1. ryland grace ♡

in your arms

ryland missed you more than ever. when seven days felt like seven years. word count : 2.5k warnings: explicit sexual content, implied age gap, jealousy, body worship, size difference, protected sex (implied unprotected too).

jealousy jealousy

ryland has never been jealous before. not really. word count : 4k warnings: explicit sexual content, implied age gap, jealousy, size kink, size difference, protected sex (implied unprotected too).

rehman baloch ♡ (discontinued)

RAAZI (rehman baloch/ rehman dakait x fem!oc)

(angsty, fluffy and first love all at once. fem oc (zalak mehra) is an undercover spy playing a journalism student in lyari and hamza Ali mazari accompanies her throughout the mission as he watches zalak fall in love with the bastard king of lyari while being foolishly in love with her ever since he was 13.)

in your arms | ryland grace

ryland missed you more than ever. when seven days felt like seven years.

word count : 2.5k

warnings: explicit sexual content, implied age gap, jealousy, body worship, size difference, protected sex (implied unprotected too).

The porch light was on when the cab pulled up, and Ryland sat frozen for a second, it looked exactly the way he had memorised it. Seven days. Seven days of conference halls that smelled like burnt coffee, of shaking hands with strangers who wanted to talk about his last paper like it was ancient history he barely remembered writing, of a hotel bed too big and too cold on one side.

He paid the driver, grabbed his bag, and walked up the path like a sailor coming back home to Ithaca. Well, she was his entire Ithaca. He worshipped her.

The door opened before he could get his keys out.

"Hiiii," you squealed excitedly, and that was all it took; his whole face changed, like something in his chest had been holding its breath for a week and finally let go.

"Hi, my love," he said lovingly ,still standing on the mat like he needed permission to come inside his own house.

"Get in, loser, I missed you more than ever." You giggled.

He laughed, really laughed, "Babe, it was only a week"

"So that means you didn't miss me enough" you humphed with a pout he always adored.

And for the first time all week he didn't feel like he was missing a part of himself. He felt complete. The second the door clicked shut behind him he dropped the bag and pulled you in, closing the little distance between you both with a passionate kiss.

He held on maybe a beat too long. You didn't mind. You felt him breathe out slow against your hair, like he was recalibrating to a version of the world that made sense again. You kissed him back for a second then pulled back "Such an eager pup" you teased making your way to the living room. Leaving him dumbfounded..

"I missed you so much it was genuinely embarrassing," he mumbled following you. "I gave a keynote and halfway through I forgot what I was saying because I was thinking about the way you laugh when you think a joke's funnier than it is."

"My jokes are always that funny."

"They're really not." He pulled you with your arm into his chest, just enough to look at you, and there it was — that soft, wrecked, starving look, like he hadn't let himself really look at anything in a week. "But I missed the sound anyway. I missed a lot of sounds. I missed you leaving cabinet doors open. I missed the specific way you say my name when you're annoyed at me."

"Ry-land," you said, testing it, teasing.

"Yeah. That one. God, I missed that one."

He kissed your forehead then, soft and slow, lips lingering like he was trying to memorize the shape of you again after a week of only having a photo on his phone. You felt him exhale against your skin.

"Babe c'mon go wash up, we've got the entire night to ourselves." you said smilling.

"Don't — " he groaned, dropping his head to your shoulder, "don't say that to me right now, I have had a very long week and very little self-control left."

There it was. The moment he looked up to observe the living room apart from smothering you with kisses. The smell hit him next: garlic, butter, something roasting low and slow. His favourite. Then the candle on the side table, the one that always made the whole house smell like cedar and orange peel, the one you only lit for him.. He had a shy smile on his face now "Honey, was all this necessary?" "This is not even half of it Ry..." you replied tugging on his bicep now.

"You didn't have to do all this," he said, though his voice cracked a little around the edges, betraying how much it meant.

"I wanted to." You took his bag off his shoulder like it weighed nothing, though it clearly weighed on him after a week of dragging it through airports. "You've been gone seven days. I missed my favourite loser."

He caught your hand before you could pull away, laced his fingers through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he'd been rehearsing it in his head on the plane. "Can I just—" He brought his knees to the ground and held you hips as if you were his Goddess and pressed kisses all over your thighs too, unhurried "I haven't touched anyone in a week. Do you know how much I've been thinking about just… this. Holding your hand. It's stupid."

Dinner was quiet in a good way — comfortable silences, his foot finding yours under the table like a reflex, the kind of talking that doesn't need to fill every second. He told you about the parts of the trip that were funny: the man who fell asleep mid-question at the back of a panel, the free pens that ran out of ink after one signature, the airport announcement that mispronounced the name of the whole conference.

"And then," he said, following you into the kitchen as you picked up the dishes, "the guy next to me on the flight home tried to explain my own field to me. For two hours. I just let him. I didn't have the energy to correct a stranger about mass spectrometry at thirty thousand feet."

"That's very mature of you."

"I was thinking about you the whole time, so honestly, I wasn't even mad. I was just… daydreaming of you," he whispered against your ears as he wrapped his arms around your body.

"Show me," you murmured against his mouth, turning towards him now face to face, "Show me how much you missed me." You repeated now with a teasing smirk , as you slowly opened your silk robe to reveal to a red lace lingerie barely holding your breasts.

