#ulfat

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 !!

“Sir, do you know the story of samudra manthan?” Ajay sanyal, Head of intelligence bureau asked.

“No,” Devrat kapoor, Minister of external affairs replied.

The restaurant situated at the edge of city of mumbai was quiet, with occasional jazz music playing in the background as a mere melody - dim chatter of people, the metal sounds of cutlery and the laughter that echoed, laughter belonging to people who had nothing to worry for after they wake up.

It was just mere months after operation Dhurandhar had commenced. Sanyal’s assets all were dispersed across pakistan and his babbar sher had landed in the throes of lyari, finding his way into aalam juice shop and under guidence of aalam, a spymaster who had been deployed years ago.

Operation dhurandhar won’t happen over night. It require patience and observance. Nazr aur sabr. Stretched across years, sanyal wanted to dismantle the very core of terrorism in pakistan. Pay tribute to those who had lost their lives against the violence the neighbouring country had inflicted upon.

However his assets in the foreign land had sent a concerning piece of intel. One that had made sanyal ever restless. It was part of his job, to stay restless looking after the country and the intel they receive. They have to get it right every single time.

“Bade sahab plans to instigate kashmir riots.”

That one small piece of intel had brought back the most violent flashbacks of one of the darkest times that he had gone through. The amount of bloodshed, people displaced, out of their homes and kashmir crying for azadi even after decades.

“Many eons ago,” Sanyal began, setting the whiskey glass aside. “Sage Durvasa was returning to his abode after worshipping Devi Durga. In his hand was a garland he had offered to the Goddess. On his way, he came across the King of Gods, Lord Indra. As a mark of respect to the Devendra, the Sage offered the garland to him. But Indra let his arrogance get the better of him; he took the offering and placed it on the trunk of his celestial mount, the great white elephant, Airavata. Attracted by the sweet smell of the flowers, bees began to buzz and swarm, irritating the elephant. In his annoyance, Airavata tossed the garland to the ground and trampled it into the dust.”

“What happened next? Isn’t that a direct insult to the Sage and his offering?” Devrat Kapoor asked, leaning in.

Sanyal smiled thinly. “Exactly. Sage Durvasa was known across the three worlds for his uncontrollable temper. At that moment, the Sage cursed Indra and all the gods to lose their splendor, their power, and their might. He declared that Lakshmi would walk away from their lives, leaving them bare. True to the curse, Devi Lakshmi disappeared into the depths of the ocean. The gods lost their grandeur, and the demons began wreaking havoc on Earth. Under the rule of King Bali, the Rakshasas finally won their war against the Devas.”

He paused, the ice in his glass shifting.

“The gods beseeched Lord Vishnu, the Supreme, for a solution. Vishnu, who ached for his divine wife’s presence and couldn’t bear the separation, advised them to bring forth Mount Mandara and the snake Vasuki from the neck of Lord Shiva. He told them to churn the Ocean of Milk using the mountain as the base and the snake as the rope. He promised that through the fruits of that churning, they would regain their Sri—their fortune. And for the gods, fortune meant everything: their strength, their riches, and their divinity.”

“Then?” Pressed the minister of external affairs.

“Lord vishnu had taken Kurma avatar, The mighty turtle to act as a base for the mountain. The gods began churning but it was no easy feat. The gods knew they couldn’t move mount mandara on their own but needed the muscle of the asuras as well. So The devas looked towards lord vishnu for another solution. Lord vishnu gave them an advise, the toughest a soldier can ever hear; negotiate with the enemy. They have stricken a deal with the asuras, offered them half of the amrit that they will obtain after churning the ocean. The asuras agreed and in the strangest of union, the devas and asuras had began working together. The devas held the head of the vasuki snake while asuras held the tail.”

Sanyal paused, staring at the untouched glass of amber liquid while Devrat sipped his water. “Then?” the Minister asked.

“Then… one of the Asuras had the shit idea—”

Devrat choked, coughing into his glass while Sanyal offered a brief, distracted apology for the language, seemingly unaware that the man across from him was a bit more fragile-hearted.

“What I meant is, he had a terrible idea,” Sanyal corrected. “He accused the Devas of treating the Asuras as lower beings—even though they were half-brothers, born of the same father, just different mothers. He claimed the Devas had kept the tail for themselves and discarded the head to the Asuras. Many of them agreed, demanding the head to prove their status. What the Asuras didn't know was that the head is where the venom is stored. Unaware of the trap, they resumed the churning. But as they pulled, the snake Vasuki vomited poison onto the Asuras, causing their immediate demise.”

“Then came the Halahal,” Sanyal continued. “A poison so potent it would have obliterated the three worlds if left uncontained. Even the divine beings fell; the Asuras were suffocating on the fumes. The gods turned to Vishnu, but he shook his head and pointed toward Lord Shiva. Shiva was the only one in the universe who could withstand it. Yet, Devi Parvati was distressed at the thought of her consort consuming such a thing. As Shiva drank, Parvati used her immense strength to wrap her hands around his throat, trapping the poison there so it wouldn't reach his heart. That is why his neck turned blue.”

“Next came the jewels. Some say nine, others say fourteen. Gifts reaped from the labor, which the Devas and Asuras divided equally. Devi Lakshmi herself emerged from the ocean, and the fighting started again. But the choice was hers, and she saw only Lord Vishnu. She took him as her eternal consort.”

“Then, finally, came Dhanvantari, the God of Ayurveda, carrying the Amrita. The elixir of immortality. Both sides clashed instantly over who would be the true owner. The gods pleaded with Vishnu one last time. And this time—” a smirk finally adorned Sanyal’s lips, “—he decided to deploy a centuries-old trick. To seduce.”

Devrat Kapoor’s eyes widened, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Seduce?”

