under..

​"Qabool hai."

​The words were so soft they were almost swallowed by the heavy silk of her veil, a mere thimble-full of sound offered into the expectant silence of the room. Ulfat felt her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She was a vision of traditional beauty, though she felt more like a sacrificial offering than a centerpiece. Her skin, the color of warm honey and toasted almonds, glowed under the soft light of the chandeliers. Every inch of her visible skin had been prepared with the utmost care; her hands and feet were stained with the deep, dark mahogany of henna, the intricate patterns of vines and geometric stars climbing up to her wrists, smelling of sandalwood.

​Her hair, those famous long, dark locks that reached her waist, had been braided with fresh jasmine buds and gold thread, though now they were hidden beneath the veil. Only a few stray, silken tendrils escaped to frame her face, clinging to the dampness of her temples. Her eyes, large and almond-shaped, were heavily rimmed with kohl, making the amber flecks in her irises burn like embers. Every time she blinked, the thick sweep of her lashes brushed against her cheekbones, casting long shadows in the glow of the room.

​And then there were her lips—painted a deep, bruised red, the color of a pomegranate in late autumn. They trembled slightly, a subtle movement she tried to hide by pressing them together, tasting the sweetness of the sugar cube she had been fed during the ceremony.

​"Qabool hai," she repeated, her voice gaining a fraction of steadiness, though her hands shook where they were buried in the folds of her sharara.

​By the third and final "Qabool hai," a heavy, masculine voice from the men’s side of the curtain—perhaps an uncle or a loyal friend of the groom—bellowed a thunderous "SubhanAllah!" that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house.

​The silence shattered instantly. The house erupted. A tidal wave of cheering, clapping, and the rhythmic beating of the dhol surged through the walls. To the guests, it was a celebration of a union, a merger of families, the crowning of their leader’s domestic life. But to Ulfat, sitting on the decorated takht surrounded by women who were already showering her with rose petals and prayers, the noise felt like the roaring of a distant sea she was about to be cast into.

​Beneath the layers of gold jewelry and the suffocating beauty of her bridal finery, Ulfat was a storm of contradictions..

​She knew of Rehman Dakait. Everyone in the neighborhood knew the name. It was a name spoken in hushed tones over tea, a name that brought a specific kind of weighted silence to the streets. She had seen him only in glimpses—shadowy, fleeting moments through a cracked door or from a balcony—before the marriage was finalized. He was a man of sharp angles and a gaze that felt like it could strip the skin from a person’s bones.

​He was her husband now.

​The realization sent a shiver of pure, unadulterated fear down her spine, but right behind it, like a flame licking at the heels of the cold, was a spark of treacherous excitement. She had heard the stories of his ruthlessness, his temper, his unwavering grip on Lyari. But she had also seen the way his men looked at him—with a devotion that bordered on worship.

​What does a man like that look like when the world isn't watching? she wondered, her breath hitching. Does he speak in the same tone he uses to command the streets? Does he realize I am only eighteen, and that my entire world has been the four walls of my father's house until this moment?

​As the older women teased her, whispering ribald jokes that made her ears burn beneath her heavy earrings, Ulfat felt a profound sense of isolation. They saw a bride—a beautiful, shimmering doll to be presented to the king. They didn't see the girl who was wondering if she would be enough to hold the attention of a man who lived a life of fire and blood.

​She was scared of his strength, yes. She was scared that the restlessness Yalina would later describe—that constant, vibrating energy of a man built for conflict—would be too much for her to handle. She feared she would be crushed under the weight of his life.

​But then, she remembered the one time their eyes had met during the rasm-e-munh-dikhai, through the reflection of a small, silver-framed mirror. For a split second, she hadn't seen a gangster. She had seen a man who looked... Gentle.. His eyes were full of admiration. The usual dangerous flicker had vanished, replaced by something she could not name yet.

​The weight of her veil felt heavier than ever. It wasn't just the gold thread; it was the weight of the unknown. She was stepping into the cage of a lion, and for the first time in her life, she wasn't sure if she wanted to be rescued or if she wanted to see if she could make the beast lie down at her feet.

​The cheering outside grew louder as the Nikah-naama was signed and the sweets were distributed. Every "Mubarak!" felt like a countdown.

​Tonight, she thought, her fingers curling into the velvet of the cushion, I will find out who Rehman is. And he will find out who I am.

The transition from the communal joy of the courtyard to the private sanctum of the upper floor was a slow, agonizing procession. The "Baraat" was in full swing below, a cacophony of celebration, but around Ulfat, a phalanx of women had formed—a giggling, whispering guard of cousins and other relatives, her own and his- who seemed determined to make her face flush a dozen different shades of crimson.

​"Careful, careful!" her cousin chirped, hoisting a handful of Ulfat’s heavy, velvet-bordered lehenga so she wouldn't trip on the marble stairs. "We have to deliver her in one piece. Though, I doubt Rehman will care if a few sequins are missing by morning."

​A ripple of scandalous laughter broke out among the girls. Ulfat felt the heat rise from her chest to her hairline, the deep red of her bridal rouge deepening with her embarrassment. She kept her gaze fixed on her feet—on the intricate henna patterns that peeked out from under the gold-hemmed fabric—but she could feel their eyes on her, playful and sharp.

​"Look at her," another girl, her sister, teased, leaning in close to Ulfat’s ear so her heavy earrings jingled. "She’s so quiet now. Where is that girl who used to climb the guava trees? Our Bride is suddenly a saint."

​"She’s not a saint, she’s terrified," one of his relatives laughed, nudging Ulfat gently with her shoulder as they reached the landing of the second floor. "Don't worry, Ulfat. Men like him... they have a lot of energy, but you just have to give them a little smile, and they forget all their toughness. Just don't let him see you're shaking, or he'll think he's won the battle before it's even begun!"

​Ulfat tried to swallow, but her throat felt like it was lined with the same dry silk as her veil. "Stop it," she managed to whisper, though the words lacked any real bite.

​"Oh, she speaks!" Her cousin clapped her hands. "Listen to that voice. Save it for later.. You’ll need it when you’re asking him to be gentle with those heavy hands of his. I’ve seen him lift a crate of ammunition like it was a box of feathers—imagine what he’ll do with a girl made of sugar like you~"

​The teasing was relentless, a traditional hazing that every bride endured, but for Ulfat, it felt different because the man waiting for her wasn't just any groom. He was a man who lived a life of jagged edges. She pictured his hands—wide, calloused, and powerful—and wondered how they would feel against the soft tan of her skin. The thought made her stomach flip, a dizzying mix of dread and a strange, humming anticipation.

​They reached the heavy, dark wood door of the master bedroom. The frame was draped in garlands of white tuberose—gul-e-shabbo—whose scent was so thick it was almost intoxicating..

​The girls stopped, forming a semi-circle around her for the final inspection. One reached out, meticulously adjusting the fall of Ulfat’s red dupatta, ensuring it draped perfectly over her shoulder to hide the curve of her waist while still hinting at the shape beneath. Another girl took a small vial of jasmine oil and dabbed it onto Ulfat’s wrists, the cool liquid stinging slightly against her warm skin.

​"There," she said, her voice softening for a brief, rare moment of sincerity. She tucked a stray lock of dark hair back into the braid. "You look like a dream, Ulfat. Truly. Any man would be a fool not to worship you."

​"But especially a man who has spent his whole life in the dust," an older woman added. "Tonight, he gets to see what beauty actually looks like. Just remember—if he gets too restless, just touch his arm. He’ll go as soft as butter, you’ll see."

The same advice she would give Yalina years later, maybe worded differently, but with the same meaning.

​One by one, they kissed her cheeks, their bangles clinking a frantic, cheerful rhythm. They were retreating now, back toward the stairs, leaving her standing alone in the dimly lit hallway.

​"Good luck~ " her Cousin called back with a final, wicked wink before they disappeared around the corner, their laughter echoing like fading bells.

​Ulfat was left in the sudden, ringing silence. The door in front of her remained closed, but she could sense the space behind it.

​Her thoughts raced. She felt the weight of her jewelry—the heavy gold necklace that sat against her collarbone, the nath that tugged slightly at her nostril, the bangles that felt like handcuffs of light. She was eighteen, and in a few moments, she would step across that threshold and leave her girlhood behind the door.

​She thought of his restlessness—the way he paced when he was thinking, the way his eyes never seemed to stay still. She wondered if she had enough stillness within her to calm him, or if she would simply be swept away in his wake. Her hand hovered near the door handle, her henna-stained fingers trembling.