"I intend to," he gulped, looking at the view, "very, very thoroughly."

The silk pooled at your feet like a whisper, and Ryland's breath caught in his throat. His eyes traveled over you—slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing every curve, every shadow, every inch of skin the red lace framed but didn't quite hide.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed, his voice rough, almost reverent. "You wore this for me?"

"Who else would I wear it for?" you asked, stepping closer, your fingers finding the buttons of his shirt. "You think I put on red lace for the mailman?"

"The mailman's a lucky guy, then," he said, but his joke fell flat because his hands were already on you—sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through the lace, his touch hungry and desperate and so, so careful all at once.

"I missed you," he said again, like the words weren't enough, like he needed to say them until you believed it. "I missed you so much it hurt, baby. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat. I just kept thinking about—"

"Stop talking," you whispered, and kissed him.

He groaned into your mouth, his hands finally finding the clasp of your bra, fumbling with it until it gave way and the lace fell loose. He pulled back just enough to look at you—bare from the waist up, flushed, your nipples hard in the cool air of the kitchen—and the look on his face was pure worship.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "So fucking beautiful."

His mouth found your neck, your collarbone, lower still, until his lips closed around one nipple and you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him there. He laved at you with his tongue, sucking gently, then harder, until you were arching into him, a whimper escaping your lips.

"Ry—"

"Shh," he murmured against your skin, switching to the other breast, giving it the same attention. "Let me take care of you. I've been waiting a week to take care of you."

His hands slid down your sides, over your hips, hooking into the waistband of the matching red lace panties. He pulled them down slowly, kissing each inch of skin as it was revealed—your stomach, your hip bone, the inside of your thigh. By the time he reached your ankles, you were trembling, your knees weak.

"Bedroom," you managed. "Now."

He didn't argue. He scooped you up like you weighed nothing, carrying you through the house, kicking the bedroom door open, laying you down on the sheets like you were something precious. The fairy lights from the backyard—still up from the engagement party weeks ago—cast a soft glow through the window, and the candle on the nightstand filled the room with the scent of cedar and orange peel.

He stood at the foot of the bed, still half-dressed, and looked at you sprawled out before him—naked, waiting, wanting.

"Look at you," he said, his voice low and rough. "Spread out on our bed, waiting for me. You have no idea what that does to me."

"Show me," you said for the third time that night, and this time it was a command.

He shed his clothes in record time—shirt, pants, boxers—and then he was on the bed, over you, between your legs, his cock hard and pressing against your thigh. He kissed you deeply, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, and you tasted the want on him, the desperation, the love.

"I'm not going to last long," he admitted against your lips, almost embarrassed. "It's been a week, and you're—fuck, you're so wet for me already."

"Then don't hold back," you said, reaching down to guide him to your entrance. "I want to feel you. I want to feel how much you missed me."

He pushed in, and you both groaned.

The stretch was perfect—full, deep, exactly what you'd been craving. He bottomed out and stilled, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Fuck," he whispered. "Fuck, I missed this. I missed you."

"Move," you begged. "Please, Ry."

He did.

He started slow, deep, grinding his hips against yours in a way that made stars burst behind your eyes. His mouth found yours again, swallowing your moans, his tongue dancing with yours in rhythm with his thrusts. One hand slid under your back, pulling you closer, angling you so he hit that perfect spot inside you with every stroke.

"That's it," he groaned. "That's it, baby. Take all of it."

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned at the sensation, his pace quickening. The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard tapping against the wall, and the sounds you made—wet, wanton, utterly uninhibited—filled the room.

"I'm close," you gasped, your nails raking down his back. "Ry, I'm so close—"

"Not yet," he said, but he was close too—you could feel it in the way his thrusts grew erratic, in the way his breath hitched, in the way his hands gripped your hips like he was holding on for dear life. "Wait for me. Come with me."

He reached between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, circling in time with his thrusts, and that was it. That was the end.

You shattered.

Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave, pulling you under, and you cried out his name—Ryland, Ryland, Ryland—as your walls clenched around him, milking him, pulling him deeper. He followed a heartbeat later, his hips stuttering, a guttural moan torn from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you completely.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight a comfort, his face buried in your neck. You felt his breath slow, felt his heartbeat gradually return to normal, felt his lips press a soft kiss to your shoulder.

"I love you," he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. "I love you so much."

"I love you too," you whispered, your fingers carding through his hair. "Welcome home."

He lifted his head, and there it was—that soft, gummy smile that had made you fall in love with him in the first place.

"Best welcome home I've ever had," he said.

"Good. Because I've got a whole week of missed cuddling to catch up on."

He laughed, rolling off you but pulling you with him, tucking you into his side, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"Deal," he said. "But fair warning—I'm not done with you yet. I've got seven days of missing you to make up for."

You smiled against his chest, tracing idle patterns on his skin.

"I'm counting on it."

Afterwards, tangled together in the quiet dark, he pressed one more kiss to your forehead — soft, unhurried, the kind that wasn't asking for anything at all, just grateful.

"Missed you," he mumbled again, half-asleep already, like the words had just been waiting behind his teeth all week for a chance to get out.

"I know," you said, smiling against his shoulder. "I missed you too. Now go to sleep, disaster."

"Only if you hold my hand."

"I'm always going to hold your hand, Ryland."