“Hmm. Lord Vishnu took the form of the most beautiful woman the universe had ever seen: Mohini. The Enchantress. She used her allure to trick anyone who looked at her. She took the Amrita and convinced the Asuras that if they let her give the first half to the Devas, the rest of the elixir—and herself—would belong to them. They were so blinded by her beauty they agreed. She distributed every last drop to the Devas. They regained their splendor, battled the Asuras, and won.”

“But how does this story fit with the operation you have in mind?” the Minister asked. “I trust you, Sanyal. Your vision has kept us safe for years—it was your grit that helped keep this country intact. I am sure the Prime Minister will approve whatever you’re planning. But what does a myth have to do with the Kashmir riots?”

Sanyal chuckled but there was no humour in it. “We are going to devise the same strategy lord vishnu deployed. Send a mohini.” He cleared the table, pushing aside the crystal glasses and setting a series of leather bound files on the table. He opened it, revealing a mess of newspaper clippings, survelliance photos and files containing years worth of information on ISI’s shadow work and the underworld beneath lyari.

“Sir what was one thing that both devas and asuras wanted?”

“Amrita,” Devrat answered, his eyes scanning the array of intelligence.

“What is one thing both india and ISI wanted?”

“Kashmir…” Then it hit him. The realization that had sparked like a electricity in devrat kapoor’s mind, all the dots were connected at that second. Sanyal saw blood drain from the minister’s face.

“There’s no need to specify who the Devas are and who the Asuras are in this scenario,” Sanyal said quietly. “They want Kashmir—something that rightfully belongs to India and its people. We are going to use the oldest, most dangerous trick in the scriptures. We send a Mohini to dismantle their resolve from the inside. We let them believe Kashmir will be theirs soon, while in reality, it’s slipping through their fingers. Let them dance to her tune while Operation Dhurandhar commences simultaneously.”

“So your plan is to—”

“Make sure the ISI never tastes a single drop of that nectar. India will send a woman who knows the intricacies of espionage and the human psyche better than anyone I’ve ever trained.”

Devrat Kapoor hesitated, gripping his glass of water as if it were an anchor. “You’re planning to send a woman into the jaws of the tiger? Sanyal, this isn't a standard extraction. If she’s caught… their bodies aren't even recognizable. Imagine what happens to a woman in those cells—”

“My own daughter is going as the Mohini.”

The glass from devrat kapoor’s hand fell, shattering into bits. The sound echoed through the restaurant, stopping many conversations, catching the attention of the waiters and staff. But devrat kapoor had much bigger things to worry about.

“Your own daughter? Sanyal are you barking mad?!”

“I am mad, sir,” Sanyal replied, his voice dropping low. Devrat kapoor simply stared at him, dumfounded. The mad glint in sanyal’s eyes was evident of the inner workings of this man. “I am mad with the burden of the country’s safety. I am mad with the love I have for my country and my family as well. This decision wasn’t due to my duress, she voluntereed on her own, out of her own will.”

“But it’s your daughter, sanyal… your flesh and blood.”

“If not my daughter, then someone else’s. Amrita refused to let that fate fall on anyone else’s head. She decided to drink the Halahala herself. I tried to explain the reality to her, sir. I told her that going into Pakistan is a death sentence. Our assets don’t just lose their lives; they lose their identities. Their only tether to reality is their love for this soil.”

“How could she even ask for this?”

“She’s a bigger desh bhakt than I am. She looked me in the eye and said, ‘Papa, mujhse mere desh ki seva ka haq mat cheeno.’ Don't take away my right to serve my country.” Sanyal’s gaze softened for a split second before hardening again. “The father in me pleaded with her. But the patriot in me? He was proud. She’s doing her duty so that her mother—and millions of others—can sleep in peace. I may still be her father, sir, but as an officer, I know there is no one more perfect for this mission.”

Sanyal slid a single photograph across the messy paper-ridden table. The photo of his daughter, the one he had taken just a summer ago. “Meet amrita sanyal. Deputy at RAW, special operations wing. Operation blue iris, The kathmandu intercept. Trained in psychological warfare, expert in micro-expressions and neuro linguistic programming. Had learnt fashion designing under parisian designers for six months for this operation. Top of her class, meritous just like her brother vihaan.”

The woman in the photo was undoubetdly one of the most beautiful faces devrat kapoor had come across. The youth radiated of the woman, her eyes crinkled with a soft smile yet he could see why she could be sent as mohini. There was the allure in her eyes, that dragged whoever crossed paths with her.

“Most will see her appearance, dismiss her as a mere damsel. It’s her mind that ISI should fear. She will infiltrate as a tailor, closer to our assets' base as well in Lyari. Tailoring will offer her a much deeper insight into the private lives of people without raising any suspicion.”

Devrat kapoor simply sat there, having nothing to say except praise sanyal for thinking the unthinkable. He was hesitant, sending a young girl into such a place has severe consequences. Sehmat had not returned sane, neither did their male counterparts as well.

Sanyal himself had lost a part of himself in Pakistan, the time he spent there much lesser than others but brutal enough that he simply clung to the memories of his wife and children to survive and return home.

“What will be her facade?” Devrat asked, nothing know what else to ask.

“Maya Rajput. A pakistani hindu, a maratha baloch by ancestry and birth. Shifted from Mithi to Lyari in hopes for a job and education. She will soon pursue an open degree as well, after some time into the mission. All while working the threads of puppet strings. Her main goal is to find that ‘Bade sahab’ our asset had talked about. Eliminate him and stabilize Kashmir so the hills can breathe once again.”

Devrat kapoor sighed, picking up his new water glass replaced by restaurant staff. “I will talk with the prime minister. Kashmir is our utmost priority.”

“Then Cheers to Operation Amrit,” Sanyal raised his whiskey glass in toast.

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

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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