​She wasn't just entering a room, she was entering a life she didn't yet know how to lead.

The heavy wooden door creaked open with a groan that seemed to echo the thudding of her heart. Ulfat stepped inside, her breath catching as the scent of a thousand crushed roses hit her like a physical wave.

​She had expected a room, but what she found was a sanctuary. The girls had outdone themselves. The traditional charpai had been replaced with a massive, dark wood bed, every inch of its headboard draped in thick, fragrant garlands of motia and red roses. But it wasn't just the bed that drew her eye; it was the sheer, breathtaking detail of the space.

​Ulfat forgot, for a moment, that she was a bride. She was eighteen, and she had never seen anything so beautiful.

Moving with a soft hiss of silk against the floor, she drifted away from the door. Her henna-stained fingers reached out to touch the heavy velvet drapes that covered the windows, their deep emerald hue a perfect contrast to the crimson of her dress. She noticed the small silver bowls placed on the side tables, filled with water and floating jasmine heads that looked like fallen stars.

​She turned in a slow circle, her long, dark braids swaying behind her. The floor was almost entirely obscured by a carpet of rose petals. She looked down, watching her gold-tipped shoes sink into the velvet soft layers of red. It felt like walking on a cloud.

​She wandered toward the vanity, mesmerized by the way the candlelight flickered against the crystal perfume bottles. She picked one up—a heavy, hand-cut glass flacon—and sniffed the stopper. Pure, sweet gulab. She set it down and noticed the way the light caught the gold leaf on the ceiling.

​"SubhanAllah," she whispered to herself, her eyes wide and enchanting.

​She moved to the center of the room, far from the bed where she was supposed to be sitting like a demure, veiled statue. Instead, she was hunched over a low table, examining an intricate brass lamp, her back turned completely to the entrance. She was lost in the craftsmanship, her mind spinning with the beauty of it all, wondering how many hours it must have taken to string all those flowers.

She was so absorbed in the curve of lamp that she didn't hear the door open. She didn't hear the heavy, slow thud of boots on the rug.

​It was only when a floorboard gave a soft, rhythmic creak—a sound that spoke of a man’s weight—that reality crashed back into her.

​Ulfat froze. Her spine turned to ice. She was standing in the middle of the room, her veil pushed back slightly, her hands full of a brass trinket, looking like a curious child rather than a dignified bride. According to every tradition she knew, she should have been on that bed, head bowed, waiting for him to lift the fabric and see her face for the first time.

​She had ruined it. She had ruined the most important moment of her life.

​She stood paralyzed, her back still turned, her heart hammering so hard she feared it would burst through her silk bodice. She waited for the reprimand. She waited for him to be annoyed by her lack of decorum.

​But there was only silence. A long, heavy, vibrating silence.

​Slowly, agonizingly, she turned her head just enough to see him over her shoulder.

​Rehman was leaning against the doorframe. He had already shed his heavy wedding jacket; his white cotton shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, showing the restless pulse at the base of his neck. But he wasn't angry. To her utter shock, there was a ghost of a smirk on his face. He looked... amused.

​He didn't move. He just watched her, his dark eyes tracking the way the candlelight hit her tan skin and the deep red of her lips. He looked less like the man who ruled the streets and more like someone who had just found something he hadn't expected to own: a surprise.

​"It is a lot of flowers," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in her chest.

​Ulfat felt her face go hot enough to burn. "I... I'm sorry. I was just... the room is so pretty, I forgot myself.."

​She moved to scramble toward the bed, her jewelry clashing loudly in her panic, but he raised a hand—a large, calloused hand that looked capable of crushing stone, yet stayed perfectly still in the air.

​"Stay," he said. The command wasn't harsh; it was soft, almost a request.

​He took a step into the room, his eyes never leaving hers. He looked around at the roses, then back at her, standing there in the middle of the floor like a startled deer. He let out a short, dry huff of a laugh—a sound so rare it made her blink.

​"You're shaking," he noted, his voice dropping an octave.

​"I ruined the moment," she whispered, her eyes filling with a sudden, nervous moisture. "I was supposed to be waiting. I was supposed to be... proper-"

​Rehman walked closer, stopping just a few feet away. He didn't reach for her. He just stood there, letting her get used to his presence, his restless energy seemingly tamed by the quiet of the room.

​"Proper is for people who care about what the neighbors think," he said, his gaze softening in a way she had never seen. "Do I look like a man that cares what anybody thinks meri jaan?'" He smirked, looked at the door, then back at her, and a glimmer of mischief entered his dark eyes.

​"Tell you what," he murmured. "I’ll go back out. I’ll stand in the hallway for exactly two minutes. You go sit on that bed, put that heavy cloth back over your face, and pretend you’re a very bored, very proper bride."

​Ulfat stared at him, her mouth parting in surprise. "You... why-?"

​Rehman tilted his head, a corner of his mouth twitching. "It must be important to you if it brings tears to your eyes."

​He turned on his heel, but before he stepped out, he looked back at her over his shoulder. "Though, for the record? I liked the girl looking at the lamp better."

​With a soft click, he stepped out and closed the door, leaving her alone once more in the scent of roses.

For a few seconds, Ulfat stood frozen in the center of the room, her heart performing a frantic, rhythmic dance against her ribs. The silence he left behind was even louder than his voice had been. He had actually left. The most feared man in Lyari was standing in a drafty hallway like a scolded schoolboy just to give her a chance to save her dignity.

​A small, breathless giggle escaped her—part terror, part sheer disbelief.

​"Oh, what the -" she whispered, her hands flying to her burning cheeks. She scrambled toward the bed, the heavy gold bangles on her arms clashing like miniature cymbals. She nearly tripped over a particularly thick pile of rose petals, hitched up her lehenga with a frantic rustle of silk, and practically dove onto the edge of the mattress.

​She smoothed the crimson fabric, crossed her ankles precisely as she had been taught, and pulled the heavy, zardozi-encrusted veil down over her face. The world turned into a blur of red and gold through the fine mesh. She tucked her henna-stained hands into her lap, lowered her head, and tried to slow her breathing.

​One minute passed. She could hear the distant thump-thump of the celebration downstairs, but in here, there was only the scent of jasmine and her own frantic pulse.

​Then, the door opened.

​This time, his footsteps were deliberate. They were heavy, confident, and slow. She watched the tips of his polished boots through the bottom of her veil as he crossed the rose-strewn floor. He stopped directly in front of her. The air between them seemed to crackle, thick with the kind of tension that made her skin tingle.

​He didn't speak. Slowly, his large, calloused hand entered her field of vision. His fingers were slightly rough, the skin darkened by the sun and a life of hard work, but as they reached for the edge of her veil, they were incredibly steady.

​He lifted the fabric.

​The light hit her face, and for the first time that night, Rehman took a "proper" look at his wife. The flickering candlelight caught the amber flecks in her dark, kohl-rimmed eyes and the soft, tan curve of her jaw. She looked like a painting—the kind men went to war over.

​But as he stared at her, his expression intense and unreadable, Ulfat’s composure began to crumble. She looked up at him, seeing the way his hair was slightly mussed from his jacket-shedding earlier, and remembered him standing by the door with that ridiculous smirk.

​A snort escaped her. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't the soft, melodic sound of a shy bride. It was a genuine, high-pitched burst of amusement.

​She quickly pressed her hennaed palm over her mouth, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "I... I'm sorry-" she managed to squeak out through her fingers.

​Rehman froze, his hand still holding the veil aloft. He looked at her, then at the bed, then back at her shaking shoulders. The corners of his mouth, usually set in a grim, hard line, began to twitch uncontrollably.

​A low, rumbling chuckle broke from his chest—a sound that felt like warm velvet. He let the veil drop completely behind her head and sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress groaning under his weight.

​"Well," he said, shaking his head as he leaned his elbows on his knees, a boyish grin finally breaking through his rugged exterior. "That was much more 'proper.' Truly. I was almost convinced you were a statue until you started snorting."

​Ulfat dropped her hand, her face flushed a deep, beautiful rose. "It’s just... you standing in the hallway... it was so silly- Rehman."

​He laughed again, a real, hearty sound that filled the room and chased away the last of her fear while waving her hand. "I'll tell you one thing, Ulfat," he said, turning his head to look at her, his dark eyes sparkling with an unexpected softness. "I’m a man of many things, but I am not a man of great patience. I’m staying in this room now. I won’t be going out to try a third time, no matter how many brass lamps you want to inspect."