"…Good. That's...yeah. Good."

He was asleep within a minute, fingers still laced through yours, like even unconscious he wasn't willing to let go of the one thing he'd spent a whole week aching for.

jealousy jealousy | ryland grace

ryland has never been jealous before. not really.

word count : 2.8k

warnings: explicit sexual content, implied age gap, jealousy, size kink, size difference, protected sex (implied unprotected too).

The backyard looked like something out of a dream ~ strings of warm fairy lights criss-crossing above the patio, white linen draped over every table, gold candles flickering even though the sun hadn't fully set yet. Someone had put white roses in mason jars down the center of each table. It was simple. It was elegant. It was perfect, and so was the ring still cold and unfamiliar-feeling on your finger.

Ryland hadn't let go of your hand all evening. Not really. Even when he was shaking hands with your uncle, even when he was laughing at something your dad said about "finally" making it official ~ his fingers kept finding their way back to yours, like he needed the proof you were still there. Proof that you were finally his.

"You keep looking at me like I'm going to disappear Ry," you teased, leaning into his shoulder.

"Can't I hold close what's finally mine ," he teased back, low and sultry, the corner of his mouth twitching into the gummy smile he has.

You laughed and kissed his cheek, and for a while, the party was easy. Golden light, good food, the low hum of people who loved you both. It was easy right up until you turned around with two glasses of champagne and nearly walked into someone you hadn't seen in 8 years.

"Y/N?"

You blinked. "...Luke?"

Luke Glanton. High school. First real boyfriend, first real heartbreak, the guy whose name still made your mom get a look on her face. She was not the prudest when she knew you were dating him. He was standing there in a button-down that was trying too hard, with a faint smile like no time had passed at all. His neck tattoos peeking through the collar of his button down shirt.

"I didn't know you'd be here," you said hesitantly , because it was true, and because you could feel someone's attention land on you from across the yard like a change in air pressure.

"Your cousin invited me, small world, huh?" Luke said, easy, with the tiny smirk he always had, a little too familiar. "Wow. Look at you. You look incredibly sexy."

"Thank you, Luke" you said with a your eyebrows slightly twitching at the unhinged remark, and you meant to keep it short, but he asked about your questions, and you answered. Not that any of them were inappropriate. You knew to keep your distance. And he asked if you remembered that ridiculous road trip senior year, the one where you lost your virginity to him on a hill side. Such an odd memory to bring up on a day like this. But you knew Luke. He still loved you. He loved you so much he ended up flunking all exams and ruined his career. But you laughed, trying to hide the fact that he had caught you off gaurd with his remarks.

You didn't notice Ryland approaching until his hand landed at the small of your back ~ light, casual, deliberate.

"Hi," Ryland said, pleasant in the specific way that meant he was doing math in his head about how long this conversation had been happening. "I don't think we've met."

"Oh, Ryland, this is Luke. We went to high school together," you said. "Luke, this is my fiancé."

Something flickered behind Luke's eyes at the word fiancé, and something flickered behind Ryland's at the word high school together, and neither men said anything about it, which somehow made it louder.

"Fiancé," Luke repeated, glancing at the ring. "Congratulations. I'm proud of you." You knew he was far fro being proud about anything in this situation.

"It is," Ryland agreed, smiling the kind of smile that didn't reach anywhere near his eyes. "Great."

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning, because you knew that smile. You'd catalogued every one of Ryland's smiles over the past six years, and this one — polite, tight, a little too still — was new. New and, admittedly, kind of adorable.

"So how do you two know each other again?" Ryland asked, in the tone of a man asking a purely academic question, nothing more.

"We dated," Luke said, at the same time you said, "It was a long time ago."

"Right," Ryland said. "Long time ago." His hand at your back pressed just slightly firmer. "Well. It was nice meeting you, Luke. Y/N, can I borrow you for a second?"

"What?" you whispered.

"Something," Ryland said, already steering you away with a hand that had gone from casual to very purposeful. "It's important. Fiancé business."

"Fiancé business," you repeated, letting him tug you across the lawn, fighting a smile the whole way. "Ry... what is it? I know something's up."

"No baby I just wanted to talk to you. Nothing's wrong." He forced a tiny smile as he took you inside.

You glanced back once at Luke, who was watching you go with an expression you didn't have time to decode, because Ryland had pulled you around the side of the house, out of the fairy lights and into the shadow between the fence and the garden shed, and pressed you gently back against the wood siding like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Ry"

"Yes."

"Are you jealous?"

"No," he said, far too fast, looking anywhere but your eyes. "I just wanted to talk to you. Privately. About ..."

"About?"

"Uh... about how much I love you" His hand came up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and his voice dropped, low and a little rough around the edges. "Ryland, you literally dragged me out of a conversation."

"Uh-huh." You reached up and rested your palm flat against his chest, right over the ridiculous, wonderful, thundering heartbeat you could feel even through his shirt.

"I did not drag you. I escorted you. There's a difference." His eyes finally met yours, and there it was — that flicker of something helpless and a little embarrassed underneath the stubbornness. "The way he was looking at you. As if he'd eat you up then and there.2"

"There it is."

"There what is. I'm not — I don't get jealous.You know that. I'm a rational person."

"You're the most rational person I've ever met," you agreed, giggling, "who just physically removed me from a conversation because a man from eight years ago said I looked incredibly sexy."

"Well you are sexy. But only i'm supposed to say that."

"Ryland."

"Baby I can't help it. I don't like him around you."

You laughed — you couldn't help it — and something in his expression cracked open at the sound, like he'd been waiting all night for a reason to stop performing composure. His hand slid from your hair to your jaw, tilting your face up to his, and the teasing look in his eyes gave way to something quieter. Hungrier.

"You're cute when you're jealous, you know that?" you said softly.

"I'm not jealous," he murmured, already leaning in, already so close you could feel his breath against your mouth. "I'm just making sure everyone at this party remembers exactly whose fiancée you are."

"And how exactly are you planning on doing that?"

His mouth curved against yours, not quite a kiss yet. "I have some ideas."

The way he said it—I have some ideas—sent a shiver straight down your spine, pooling heat low in your belly. You didn't need to ask what kind of ideas. You could feel them in the way his fingers tightened on your jaw, in the way his body pressed you harder against the siding, in the way his breath came a little quicker now, matching yours.

"Yeah?" you breathed, your hand sliding from his chest up to the back of his neck, fingers threading into the short hair at his nape. "Show me."

He didn't need to be told twice.

Ryland's mouth crashed into yours, and it wasn't the soft, sweet kiss from earlier—this one had teeth, had hunger, had six years of knowing exactly how you liked to be kissed and six more of wanting to prove it. His tongue swept against your lower lip, demanding entry, and you gave it freely, moaning into his mouth as his hands dropped to your hips and pulled you flush against him.

You could feel him through his dress pants—half-hard already, pressing against your thigh, and the knowledge that he'd gotten like this just from pulling you away from another man sent a rush of heat through you.

"Ry," you gasped against his mouth. "The party—"

"Can wait," he growled, kissing down your jaw, your throat, teeth scraping against the pulse point that made you whimper. "Let them wonder where we went. Let him wonder."

You should have protested. Should have reminded him that your parents were out there, that his mom had flown in from across the country, that there was a cake waiting to be cut. But his hand had slid under the hem of your dress, fingers skating up the bare skin of your thigh, and every coherent thought evaporated like fog in the sun.

"Upstairs," you managed. "Now."

He pulled back just long enough to look at you—eyes dark, pupils blown, lips wet and slightly swollen—and then he took your hand and led you through the back door, through the quiet hallway, up the stairs that creaked in familiar places. The sounds of the party drifted up from below, muffled and distant, like they belonged to another world entirely.

The bedroom door clicked shut behind you, and suddenly it was just the two of you, the fairy lights from the yard casting a soft golden glow through the window, the half-open curtains letting in the last blush of sunset.

Ryland turned you around gently, his hands finding your hips, and pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder where the strap of your dress had slipped down.

"I've been watching you all night," he murmured against your skin, his voice low and rough. "Watching the way you move, the way you laugh, the way you bite your lip when you're nervous. And I kept thinking—" Another kiss, lower this time, on the curve of your spine where your dress dipped. "—I get to take you home. I get to unwrap you. I get to have you, every night, for the rest of my life."

Your breath caught. "Ry…"

"Turn around."

You did, and the look on his face made your knees weak. It wasn't just lust—it was love, deep and overwhelming, mixed with a possessiveness that should have been alarming but only made you feel safer.

He reached for the zipper of your dress, slow, deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours. The sound of it descending was loud in the quiet room, and when the fabric loosened, he pushed it off your shoulders with a reverence that made your heart ache.

The dress pooled at your feet, leaving you in nothing but lace and the diamond on your finger.

"God," he breathed, his hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. "You're so beautiful. Do you know that? Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

"Show me," you whispered again, and this time it wasn't a challenge—it was a plea.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, walking you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You fell onto it together, a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter that dissolved into moans as his mouth found your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts above the lace of your bra.

His hands were everywhere—skimming down your sides, gripping your thighs, hooking into the waistband of your panties and pulling them down your legs with agonizing slowness. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, then higher, then higher still, until his mouth was hovering over the place where you ached for him most.

"Ryland, please," you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and glittering in the dim light. "Please what, baby?"

"Please—" You couldn't finish the sentence. You didn't need to.

He lowered his mouth to you, and your back arched off the bed.

He was good at this—he'd always been good, but six years of practice had turned him into something else entirely. His tongue found every sensitive spot, every place that made you gasp and moan and tug at his hair, and he lingered there, drawing it out, until you were trembling and incoherent, begging for something you couldn't name.

"Ry—I'm close—"

He pulled back, and you whimpered at the loss. But then he was crawling up your body, his mouth finding yours again, and you could taste yourself on his lips, salty and sweet.

"Not yet," he murmured against your mouth. "I want to be inside you when you come."

He sat back just long enough to shed his shirt, his belt, his pants, and you watched, propped on your elbows, drinking in the sight of him—broad shoulders, the dip of his waist, the way his cock stood hard and ready, the tip already glistening.

"Look at you," you said, your voice husky. "All dressed up for our engagement party, and you can't even wait until we get home."

"Can you blame me?" He crawled over you, his body caging yours, his cock pressing against your slick, wet heat. "You're wearing my ring. You're mine. And I need everyone to know it."

He notched himself at your entrance, and you both went still, the air thick with anticipation.