​He chuckled with her before he reached out, and this time, his hand didn't go for her veil. He tucked a stray, dark lock of her hair behind her ear, his thumb grazing the soft skin of her temple. The restlessness that usually defined him seemed to settle into a quiet, focused heat.

​"I think I like the version of you that laughs better anyway," he murmured, his voice dropping to that gravelly, intimate hum. "It suits you."

The touch of his thumb against her temple was like a spark on dry silk.

Ulfat’s breath hitched, not out of fear this time, but from the sheer, staggering weight of his attention. Up close, the man didn’t look like the legend the neighborhood whispered about; he looked human. His skin was lined with the exhaustion of a life spent looking over his shoulder, even at his young age, and his eyes—so often described as cold—were burning with a quiet, appreciative heat.

​She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned almost imperceptibly into his palm, her skin warming against his callouses.

​"You are so quiet now," Rehman murmured, his gaze tracing the arch of her brow and the deep, pomegranate red of her lips. "What is going on in that head of yours, Ulfat? Are you still thinking about the flowers, or the Lamp?"

​Ulfat looked down at her lap, her fingers idly tracing the gold embroidery on her knee. "I was thinking," she began, her voice small but steady, "that I didn't expect you to be... funny. Or patient. The girls told me you were like a storm that never rests. They told me I’d have to be a shadow just to keep from being burned."

​She looked up at him then, her enchanting eyes searching his. "But you’re sitting here in a room full of roses, waiting for me to finish laughing at you. It wasn't what I prepared for..your patience."

​Rehman’s expression softened into something profoundly tender. "The world gets the storm," he said simply. "You get the man. I didn't bring you into this house to be a shadow, Ulfat. I brought you here to be the light I come home to."

​He reached into the pocket of his discarded vest, which sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled out a small, velvet-wrapped bundle. He didn't just hand it to her; he took her henna-stained hand in his, his fingers dwarfing hers, and placed the weight of the gift in her palm.

​"They say beauty like yours is a gift from Allah," he whispered, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate register. "But I think it’s a test for a man’s heart. I’ve seen the way the light hits your skin, the way your hair holds the scent of this room... I’m not a poet, Ulfat. I’m a man of the dirt. But looking at you tonight... it’s the first time I’ve felt like I was standing in a holy place."

​With trembling fingers, Ulfat unwrapped the velvet. Inside lay a heavy gold haas—a traditional choker—encrusted with uncut diamonds and a single, teardrop-shaped emerald that glowed like deep water. It was a traditional gift, but to her, the way he was looking at her was worth more than the gold.

​"It’s for the girl who likes beautiful things," he said, his eyes fixed on her face. "But it will never be as bright as your eyes when you were looking at that lamp."

​Ulfat felt a lump form in her throat, a mix of affection and an overwhelming sense of belonging. The restlessness she had feared in him was there, but it wasn't a threat; it was a fire he was using to keep her warm.

​"Help me?" she whispered, lifting the heavy necklace and turning her back to him, the Veil slipped down her head, exposing the nape of her neck and the dark, silken tendrils of her hair.

​She felt him go still for a heartbeat, his breath warm against her skin, before his large, steady hands reached out to fasten the gold.

As he fumbled slightly with the clasp of the gold haas, a low, teasing rumble started in his chest.

​"You know, Ulfat.." he murmured, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of her neck as he finally clicked the lock into place, "this is very backwards. In every house in Lyari tonight, a groom is busy figuring out how to get the gold off his bride, not adding more weight to her."

​He didn't pull his hands away once the necklace was secure. Instead, he let his fingertips linger on her shoulders, the heat of his touch seeping through the thin silk of her blouse. "Perhaps I should start the real work. I’m a man who likes to see what he’s actually won, without all this metal in the way."

​He shifted, moving to sit directly in front of her again. The playfulness was still there, but it was being rapidly overtaken by a focused, heavy intensity.

​He reached for her face first, his thumb hooking gently under the gold chain of her nath—the heavy bridal nose ring that pulled slightly at her nostril. His touch was incredibly light, a stark contrast to the strength she knew he possessed. With a slow, practiced patience, he unhooked the tiny clasp near her ear and slid the ring free.

​He held the gold piece in his palm for a second, feeling its weight, before setting it on the bedside table with a soft clink. "There," he whispered, his eyes fixed on her face. "I can see the curve of your cheek better now.."

​Next came the jhumar and the teeka. One by one, he navigated the pins buried in her dark, silken hair. Each time his fingers brushed against her scalp, a shiver raced down Ulfat’s spine. She felt herself becoming lighter, yet more exposed, under his unwavering gaze. As the headpieces were removed, the heavy veil finally lost its anchor on her shoulders as well and slid back, pooling in a crimson heap on the rose petals behind her.

​Now, her long, dark hair, neatly braided, were free, spilling over her shoulders like a curtain of night. Rehman reached out, opening the braid carefully, running a hand through the strands, his expression one of pure, unvarnished wonder.

​He moved to her arms next. He took her right hand in his, his calloused palm supporting her wrist. The gold bangles—dozens of them, interspersed with glass ones—chattered together as he began to slide them off, one by one.

​The sound was rhythmic, a metallic music that filled the silence of the room. Clink. Slide. Clink. He was methodical, his eyes tracking the way the candlelight danced on the tan skin of her forearms as it was slowly revealed. When the last bangle was removed, he didn't let go; he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the pulse point of her wrist, his eyes locking onto hers.

​"Your skin," he muttered against her pulse, "is softer than the silk you're wearing. Why would I want you covered in gold when I can have this?"

​He repeated the process with her left arm, his movements slower now, as if he were savoring the way she trembled under his touch. The pile of jewelry on the table grew—a small fortune in gold and stones, discarded like common pebbles.

​Lowering himself to the floor, he knelt amidst the rose petals at her feet. Ulfat felt her breath hitch as he reached for her ankles. He unclasped the heavy, bell-fringed pajeb. The silver bells let out a final, tiny chime before they went silent in his hand. He didn't stop there; he used his thumb to trace the intricate henna patterns on the arch of her foot, his touch sending jolts of electricity through her entire body.

​Finally, he stood back up, looming over her. Only her earrings remained.

​He reached out, his hands framing her face. He worked the heavy gold jhumkas free from her lobes, his breath warm against her ear. "No more gold," he whispered, his voice a ragged, dark caress. "No more weight. Just you."

​Ulfat sat there, stripped of her bridal armor. Without the jewelry, she felt vulnerable but also strangely powerful.

Her tan skin glowed, her dark hair was a wild halo, and her red lips were parted in anticipation. She was no longer a decorated doll; she was a woman, bare and beautiful, in the presence of the man who had claimed her.

​Rehman looked down at the pile of gold on the table, then back at her. The restlessness was back in his eyes, but it was no longer the restlessness of a man looking for a fight. It was the awe of a man that found a woman that shined brighter than the moon, even without any jewels.

Ulfat felt the sudden lightness of her body as if she were floating, yet the air around her had never felt more substantial. Stripped of the clinking gold and the heavy, stiff drape of the zardozi veil, she felt the cool evening air brush against the bare skin of her neck and arms, heightening every sensation.

​Rehman did not pull away. He remained close, his presence a towering shadow that radiated a heat more intense than the flickering oil lamps.

​She looked down at her bare arms. The dark mahogany of the henna stood out sharply against her tan skin, looking like intricate lace sleeves now that the metal was gone. She felt his eyes wandering over her, not with the hurried gaze of a man taking what is his, but with the slow, agonizing appreciation of a man who had waited an eternity to see the sun rise.

​Her heart was a drum in her ears. She felt the coolness of the air on the skin of her neck, the nape now exposed where her hair had shifted. She felt beautiful, yes, but it was a terrifying kind of beauty—one that elicited a hunger in him she wasn't sure she knew how to feed..yet.

​"Rehman?" she whispered, her voice trembling just enough to betray her.

​He hummed in response, a low sound that seemed to vibrate from the floorboards through the soles of her feet. He was still standing close, the scent of him—something like tobacco, expensive sandalwood, and the heat of the night—filling her lungs.

​"What... what are you thinking?" she asked, her eyes lifting to meet his. She wanted to know wy he haf gone quite suddenly."Now that the gold is gone. Now that I’m just... me. Is it what you expected?"