"Ready?" he asked, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice barely a whisper.

"Always," you breathed.

He pushed in.

The stretch was exquisite—slow and deep, filling you inch by inch until you were gasping, your nails digging into his shoulders, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours.

"Fuck," he breathed, his eyes squeezed shut. "You feel...you always feel so good."

"Move," you begged. "Please, Ry, move."

He did.

He started slow, a deep, rolling rhythm that had you clutching the sheets, your head thrown back, every nerve ending alight. He watched your face, his gaze hungry and reverent, drinking in every moan, every gasp, every flutter of your eyelids.

"You're so beautiful like this," he said, his voice ragged. "Taking me so perfectly. Like you were made for me."

"I was," you gasped, and it was true—you believed it with every fiber of your being.

He picked up the pace, his hips snapping against yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the room along with your moans and his grunts. The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall, and somewhere downstairs, someone was laughing, clinking glasses, celebrating your union.

But up here, in the golden twilight, there was only this—only him, only you, only the building pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

"Ry—I'm gonna—"

"Not yet," he said again, but this time he shifted his angle, and the head of his cock hit that perfect spot inside you, and you screamed.

"There—right there—don't stop—"

He didn't stop. He drove into you, relentless, his breathing harsh, his skin slick with sweat, his eyes locked on yours. He reached between your bodies and found your clit with his thumb, circling in time with his thrusts, and that was it—that was the end.

You shattered.

Your orgasm ripped through you like a wave, pulling you under, and you cried out his name—Ryland, Ryland, Ryland—as your walls clenched around him, milking him, pulling him deeper.

He followed a heartbeat later, his hips stuttering, a guttural moan torn from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside you, hot and thick, filling you completely. His body shuddered above you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then he pulled out slowly, carefully, and collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, pressing a kiss to your hair, your temple, your lips.

"I love you," he murmured, his voice soft and spent. "I love you so much it scares me."

You curled into him, your cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. "I love you too. And Ry?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time someone from my past shows up, you can drag me away anytime."

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest, and held you tighter. "Good. Because I'm not done claiming you yet. We've got a lifetime for that."

Outside, the party continued. The fairy lights glowed. The music played. And upstairs, wrapped in each other's arms, you drifted into the kind of contented silence that only comes from being exactly where you're meant to be.

(angsty, fluffy and first love all at once. fem oc (zalak mehra) is an undercover spy playing a journalism student in lyari and hamza Ali mazari accompanies her throughout the mission as he watches zalak fall in love with the bastard king of lyari while being foolishly inlove with her ever since he was 13.)

i ୨୧ ˖ㅤㅤ۫ㅤ

ii ୨୧ ˖ㅤㅤ۫ㅤ

iii ୨୧ ˖ㅤㅤ۫ㅤ

iv ୨୧ ˖ㅤㅤ۫ㅤ

raazi ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧ (rehman dakait x fem!oc)

chapter. iv ♡ masterlist.

summary : (angsty, fluffy and first love all at once. fem oc (zalak mehra) is an undercover spy playing a journalism student in lyari and hamza Ali mazari accompanies her throughout the mission as he watches zalak fall in love with the bastard king of lyari - rehman baloch, while being foolishly inlove with her ever since he was 13.) warnings : angsty, fluffy banter, sad ending? not sure depends on what the reader chooses at the end :) disclaimer: this is purely fiction & does not represnt anyone in real life & is against terrorism. so treat as is and enjoy. love, aashu

The drive back home should have been simple.

It wasn't.

Zalak sat quietly in the backseat of the Mustang as Karachi's evening lights blurred past the window.

For once, her mind wasn't occupied with coded messages, surveillance reports, or mission timelines.

It was occupied by a man.

A dangerous man.

A criminal.

A target.

And somehow...the same man whose eyes had softened when Faizal smiled.

The same man who had remembered she preferred coffee over chai after hearing it only once. The same man who kept looking at her as though she were a puzzle he wanted to solve.

"Kya problem hai bhenchod," she muttered under her breath.

Unfortunately, Hamza heard.

"Kya problem hai?"

Zalak immediately straightened.

"Kuch nahi."

"Haan, main toh yaha behra hu na"

She rolled her eyes.

"Tum kab se itne nosy ho gaye?"

"Jab se tumhari acting kharab hone lagi."

That got her attention.

Slowly, she turned toward him.

Hamza wasn't smiling anymore.

His expression had become unusually serious.

"Tum usse pasand karne lagi ho."

The words landed heavier than she expected.

"Kisko?"

"Rehman ko."

Silence.

The car continued moving.

Outside, neon signs flickered.

Inside, something uncomfortable settled between them.

"Aaj bus dusra din tha Hamza, Tu overthink mat kar. "

"Nahi."

Hamza looked out the window.

"Tum kar rahi ho."

Zalak hated how quickly her chest tightened.

Because somewhere deep down...

She knew he wasn't completely wrong.

"Tumhe pata hai na mission kya hai?"

His voice had lowered.

The teasing was gone.

Only concern remained.

"Tum mujhe yaad dilane wale kaun hote ho?"

The question came out sharper than intended.

Hamza flinched.

Almost invisibly.

But she saw it.

And immediately regretted it.

Because Hamza never deserved her frustration.

Not him.

Never him.

"Sorry."

The apology arrived quietly.

Hamza forced a smile.

"Koi baat nahi."

Neither spoke for the rest of the journey.

That night, Zalak couldn't sleep again.

This time it wasn't because of the mission.

It was because every time she closed her eyes—

She remembered Rehman's smile.

The way he'd looked at Faizal.

The way he'd looked at her.

And that was infinitely more dangerous.

At 1:17 AM, she finally gave up and walked onto her balcony.

The city below was mostly asleep.

A cool breeze brushed against her face.

For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe.

Then her secure phone vibrated.

One message.

From Headquarters.

Her heartbeat immediately accelerated.

MISSION UPDATE

Target movement confirmed.

The evidence collection phase begins immediately.

Gain access to private sections of Baloch Mahal.

Priority level: Red.

The warmth she'd carried all evening vanished instantly.

There it was.

Reality.

Cold.

Unforgiving.

She stared at the screen.

Then slowly lowered the phone.

Because suddenly all she could think was—

If the evidence existed...

What would she do when she found it?

And worse.

What if she didn't want to?

The next afternoon

Baloch Mahal felt strangely different. More familiar.

Which was exactly the problem.

The guards greeted her by name.

The housekeeper smiled when she arrived.

Someone in the kitchen apparently already knew how she liked her coffee.

She was becoming comfortable.

Spies died when they became comfortable.

Faizal, however, had other priorities.

"Didi!"

The child came sprinting down the hallway.

"Main kal poori raat fractions kar raha tha!"

"Yeh jhoot hai."

"Nahi sach!"

"Faizal."

"Thoda sa jhoot hai."

She laughed.

The boy immediately grinned.

Mission accomplished.

Unfortunately, another pair of eyes had witnessed the interaction.

Rehman.

Standing near the staircase.

Watching.

Again.

Zalak felt it before she even looked up.

When their eyes met, something flickered across his expression.

Something warmer than curiosity.

Something far more dangerous.

"Dekha Abbu?"

Faizal proudly announced.

"Didi mujh par hasti hain."

"Haan."

Rehman folded his arms.

"Lekin tumhare jokes pe nahi."

"Abbu!"

Hamza, standing nearby, nearly choked on his tea.

The hallway erupted into laughter.

Everyone except Hamza.

Because while everybody else was laughing—

He was watching something else entirely.

Watching the way Rehman looked at Zalak.

Watching the way Zalak unconsciously looked back.

Watching a disaster unfold in slow motion.

And the worst part?

Neither of them realised it yet.

Later that evening, Hamza found himself alone on one of the mansion's balconies.

The sounds of conversation drifted up from the gardens below.

He didn't need to look.

He already knew who was there.

Zalak.

Rehman.

Faizal.

A strange little picture of happiness.

The kind Hamza had spent years imagining for himself.

The kind he had always secretly hoped for.

Ever since he was thirteen.

Ever since a stubborn girl with scraped knees had punched a bully for him and then demanded half his lunch as payment.

He laughed bitterly at the memory.

"Tu bhi kya cheez hai, Hamza."

His voice disappeared into the evening wind.

Because after all these years,

after every mission,

every fight, every sacrifice, every moment spent protecting her.

She still looked at someone else.

And the cruellest thing?

He couldn't even blame her.

Because Rehman wasn't pretending anymore either.

Hamza had seen it.

The lingering glances.

The attention.

The way Rehman listened whenever Zalak spoke.

The way his entire mood changed around her.

The bastard was falling, too.

Fast.

Hamza closed his eyes.

And for the first time since arriving in Lyari,

He wondered whether the mission would destroy only one heart.

Or three.

Far below, in the gardens,

Zalak laughed at something Faizal said.

Rehman watched her laugh.

And neither of them noticed the storm already gathering above their heads.

Because some stories begin with gunfire.

And some begin with a smile.

This one had begun with both.

And very soon, one of them would demand a price.

two weeks later

Two weeks.

Fourteen days.

Fourteen tutoring sessions.

Fourteen evenings spent inside Baloch Mahal.

And somehow, against every rule she had ever been taught,

Zalak Mehra had stopped counting days by mission reports.

Now she counted them by sunsets.

Specifically, the sunsets she spent on the verandah with Rehman Baloch, sipping coffee.

The routine had developed so naturally that neither of them could pinpoint exactly when it started.

At first, she arrived at five.

Taught Faizal.

Left.

Simple.

Professional.

Safe.

Then one evening, Faizal had insisted she stay for dinner.

The next time, Rehman had offered coffee afterwards.

The conversation then stretched on for forty minutes.

And now,

Now it had become expected.

Dangerously expected.

Every evening, around seven-thirty, Faizal would finally finish his lessons.

Every evening, around seven-thirty-five, Rehman would appear.

And every evening, around seven-thirty-six, he would somehow find an excuse to keep her there.

"Miss Zalak."

"Hm?"

"Ek sawal hai."

She looked up from packing her books.

Rehman stood beside the library door.

Hands folded.

Expression completely serious.

"Ji?"

"Faizal ke marks improve ho rahe hain."

"Allah ka shukar hai."

"Problem yeh hai."

She blinked.

"Problem?"

"Haan."

He nodded gravely.

"Ab uska confidence bhi improve ho raha hai."

A voice immediately shouted from the hallway.