​Rehman took a half-step closer, his shadow falling over her, large and imposing. He reached out, his fingers catching a lock of her hair and winding it slowly around his hand, pulling her head back just an inch so she had to look up at him.

A dark, slow smile spread across his face—a look that wasn't hiding anything, It was the look of a man who had stopped pretending.

​"You want the truth, meri jaan?" he murmured, his voice dropping to a rasp that made the hair on her arms stand up. "I’m thinking that the gold was a nuisance. I’m thinking that I’ve spent the last three hours downstairs shaking hands with men I’d rather shoot, all while imagining exactly how much of this red silk I’m going to have to tear through to find out if your skin tastes as sweet as it looks."

​Ulfat’s breath hitched, a sharp gasp catching in her throat.

​"I’m thinking," he continued, leaning down until his lips were a mere breath away from her ear, "that I didn't marry you to look at you like a painting on a wall. I married you so I could feel you come apart under me. I’m thinking that if you don’t stop looking at me with those big, enchanting eyes, I'll loose myself in them."

​The sheer, raw boldness of his words hit her like a physical blow. The shyness she had managed to push aside came roaring back, a tidal wave of heat that turned her face, her neck, and even the tips of her ears a deep, frantic crimson. She looked down at his chest, unable to hold his gaze, her fingers clutching the rose-covered bedsheets until her knuckles turned white.

​"Oh," was all she could manage to whisper, her voice barely a squeak.

​Rehman let out a low, dark chuckle at her reaction, clearly enjoying the way he could make her bloom and wither with a single sentence. He released her hair, but only to slide his hand down to the small of her back, drawing her just a fraction closer to the edge of the bed where he stood.

​"Don't get all shy now jaan" he teased, his thumb tracing the curve of her spine through the fabric. "The lamp-inspecting girl was much braver than this."

​Ulfat bit her lip, the pomegranate red of her mouth deepening. She felt the urge to hide her face in his shoulder to escape the burning intensity of his stare, yet she didn't pull away as he got closer. Much, much closer.

​Rehman leaned in, his nose brushing against the curve of her jaw, inhaling the scent of her fear and her jasmine-soaked skin..

​"The silence is over, Ulfat," he growled, his voice a jagged edge of desire. He dipped his head, his lips grazing the shell of her ear as he switched to the raw, unfiltered tongue of the streets, the language that sounded like a threat and a prayer all at once..

"Bohat pyaari lag rahi ho... par ye laal libaas boht chub raha hai mujhe," he whispered, his breath scorching her skin.

Ulfat’s eyes flew shut. The roughness of his voice, the way he rolled the words, made her stomach drop in a dizzying freefall.

​"Iraada toh ye tha ke itminaan se pesh aaon," he continued, his hand sliding from her back to her waist, his grip tightening until she felt the heat of his palm through the layers of silk. "Magar tumhari ye khamoshi, aur ye kaajal bhari aankhein... ye mujhe pagal kar rahi hain. Dil kar raha hai ke abhi isi waqt tumhe is bistar par gira kar dikhaon ke Rehman Dakait jab apna haq leta hai, toh kaise leta hai.."

A soft, broken moan escaped Ulfat’s throat. She had never heard a man speak like this—so bold, so strippingly honest. The shyness was a fever now, making her feel lightheaded. She reached out, her henna-stained fingers clutching at the front of his shirt just to keep from collapsing.

​Rehman didn't let up. He relished the way she trembled, the way her chest heaved against his. He was becoming bolder, his movements jagged with a predatory grace. He moved his hand from her waist, his fingers splaying across her ribs and moving upward, dangerously close to the swell of her breasts

​"Kaanp kyun rahi ho?" he murmured, his teeth catching the lobe of her ear in a sharp, playful nip. "Abhi toh maine tumhe chua bhi nahi thik se. Abhi toh sirf bataya hai ke mere dimaag mein kya chal raha hai. Jab ye kapde zameen par honge, aur mera haath tumhare badan ke har hisse ko pehchane ga... tab kya haal hoga tumhara?"

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. His gaze was dark, heavy with a dominance that demanded she acknowledge him.

All she could do was stare back- wordless, with crimson red painted cheeks as her breath hitched at each word leaving his lips.

He let out a low, dark chuckle, his hand now firm and possessive..yet- it was a pleasant, warm touch.. one she liked alot.

Ulfat felt her knees go weak. The dominance in his tone, the way he claimed her with his words before he had even fully claimed her with his body, was overwhelming. She looked up at him, her red lips parted, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

​She saw the hunger in his eyes—a raw, carnal need that made her feel like the most important thing in his violent world. The restlessness she had feared was now a fire she wanted to be consumed by.

​"Rehman..." she breathed, his name a plea she didn't know how to finish.

​He didn't wait for her to find the words. He leaned down, his hand cupping the back of her head, his fingers tangling deep into those long, dark locks he had been admiring all night. He leaned down, and when his lips finally met hers, the world outside the rose-scented room simply ceased to exist.

​It was a kiss that began with an almost agonizing tenderness—the cautious greeting of a man who knew he held something fragile. He tasted of the sweet sugar she had been fed at the Nikah and the dark, lingering spice of the night. But as Ulfat’s eyes fluttered shut and she let out a soft, shaky breath against his mouth, the gentleness ignited.

​The kiss deepened, becoming a slow, rhythmic pull that made her head spin. It was her first—a dizzying introduction to the heat of him—and as he tasted her pomegranate-stained lips, his tongue swept against hers with a possessive, velvet demand. He wasn't just kissing her; he was inhaling her, claiming the very air in her lungs.

​His other hand slid to the nape of her neck, pulling her closer until there wasn't a breath of space left between them.

As he slowly guided her back against the pillows, his weight pressing into her for the very first time, Ulfat let out another, breathless moan against his lips.

The bed groaned under his weight as he hovered over her, his body a solid, radiating wall of heat that seemed to anchor her to the earth.

The kiss didn’t break; it evolved, turning into a feverish, rhythmic exchange that tasted of desire and pomegranate. Ulfat’s heart was drumming a frantic beat against her ribs, but as her initial shock faded, a new, intoxicating realization took its place.

​She felt his breath hitch—a ragged, uneven sound—when her small, henna-stained hands climbed up his chest to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck.

​Rehman, the man who moved through the world with the cold precision of a blade, was trembling for her.

When she tilted her head to give him better access to her throat, he let out a low, guttural growl that vibrated against her skin. When her nails accidentally grazed the sensitive skin behind his ears, his entire frame shuddered.

​"Ulfat..." he groaned against her neck, his voice a broken rasp. "Kya kar rahi ho... jaan nikaalogi meri?"

She didn't answer with words. She was too lost in the sensation of his heavy body against hers.

She felt the rough texture of his cotton shirt, the hardness of his chest, and the way his heart was racing just as fast as her own. She became bolder, her hands wandering down his back, feeling the skin beneath the fabric burn in anticipation.

Every time she moved, he reacted—a sharp intake of breath, a tightening of his grip, a muffled curse in that dark, low voice that made her skin burn.

​She saw it then, in the way his eyes stayed hooded and dark: he was undone by her. The girl who had been terrified of his restlessness now saw it for what it truly was—a hunger that only she could satiate. She had the power to make this man, who feared nothing, bow his head to her.

​He reached for the first of the heavy gold hooks at the side of her bridal bodice.

His fingers were rough, used to the weight of steel, yet they worked the delicate fastenings with a surprising, gentle precision. As the first hook gave way, the silk loosened, allowing the cool air of the room to hit her heated skin.

She gasped.-

​Her eyes flying open to see him looking down at her. His face was a mask of raw, unfiltered desire. He looked like a man who had found his only reason for breathing..

​"Tumhe pata hai," he whispered, his hand sliding inside the loosened fabric to cup the warm, silken curve of her waist, "Maine poori zindagi sirf jung dekhi hai. Khoon aur matti dekhi hai. Magar tumhare is badan ki mehak... ye mujhe kisi aur hi duniya mein le jati hai. Jahan sirf sukoon hai."

​He leaned down, his mouth catching hers again, but this time it was different. It was deeper, more desperate.

As he worked the rest of the hooks, his touch became more possessive, his palms sliding over the tan expanse of her stomach, making her arch her back against the rose petals.

​The red silk was slowly being discarded, falling away like the petals of a flower being stripped in the wind. Piece by piece, the heavy, embroidered armor of the bride was being replaced by the raw, shivering reality of the woman. And as he moved his hand to the tie of her lehenga, his eyes never once left hers, demanding she stay with him in this fire.