"ABBU MAIN SUN SAKTA HOON."

Uzair and Donga  burst out laughing.

Zalak pressed her lips together.

Failed.

And burst into laughter.

The corner of Rehman's mouth twitched upward.

Mission accomplished.

Again.

It became their thing.

Little conversations.

Pointless conversations.

The kind that should not matter.

The kind that somehow mattered the most.

One evening.

The electricity had gone out across half the neighbourhood.

Generators hummed throughout the estate.

The library glowed softly beneath lantern light.

Faizal had been sent away after completing homework.

Leaving only two people behind.

Zalak.

Rehman.

The rest of the boys were busy tracking the shipment of weapons.

"Journalism mein sabse ajeeb assignment kya mila tha?"

Rehman asked.

Zalak looked up.

"Ek baar mujhe teen din tak ek bakri ka interview follow karna pada tha."

Silence.

Rehman blinked.

"Bakri?"

"Haan."

"Interview?"

"Haan."

"Bakri ka?"

"Haan."

Rehman stared at her.

"Main explain kar sakta hoon."

"Nahi."

"Sun toh lo."

"Nahi."

"Rehman—"

"Main kisi bhi explanation ko accept nahi karunga."

For the next ten minutes, she attempted to explain.

For the next ten minutes, he refused to accept any explanation.

And for the next ten minutes, Hamza laughed so hard he nearly suffocated.

The worst part?

The most dangerous part?

Zalak genuinely enjoyed herself.

She enjoyed being there.

Enjoyed listening to them.

Enjoyed laughing.

Enjoyed him.

And every day that realisation became harder to ignore.

Meanwhile,

Rehman was having an entirely different crisis.

At two-thirty in the morning.

The mansion slept.

The guards rotated shifts.

The hallways stood empty.

And Rehman Baloch sat alone in his office pretending to review paperwork.

Pretending.

Because for the last fifteen minutes, he'd been reading the same page.

"Bhai?"

Uzair stood nearby.

Waiting. Assisting.

Rehman didn't respond.

"Bhai?"

Still nothing.

"REHMAN BHAI ."

Finally

“Kya hua madarchod?"

Uzair stared.

"Bhai aap bhees minute se ek h page dekh rahe hai file ki"

Rehman glanced downward.

Indeed.

Same page.

Same paragraph.

Same sentence.

"Hm."

Uzair narrowed his eyes.

Dangerously.

Suspiciously.

"Aapko wo pasand hai"

The file almost slipped from Rehman's hand.

"Aisi bachkaand baate mat kar Uzair"

"So aapko pata hai mein kiski baat kar raha hu?"

“Uzair."

"You drove her home yourself yesterday."

"Driver busy tha."

“Hamze ko bej dete”

Silence.

Uzair sighed.

The sigh of a man witnessing disaster in real time.

"Ya Allah."

"What?"

"Aapko sacchi pyaar hogya hai."

For a moment, something uncharacteristically boyish crossed Rehman's face.

Small.

Embarrassed.

Almost helpless.

Then he looked away.

And that was answer enough.

Because the truth was, he did.

More than he should.

Far more than he should.

He liked hearing her laugh.

He liked watching her explain things.

He liked how she treated Faizal.

He liked how she challenged him.

He liked that she wasn't intimidated by him.

He liked that she argued.

He liked that she listened.

And somewhere during the last two weeks,

He had stopped looking forward to evenings.

He looked forward to her.

Which was a problem.

A very serious problem.

Because Rehman Baloch had spent his entire life surviving enemies.

Bullets.

Betrayals.

Power struggles.

Nothing had prepared him for one journalism student in a pink salwar kameez.

One Thursday evening,

The lesson ended unusually late.

Almost ten-thirty.

Faizal had an upcoming exam.

The extra tutoring session stretched longer than expected.

Outside, rain poured from the sky.

Relentless.

Silver sheets of water hammered against the windows.

Zalak looked outside.

"Oh no."

"Problem?"

Rehman asked.

"I didn't bring an umbrella."

"Aap Mustang main aayi ho"

"Still."

He stared.

Then shook his head.

“Chaliye"

“Kaha?"

"Main chodd deta hu"

"Rehman ji, it's okay"

"Zalak."

The use of her first name stopped her immediately.

Because he almost never used it.

Usually, it was Miss Zalak.

Or Teacher.

Or some variation of formality.

Not Zalak.

For one strange second—

The room became very quiet.

Even Hamza noticed.

And the tiny shift made his stomach sink.

Because Rehman noticed too.

And neither looked away.

"Main chodd deta hoon."

His voice softened.

"Bahut baarish hai."

This time, she nodded.

The drive felt different.

Rain tapped against the windshield.

The city glowed beneath blurred lights.

Jazz music played from the radio.

For several minutes, neither spoke.

Comfortable silence.

The most dangerous kind.

Finally,

she glanced toward him.

"Aap Jazz music hi sunte hai kya?"

He laughed quietly.

“Waise toh western classical bhi sunta hoon. Par Jazz ka mujhpe alag hi asar rehta hai”

"Waise hi mujhpe Hindustani classical—”

Rehman looked at her. Her breath hitched. For a second. She genuinely looked caught.

Then he laughed.

Actually laughed.

"Accha?"

"Haan.”

She smiled. Thank God he didn’t think much about it.