Slowly, the last of the crimson silk fell away, joining the sea of rose petals on the floor in a heap of forgotten gold thread. The room was silent, save for the frantic, shallow breathing of two people who had finally run out of barriers.

​Rehman went absolutely still. He was perched on his knees above her, his hands still resting where the fabric had just been, but his gaze... his gaze was a physical weight. He looked at her as if he were a starving man seeing food for the first time, or a blind man suddenly granted the sun.

His eyes traveled from the dark, silken tangle of her hair down to the soft, honey-tan curve of her shoulders, lingering on the rise and fall of her chest and the delicate line of her hips.

​"Ya Allah," he breathed, the words a jagged, reverent exhale. "Maine nahi socha tha ke zameen par jannat aisi dikhti hogi."

​He reached out, his hand trembling—actually shaking—as he let his fingertips barely graze the skin of her thigh. He looked up at her face, his expression one of such raw, unshielded worship that it made Ulfat’s heart ache.

​"Poore shehar mein shor hai ke Rehman Dakait ne sona jeeta hai," he whispered, his voice thick and rasping. "Magar unhe kya pata... unhe kya pata ke mere paas kya hai. Ulfat, tum... tum khuda ka karam ho mujh par. Itni haseen, itni paak... mera dil chah raha hai ke bas tumhe dekhta rahoon, aur kabhi apni nazar na hataon."

​Ulfat felt the heat of his praise like a physical flame

. She felt exposed, her bare skin glowing in the amber candlelight, but the way he looked at her—as if she were a miracle—made the shame melt into a heavy, pulsing pride.

She saw the sweat glancing off his forehead, the way the muscles in his arms were taut with the effort of holding himself back.

​She looked at him, really looked at him. He was still half-dressed, his shirt hanging open, his presence so massive and dark against the white pillows. A sudden, bold spark of curiosity flickered in her chest, fueled by the power she felt over him.

​She reached out, her henna-patterned fingers shyly catching the edge of his unbuttoned shirt. She didn't pull, but her intent was clear.

​"Rehman..." she whispered, her voice like velvet. She swallowed hard, her eyes fluttering up to his. "Aap... aapne toh mujhe dekh liya. Magar... main bhi dekhna chahti hoon. Main apne shohar ko dekhna chahti hoon."

The request seemed to stun him. He let out a low, shaky breath, a dark smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

​"Mujh jaisa gunehgaar insaan...aur tumhari ye masoom farmaish.." he murmured, though he began to shrug the shirt off his shoulders.

As the fabric fell away, revealing the rugged, scarred, and powerful expanse of his chest and the sheer restlessness of his lean, yet muscular form, Ulfat felt her breath leave her entirely.

He was a landscape of a life lived in the sun and the shadows, he was no man of raw muscle- but he was powerful, so much so she forgot what she wanted to say.

Instead, her hennaed fingertips, dark and intricate, finally made contact with the warm, solid expanse of his chest.

​He was like living marble, but burning. The skin was rougher than hers, mapped with the faint white lines of old scars and the dark hair that dusted his sternum. The moment her skin touched his, a visible jolt went through him. His stomach muscles rippled and tightened, his breath hitching in a way that made her feel a sudden, intoxicating surge of feminine gravity.

​She didn't pull away. Emboldened by his reaction, she let her palm slide upward, tracing the heavy swell of his shoulder, feeling the frantic, heavy thud of his heart against her wrist. It was a rhythmic, violent sound—

​"Rehman," she whispered, her voice gaining a silken edge of hunger she hadn’t known she possessed. She leaned up, her bare chest brushing against the heat of his skin, a contact that felt like a lightning strike.

​Rehman let out a sound that was half-groan, half-growl, his eyes darkening until the irises were swallowed by the black of his pupils. He grabbed her waist, his large hands sinking into her soft skin, anchoring her against him with a sudden, possessive force that stole the air from her lungs.

The last barrier fell away as Rehman discarded the rest of his clothing, his movements no longer slow or patient, but driven by a primal, focused necessity. For a heartbeat, they stood—and then lay—in the raw, unfiltered truth of the night. Two bodies, as different as the sun and the moon: his, dark and hardened by the grit of Lyari; hers, glowing like polished amber against the deep crimson of the discarded silks. Skin to skin- heart to heart..

​Rehman’s obsession, however, found its anchor in the curve of her hips... he was rubbing his thumb against her hip first, a groan escaping him..

​He got on his knees between her legs, his large, calloused hands sliding beneath her waist to lift her slightly toward him. He looked at the flare of her hips, the soft, tan dip of her stomach, and the way her skin seemed to catch every flicker of the candlelight. He looked at her not just with desire, but with a terrifying, silent possessiveness.

​"Ye sab mera hai," he muttered, his voice so low it was almost a vibration.

He leaned down, his face pressing into the hollow of her hip bone. His hot lips were a sharp, electric contrast to the softness of her flesh.

He began to kiss her there—not the gentle, tentative kisses of the earlier , but deep, lingering marks of ownership. His mouth traced the line where the sun had missed her skin, his tongue tasting the salt and the lingering scent of the bridal oils.

​Ulfat’s head fell back against the pillows, her fingers knotting into the rose-covered sheets as a sharp, breathless cry escaped her.

The sensation was overwhelming; the roughness of his hands holding her steady, the heat of his mouth moving lower toward the curve of her thigh, and the sheer, overwhelming weight of his presence.

​"Rehman... please," she gasped, her voice breaking. She didn't even know what she was asking for, only that the fire he was building was becoming too much to contain.

​He didn't stop. He moved his kisses to her waist, his teeth grazing the soft skin there in a way that made her entire body arch off the bed. He was obsessed with the way she felt—the way she yielded to him, the way her breath hitched every time his hands moved a fraction higher...or lower~

His hands, wide and powerful, slid beneath the backs of her knees, drawing her closer until she was completely open to him, exposed to the amber glow of the candles and the raw intensity of his gaze. He didn't look away, not even for a second, as he lowered his head..

She was perfect- head to toe. Each inch of her skin, from her perfectly shaped neck to the curves of her soft tits, down her sides and wide hips, to her honey glazed, parted thighs and awaiting, wet pussy glistening almost teasingly perfect under the candlelight- She was a dream.

​He began to kiss her stomach, his mouth moving in slow, agonizing circles around her navel, his stubble a sharp, electric contrast to the velvet softness of her tan skin. Ulfat’s breath came in broken, jagged hitches, her fingers tangling frantically in the rose-strewn sheets. She felt like she was dissolving, her bones turning to liquid under the sheer weight of his attention.

​Then, he moved lower.

​His kisses became deeper, more deliberate, as he traced the delicate line of her inner thigh. He moved with the patience of a man who had finally found the treasure he had been promised in another life. Every time his tongue grazed her skin, Ulfat’s hips bucked instinctively, a soft, high-pitched whimper breaking from her lips. She was in a heaven she hadn't known existed—a place where the fear of him had been entirely replaced by a desperate, clawing need.

His lips finally found the way to her Pussy, carefully placing open pouted kisses from the most sensitive top, stimulating her clit, over her wet lips and to her enterance.

Her reaction was breathtaking to him- a moan of his name that sounded more beautiful and poetic than any song he had ever heard.

"Rehman... aap... please..." she sobbed out, her eyes squeezed shut, her head tossing back and forth against the pillows.

​He didn't pull back. Instead, he gripped her hips tighter, his fingers sinking into her soft flesh as he claimed her with a carnal, unyielding hunger.

He was a man who took his time, savoring the way she shuddered, the way her breath caught in her throat, and the way her entire body seemed to hum like a live wire under his touch. He was thorough, his mouth exploring every hidden inch of her pussy, his devotion expressed in the silent, heated language of his lips and tongue.

And my did he know how to use it.

He rolled his tongue over her clit, a growl escaping his lips adding vibration to the slow sliding and tapping of his tongue- a vibration that send shock waves of pleasure through Ulfat's body so powerful her hips instinctively shot up, pressing herself closer aching for more.

​Ulfat felt her world narrow down to the sensation of him. The "restless" man was gone; in his place was a man who was perfectly, dangerously still in his purpose.

She felt a wave of overwhelming pleasure crash over her, a tide of gold and fire that made her cry out his name into the silent room.

​He looked up at her then, his face flushed, his eyes dark with a triumphant, primal heat. He saw her—completely undone, her hair a wild halo, her skin glowing and damp—and a slow, possessive smirk pulled at his mouth.

​He was a man who understood the power of a slow burn. He held her hips with a crushing, possessive grip, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her waist as if to pin her soul to the mattress, all while his tongue was lapping up all her juices, slowly adding two fingers to explore her pussy.

"... please, Rehman..." she begged, her voice a broken thread of sound.

​He let out a low, dark chuckle that vibrated against her most sensitive skin, a sound of pure, masculine triumph. He looked up at her for one brief, scorching second, his eyes hooded and predatory.

"Maang rahi ho?" he rasped, his Hindi raw and filthy, dripping with the dominance of the streets. "Itni jaldi haar maan li, meri jaan? Abhi toh maine shuru bhi nahi kiya. Dekhna chahta hoon ke tumhari ye 'haaye' kitni oonchi jati hai jab main tumhe wahan tak le jaon jahan tumne kabhi socha bhi nahi tha.."

He returned to her with a renewed, carnal focus. He was thorough, his tongue tracing her folds with a rhythmic, agonizing precision that made the world behind her eyelids explode in bursts of gold and crimson. He wasn't just pleasuring her; he was consuming her- eating her up.

​Ulfat couldn't answer. Her mind had splintered. All the "proper" teachings of her life, the shyness, the weight of the veil—it all burned away in the heat of his mouth. She felt a pressure building deep inside her, a coil of white-hot tension that was winding tighter and tighter until she thought she might actually die from it.

​"Rehman! Main... main..."

​"Haan, hone do," he commanded, his voice a dark, encouraging rumble as he increased the pace, his hands sliding under her to lift her even higher so his face was burried in her wetness. "Sab nikaal do. Mere liye... mere saamne cheekho, Ulfat. Mujhe dikhao ke tum meri ho.."

​The coil finally snapped.

​It wasn't just an orgasm; it was a violent, total surrender. Ulfat’s entire body went rigid, her toes curling into the rose petals as a high, keening cry tore from her throat. It felt like her very spirit was being pulled through her skin, a wave of overwhelming, paralyzing pleasure that crashed over her again and again. Her vision went white, her fingers clawing at his shoulders, pulling him closer as her world dissolved into pure sensation.

​She collapsed back into the pillows, her chest heaving, her eyes glazed and wet with tears of pure shock. She had never known the body could feel such a thing. She felt shattered, hollowed out, and utterly reborn.

​Rehman pulled back slowly, his face damp with sweat, his lips bruised and dark. He looked at her—at his wife, undone and trembling in the aftermath of her first peak—and the look in his eyes was one of terrifying, absolute devotion.

He leaned up, claiming her lips in a breathless kiss that forced her to taste herself on his lips.

"See.." he started, his voice dropping into something far more dangerous - dripping with arousal as he pressed his hard cock against her thigh "This is what you do to me.. This is how much power you have over the most powerful man of the city.."

Rehman moved over her, a dark silhouette against the flickering candlelight, his presence a physical weight that pinned her to the silk.

​He was no longer the patient man who had stood in the hallway. He was a man of the earth and the streets, and as he settled his weight between her thighs, she felt the undeniable, rigid proof of his desire pressing against her soft skin.

He wasn't trying to hide it; he wasn't being delicate. He wanted her to know exactly what he was feeling.

​His hands, wide and calloused, didn't just touch her now—they commanded her. He reached down, catching her wrists and guiding her hennaed hands toward his throbbing cock.

​"Don't go shy on me now, Ulfat," he growled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to rumble deep in his chest. "I’ve shown you every inch of what you’ve done to me. Now, I want you to feel it. I want you to know exactly how much I've been aching for this."

​He wrapped her small, delicate fingers around the heavy, pulsing length of his cock, Ulfat’s eyes went wide, her breath hitching in a sharp, jagged gasp as she felt the sheer, hot reality of his body..

​"Yes, just like that," he whispered, his eyes hooded and dark as he watched her hand against him. "Look at it.. Look at how hard you make me. Do you think I’m the one in control here? Look at what your touch does to a man like me.. "

​He leaned down, his mouth grazing the sensitive shell of her ear as he spoke.

​"I want you to start using your pretty hand.." he commanded, his breath scorching her . "I want you to feel the way my heart is beating through my Cock.. You’ve spent the whole night being the bride, being the doll everyone wanted to see. But right now, you’re just mine. And I want you to learn every part of me..I want you to know how it feels when you make me lose my goddamn mind."

​He began to move his hips against her hand, a slow, torturous rhythm that made a low, guttural sound break from the back of his throat. He was instructing her with the movement of his body, showing her how he wanted to be handled, how he wanted to be taken.

She closed her hand around his shaft, tracing the skin up and down with her fingertips shyly, feeling hin twitch and throb at each of her movements.

​"Stroke me," he rasped, his teeth nipping at the hollow of her neck. "Up and down ngh..just like that-" he praised as her hands started to pump his cock up and down, slow and careful at first- but the more he encouraged her to keep going the more confident she grew in what she's doing.

​Ulfat felt a surge of terrifying, beautiful power. She watched his face—the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes squeezed shut in a grimace of pure, agonizing pleasure—and she realized she wasn't just his wife. She was his ruin..

​She moved her hand the way he wanted, gaining a sudden, bold confidence. Precum dripped down from his tip, feeling wet and sticky against her skin, making wet sound as she pumped his cock.

The "proper" girl was gone, burned away in the heat of his dirty, honest words. She looked up at him, her red lips parted, her eyes enchanting and dark with her own rising hunger.

​"Like this?" she breathed, her voice a silken challenge.

​Rehman let out a ragged, broken curse, his grip on her waist tightening until she thought her bones might melt. "God, Ulfat... you’re going to be the death of me. And I’m going to love every second of it."

Ulfat’s heart was no longer a flutter; it was a rhythmic demand. She looked at him, seeing the way his sweat-dampened hair clung to his forehead and the way his eyes—those dark, restless eyes—seemed to be searching for something deeper than just her skin.

​Emboldened by the low, dirty promises he had whispered into her ear, Ulfat did something she hadn't known she was capable of. She leaned forward, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders like a silken veil, and let her lips graze the tip of his cock.

​The first touch was hesitant—a ghost of a kiss against him, But as she tasted the salt and the fire of him, her curiosity turned into a desperate, focused hunger- it turned her on, his reaction, the act itself, pushing her tongue against his tip and twirling it against the hot skin to taste his precum.

​Rehman’s entire body went rigid. A sound tore from his throat—a jagged, agonizing growl that was half-prayer and half-curse. His abdominal muscles rippled and locked under her touch, and for a second, the power dynamic of the room tilted entirely on its axis.

​But as she moved to take more of his length into her mouth, to truly explore the depth of his desire, his large, calloused hands suddenly shot out.

He didn't pull her away with force, but the grip he took on her shoulders was firm, unyielding, and trembling with a frantic kind of restraint.

​"No," he rasped, his voice a broken, guttural shadow of its former self.

​He pulled her upward, his strength dragging her body up the silk sheets until she was pinned beneath him once more. His face was inches from hers, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon through the alleys of Lyari. His eyes weren't just dark; they were scorched.

​"Not that. Not yet," he panted, his forehead dropping against hers as he struggled for air. "You have no idea what you're doing to me, Ulfat. If you keep that up, I’m going to lose it before I even get inside you. I’m not a saint, and I’m damn sure not patient enough to let you play with me like that tonight..not before i made you mine.."

​He looked at her bruised red lips, his gaze dropping to the way her chest rose and fell in short, panicked gasps.

The shift in him was profound.

The raw, jagged dominance of a moment ago didn't disappear, but it submerged beneath a layer of deep, protective patience. He could see the slight tremor in her hands, the way her eyes—wide and enchanting—flickered with a mix of anticipation and a bride’s natural instinct to retreat.

​Rehman didn't rush. He settled his weight between her thighs, but he supported himself on his forearms so he wouldn't crush her. He looked down at her, his face softening into an expression that was almost unnervingly tender for a man of his reputation.

​"Look at me, Ulfat," he whispered, his voice a low, soothing hum. "Just look at my eyes. Nowhere else."

​He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip, which was still damp and swollen from his kisses. He placed his cock against her clit, teasing it with slow thrusts against her most sensitive spot, sliding his tip in between her wet folds positioning himself.

​"I’m going to be slow," he murmured, his breath a warm caress against her cheek. "I’m not going anywhere. You’re my wife, the most precious thing in my Life. If it’s too much, you tell me."

​As he started to press against her, slowly burrying his tip into her Pussy, Ulfat’s breath hitched, her fingers digging into his shoulders. She felt the she size of his cock- a pressure that felt impossible. Her body instinctively tensed, her eyes welling with a sudden, sharp moisture.

​"Shh... stay with me," Rehman crooned. He stopped immediately, his forehead resting against hers, his nose brushing hers. He stayed perfectly still, letting her get used to the weight, the heat, and the slow stretching as he pushed into her. "Breathe, Ulfat. Just breathe. Look at how well we fit together. Like you were made for this. Like you were made for me."

​He began to talk to her in a low, constant stream of words—praising the softness of her skin, the way her hair smelled like a garden, the way her heartbeat felt against his chest. He was building a bridge of trust with his voice, guiding her through the threshold of pain into something deeper.

​"That’s it... just like that," he whispered as he felt her muscles slowly begin to yield, her body finally accepting him. "You’re doing so well, jaan. So brave."

​When he was finally, fully within her, he didn't move. He waited, his chest heaving with the effort of his own restraint, his eyes locked on hers until he saw the tension leave her jaw and the tears in her eyes turn from fear to a dazed, shimmering wonder.

​"Are you okay?" he rasped, his voice thick with a vulnerability he only showed to her.

​Ulfat nodded slowly, her hands sliding from his shoulders to wrap around his neck, pulling him down. The initial sting was fading, replaced by a heavy, pulsing fullness that made her feel more alive than she had ever been. "I'm okay," she whispered, her voice a silken thread. "Rehman... don't stop."

​That was the permission he needed. The patience didn't vanish, but it began to melt into a needy, rhythmic passion. He started to move—slowly at first, then with an increasing, desperate hunger. Every thrust made her pussy clench his cock inside her, causing him to gasp at each time.

​The room, the roses, the world outside—it all vanished, leaving only the sound of their skin meeting in wet slapping sounds and the ragged, joined rhythm of their breathing.

​"Ulfat," he groaned, his voice breaking as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, his movements becoming faster, more frantic. "You're mine. You're finally, finally mine."

The sounds in the room changed—from soft whispers to the heavy, rhythmic thud of the headboard against the wall and the frantic hiss of breath. Rehman’s hands were no longer just steadying her; they were possessive, digging into her hips to tilt her upward, meeting every one of his deep, passionate thrusts with a desperate, bone-deep hunger.

​"You like that, don't you?" he rasped, his voice dropping into a dark, gritty low as he increased the pace. "Tell me, Ulfat. Tell me how it feels to have me deep inside you. I want to hear it. I want to hear you say my name while I'm taking everything you have."

​Ulfat was lost, her head tossing back against the pillows, her tits bouncing up and down, her eyes glazed with a feverish, golden light. The shyness was a distant memory, replaced by a raw, vocal honesty she didn't know she possessed.

​"Yes... Rehman, please," she sobbed out, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back, her nails leaving faint red crescents on his skin. ".. it’s perfect- ahhh- don't stop... don't you dare stop! More-"

​He let out a low, predatory laugh at her command, his movements becoming faster, harder, possessing her.

He was a man possessed himself, his sweat dripping onto her chest, his eyes locked on her face as she came apart beneath him. It made his cock twitch inside her, it made him want to pound her perfect, wet pussy and fill her up with his cum- the thought alone almost broke him.

​"You’re taking me so fucking well.." he growled, his breath hot against her mouth. "You’re just as greedy as I am.. You want me to go faster? You want me to fuck you harder? Tell me youre mine.. tell me and ill fuck you senseless as a reward.."

​"I'm yours!" she cried out, her voice breaking as the tension began to coil again, tighter and more violent than before. "Only yours... always yours! Rehman, please!"

​The dirty talk became a blurred, frantic exchange of needs and promises. He wasn't holding back anything now, pounding into her perfectly tight pussy passionately. Each time he pulled out to meet her hips in another, deep raw thrust- she was sucking him back in- like she felt empty without the size and thickness of his cock.

​The pace reached a breaking point—a frantic, sweating, heart-stopping speed that made the air in the room feel like it was vibrating. Ulfat’s legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper like that, like this his cock was pressed so deeply inside her she saw stars, her body arching like a bow ready to shot as she got close.

,,Oh god- fuck- Rehman!-"

​"I've got you," he groaned, his voice a ragged, breathless command as he felt her begin to peak again. "Cum all over my Cock- make it all yours Jaan, fuck- cum!" He hissed.

The moment he felt her walls contract around him even more- to a point he could barely pull out of her, Rehman’s restraint didn’t just break—it disintegrated.

He saw her eyes roll back, the whites showing as she lost focus on the room, her body becoming a live wire of pure, unadulterated sensation. He loved this woman more than anything in this forsaken world.

​"That’s it... give it to me, Ulfat," he growled, his voice a dark, gravelly vibration that she felt in her very marrow.

​She came with a violence that shocked her, a tidal wave of heat that made her scream his name until her throat went raw. Her body arched so high off the bed she was forcing him inside her- his cock pressing against her g- spot. Her fingers clawed at his sweat-slicked shoulders as the pleasure shattered her into a thousand pieces. It was a long, rhythmic pulsing that seemed to go on forever, leaving her gasping, her vision swimming in white sparks.-

​But as she tried to collapse, to sink back into the pillows and let the world go still, Rehman didn't stop.

​He didn't pull away. Instead, he gripped her thighs even tighter, pinning her knees toward her chest, and continued to fuck into her with a relentless, heavy rhythm.

​"R-Rehman... !" she sobbed, her voice a broken whisper of overstimulation. Her skin was so sensitive now that every touch felt like a lightning strike.

​"Shh~ take it for me, meri jaan" he rasped, his eyes burning with a terrifying, endless stamina.

He looked down at her—at her flushed face, her swollen lips, and the way she was shivering under him. "I'm not done with you..i have a bit more stamina than you my pretty, pretty wife~ and ill teach you to be abls to keep up with it~"

​He leaned down, his mouth catching her sensitive nipple, his tongue swirling in a way that made a fresh, unwanted jolt of pleasure shoot straight to her pulsing clit.

Ulfat let out a helpless, high-pitched wail, her head tossing back and forth. She was beyond the point of reason; her body was a raw nerve, vibrating with a sensitivity that was almost painful in its intensity..

​"You're so perfect like this," he muttered against her skin, his movements becoming faster again, more demanding. "Look at how you're shaking.. youre so incredible, my love. Youre a sight to behold.."

​He praised her through the heat, his words a stream of dark, possessive adoration. He told her how incredible she felt, how he loved the way she couldn't stop reacting to him, how he was going to keep her in this fire until the sun forced them apart. He pushed her further and further with each deep, soul crushing thrust- past the point of exhaustion, into a realm of sensory overload where every breath she took was a moan and every move he made felt like it was carving his name into her soul.

​She was drowning in him, overstimulated and overwhelmed, her body a frantic instrument he refused to stop playing. And as he finally felt his own peak rising to meet hers for a second time, he leaned into her ear, his voice a final, ragged promise.

​"You're never going to forget this night. I'm going to make sure you feel me inside you for the rest of your life.."

​"Ulfat? Meri Jaan, where are you hiding?"

​She didn't turn immediately. She remained at the window, the silver glow of the Karachi moon bathing her face, catching the fine lines at the corners of her eyes—lines carved by twenty-two years of laughter, worry, and a love that had never once gone cold..

​"Still standing there?" Rehman’s voice had deepened with age, turning into a rich, sandpaper rasp. He walked up behind her, no longer the restless youth but a man who moved with the slow, deliberate weight of a king. He stopped just inches away, his presence still a warm, magnetic force.

​"What is it this time?" he teased, a familiar glint of mischief in his dark eyes as he leaned slightly on his cane. "Are you looking at the lamps again? Planning to run off and inspect the brass-work while theres a Nikkah down there?"

​Ulfat finally turned, a soft, knowing smile playing on her lips. She looked at him—at the silver at his temples and the strength in his jaw that time hadn't been able to touch.

​"..I was..distracted..by the moon. I'm looking at the Moon, Rehman," she whispered, her voice a silken echo of the girl she had been.

​Rehman stepped closer, his hand—still large, still calloused—reaching up to cup her cheek. He tilted her face toward the light, his gaze as intense and focused as it had been on their wedding night.

​"The moon?" he scoffed gently, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "The moon is your face, Ulfat. That thing up there in the sky? It’s just a cold rock. It’s jealous of you. It’s been trying to mimic your glow since the day I brought you home, and it hasn't managed it yet."

​Ulfat let out a soft, melodic laugh, leaning her head into his palm. "You’re still a liar, Rehman Dakait."

​"I'm a man who knows his treasure," he corrected, pulling her into a slow, firm hug.

​He held her there for a long moment, the two of them a solid island in the middle of the wedding chaos.

The distant sound of the dhol and the cheering for Yalina drifted up to them, but for now, they were back in their own world. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that still made her pulse skip.

​"Don't look so sad that the party is starting," he murmured. "We'll be the respectable wedding guests for the new couple.. But once we reach home... I promise you a much better time than any of these guests are having. I might be older, but I haven't forgotten how to make you scream my name."

​Ulfat flushed—a deep, beautiful crimson that proved she was still his bride at heart. She swatted his chest playfully, but she didn't pull away.

​"Chalo," she said, tucking her arm into his, her fingers brushing the expensive fabric of his suit. "They are waiting~"

​Together, they turned away from the window and the moonlight, walking side-by-side toward the door to join the celebration, two legends moving as one.. as they always did.

The end.

[angelllk1ssed]

AAAAAAH THEY THE GOALS YALL.

[chocolate-and-trouble]

HEAR ME OUT!!!

I think we need more theories for the absolute goat Jameel Jamali. Here are some of mine

1. First of all he was sent to his mission while he was very young and I am assuming early 20s and he built his political career from the ground up because remember how it was said in the first part by Yalina that he is spent all of his youth in politics

Now since he had to make his career from the ground up he needed connections to get far so I think his wife was also a burger bachhi probably the daughter of some rich huge politician and also really sophisticated which I think due to the "tumhare Papa ne in gunde mavali se rishta banaa Rakha Hai"

She was I think the original burger bacchi . Atp wooinh burger bachhi runs in the family.

2. This is a wild theory again but you know how the spies had handlers. What if his wife was his handler!💗💅

Like what if he thought that he has manipulated her for connections but she was just reporting it all back to India. And like of course I am thinking he would marry her for the convenience aspect because he is on a mission so he thinks yes I've got her while she just smile from behind knowing a higher mental game. Also assuming that she was a part of very rich and influential family why would she marry a low life politician until of course they were in the same boat

EDIT- now I just need some author to write his back story why do I feel like he was really handsome when he was young

@desigal-26 @marlena-marlena @mainyahaankyunhoon @afortoru @cherryyelixir @cloudmast @tere-naal-nachna @the-boook-thief @pavbhajisupremacist @jaskirat-singh-rangi @maystella @iamadelusionalwriter @sonasarchive

[vakalatnelagadiye]

Inked Souls

Rehman Dakait x Ulfat Jahan

What's love if not your souls tattooed into each other

A/N: Yeah ok so this was really impromptu, hope y'all enjoy it 👅 and sorry I forgot to mention this before but this is a ONESHOT 🥹

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction; all characters and events are fictional, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Warning : fluff, tension, romance and slight smut

WC : ~1k

Rehman and Ulfat have a tattoo each inscribed on their bodies. Living in a conservative Islamic society doesn't stop them from being a bit freaky but they are self aware to an extent that their tattoo is invisible to the naked eye and almost inconspicuous.

“Anyone ever seen yours?” Ulfat asked one night, tracing the spot where his rested.

Rehman caught her wrist and kissed her knuckles, “Only the woman who made me brave enough to get it.”

She smiled, that dangerous smile that always made him forget caution existed,"Meri jaan, you were trembling like a leaf while hurling the choicest threats at the poor artist, it's a miracle that he came out in one piece" continuing "and welI I would actually be concerned if someone saw it", Ulfat whispered, her brows arching, a small smirk gracing her divine features alluding to her husband's absolutely filthy thoughts while locking down the location of his tattoo.

Rehman's tattoo was hinged on the skin connecting his abs to his cock. When he made love to Ulfat for the first time, she left a deep crimson mark of her lipstick on his V-line while going down on him, almost making him cum in his pants and he decided since then to etch the memory permanently to his body. Even after all these years the design of Ulfat's lips inked in red undid her, her primal instincts scratching through the surface to mark her husband.

"ahhhh fuck jaan", he moaned wantonly, head thrown back in ecstasy, breathing shallow, lifting his hips, as Ulfat pumped his cock with her nimble fingers, her lips tracing his tattoo, branding him with herself, a sign of ownership of a lioness on her mate, a reminder of their undying passion which gets reignited regularly even after 2 kids and 20 years of marriage.

For everyone else, they were composed, respectable, untouchable. For each other, they were a locked room full of sparks.

Ulfat's tattoo is derived from similar inspirations. Rehman is a very possessive man, he's possessive about their children, his family and his gang but with Ulfat, the beast in him crawls out, leaving her with marks of his ministrations for days after they've fucked.

One evening, as she stood before the mirror adjusting her dupatta, her fingers brushed the fading imprint near her waist.

She glanced at him through the reflection, “You do realise I cannot explain these in polite company.”

Rehman, seated on the edge of the bed, shirtless, his chest still shining from the acts of passion they concluded a few minutes ago, looked entirely untroubled, “Then do not keep polite company.”

She tried to glare which inevitably dissolved into a smile, “You are impossible.”

“No,” he said, rising and coming behind her. “Only yours.”

His hands settled over her stomach, broad and warm, he loved leaving deep bites on her hips and her abdomen showing his silent worship to the temple of life in his own primal way, bowing down to the Goddess, offering his penance, basking in her divine glory.

He lowered his head, lips brushing the side of her neck. “Do you know why here?” he asked quietly.

She already knew, but urged him, whispering, “Tell me.”

His palms spread gently across the place that had carried their children.

“Because this is where you made me more than I was. What I am today is because of what you made. I can never thank you enough for our beautiful babies," his voice becoming more reverent by the second, "Ek pyaar ka pyaase aadmi ki zindagi mai farishta bhej diya Allah tallah ne, aur poori zindagi khushiyan se bhardi."

Emotion rose in her throat so suddenly it hurt. She covered one of his hands with hers.

“Rehman…”

He turned her slowly to face him. For all his rough edges, his deep obsidians held startling softness reserved only for her.

“When I touch you,” he confessed, voice trembling, “I feel grateful in ways I do not know how to describe. As if I have been handed more joy than I was meant to receive.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then rested his forehead against hers.

“The closest I have ever come to the Creator,” he murmured, “was learning how to love what He trusted me with.”

Her eyes filled, “You say things like that after biting me like a savage.”

A grin tugged at his mouth, “I contain multitudes.” She laughed through tears, and he kissed them away one by one.

She wanted to trap this moment inside her skin. To keep the memory of his touch from ever fading, his name forever entwined with hers, the feeling of his hands and kisses lingering where time could not steal them. She never wanted to lose the feeling of being loved by him, so she chose to ink the memory.

Just above her hips, sweeping upward across her abdomen, she had his name etched in an elegant Urdu script, woven through with delicate flowering ivy. Soft vines curling around each letter, blossoms opening between the strokes, a testament to what they became together. His name, rooted in her body. Her beauty, blooming through his.

They got their tattoos on their first foreign trip to Europe, aware that they were not young anymore, with the responsibilities of parenting and running a cartel, but it never stopped them from losing themselves in each other. To this date, they reminisce about the night they shared after getting tatted. Rehman had gone feral; he couldn't get enough of marking his jaan with his cum, repeatedly spilling his hot load on her waist where his name lay inked permanently. At the same time, Ulfat grinded on his hips, spreading her sweet juices across the vast span of his pelvis where the stained marks of her lips were embedded for eternity. They hadn't stepped out of the room for two whole days, leaving the entire room drenched in sex and the shared symphony of their moans.

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[desigurlie]

Okay, headcanon time.

Rehman kisses Ulfat on her forehead for two seconds too long every time he goes out for any work because he is afraid that might be the last time she sees him alive. For some reason, Ulfat is furious with him on that fateful day and turns her face away when Rehman goes to kiss her forehead as usual. Rehman accepts her anger and only tilts his forehead to her temple instead. He thinks he will come back from the ribbon cutting and appease her.

He doesn't get to come back after all.

Ulfat never quite forgives herself for not letting him kiss her goodbye one last time.