And Zalak's heart did something extremely inconvenient.

Outside her apartment building, the car stopped.

Neither moved.

Rain continued falling.

The dashboard lights painted soft shadows across his face.

For one brief moment, it felt like the rest of the city had disappeared.

"Tum kal aaogi?"

The question escaped him before he could stop it.

Not:

Will Faizal have class tomorrow?

Not:

What time will you arrive?

Just,  "Tum kal aaogi?"

She looked at him.

Really looked at him.

And suddenly, the mission flashed through her mind.

The reports.

The lies.

The fake identity.

The secrets.

Everything she'd been trying desperately not to think about.

Because the terrifying thing wasn't that Rehman was falling for her.

The terrifying thing was that she wasn't sure she was falling alone anymore.

A small smile appeared on her face.

Soft.

Bittersweet.

"Haan."

Relief crossed his expression so quickly he probably didn't even realize it happened.

But she saw it.

And that made everything worse.

Much worse.

Because as she stepped out of the car and walked toward her building—

she could feel his eyes following her.

Not possessive.

Not demanding.

Just making sure she got inside safely.

The same way he always did.

The same way she had started looking for him whenever she arrived.

And neither of them understood yet that the closer they grew, the more impossible the ending would become. Above them, hidden behind clouds, the storm continued gathering.

And somewhere in a secure intelligence office, a new mission report waited unopened.

One that would change everything.

to be continued. ୨୧ ˖ ۫

author's note ♡

Oh no.

Hamza Nation, are we surviving this chapter???

because our boy is DOWN BAD.

Meanwhile, Zalak is forgetting basic spy training every time Rehman smiles, and headquarters is sitting somewhere screaming into a wall.

⁺　︵　comment to be tagged ★

raazi ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧ (rehman dakait x fem!oc)

chapter. iii ♡ masterlist.

summary : (angsty, fluffy and first love all at once. fem oc (zalak mehra) is an undercover spy playing a journalism student in lyari and hamza Ali mazari accompanies her throughout the mission as he watches zalak fall in love with the bastard king of lyari - rehman baloch, while being foolishly inlove with her ever since he was 13.) warnings : angsty, fluffy banter, sad ending? not sure depends on what the reader chooses at the end :) disclaimer: this is purely fiction & does not represnt anyone in real life & is against terrorism. so treat as is and enjoy. love, aashu

the next day (please read the author's note at the end)

Zalak woke up from barely 4 hours of sleep. She couldn't really sleep last night, busy calculating every move she'd make tomorrow, essential to accomplish the mission. She turned on the TV in her living room to listen to some morning news while she made coffee to keep her alive through the day. She tried to distract herself by staying up to date with the news. But miserably failed as the news only chanted about rehman dakait's transcendence. A part of her was excited? She couldn/t believe it. 4 months ago, she fought with her dad, refusing to go, and now that she was here, she was eager to see the man in real life, anticipation took over her.

This morning had slipped through her fingers like silk in warm water. One blink, one unfinished thought, and suddenly the sky outside her window was bruising into dusk. Five o’clock already.

She sat before the mirror at her bedside, the room washed in amber light, soft as vanilla. The ritual began slowly.

She dipped her fingers into rosewater cream and pressed it into her cheeks with reverence, as though waking ancient gold beneath her skin. The moisturiser left a luminous sheen, catching light along the high planes of her face, brow bone, cheekbone, collarbone - until she looked sculpted from dusk itself.

From a velvet pouch, she lifted jars and compacts in earthy jewel tones: burnt cinnamon, molten plum. Colours that did not hide her complexion but worshipped it.

A liquid foundation melted seamlessly into her skin, disappearing as though it had always belonged there. She traced concealer beneath her eyes like strokes of moonlight, blending until the brightness bloomed softly against the richness of her complexion.

Then came the eyes.

She swept bronze shimmer across her lids, the pigment glowing against her dark skin like sunlight on river water. In the inner corners, she pressed flecks of antique gold that flashed every time she blinked. Her eyeliner curved sharp and elegantly, winged with the precision of calligraphy.

The blush was terracotta, sunbaked and warm, dusted high upon her cheeks. It looked less like makeup and more like heat rising naturally beneath her skin. She smiled faintly at her reflection.

Finally, the highlighter.

A molten amber glow swept across her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, turning her skin ethereal, celestial, almost unreal. She looked kissed by lantern light, by firelight, by stars.

Outside, the warm golden hour rays fell softly onto her balcony creepers.

Inside, she sat in a silky pastel pink salwaar kameez that made her look even more ethereal, brushing gloss onto her lips. She smiled at her reflection, satisfied with the art she produced. She grabbed her books and the sample materials needed to teach Faizal. Once last look in the mirror. She was ready to leave.

As she stepped out of her apartment building, her eyes landed on a gleaming white Mustang parked by the curb. Surely, that couldn't be for her... could it?

The idea seemed ridiculous, yet she found herself indulging it as she walked closer and peered at the driver. "Yeh gaadi kisne mangwayi? Yahan toh kisi ke paas Mustang nahi hai."

The driver straightened immediately. "Memsaab, Dakait sahab ne bheji hai. Tuition teacher ke liye. Aap unhe jaanti hain kya?"

So it was for her.

A smile tugged at her lips. He certainly knew how to make an entrance. Most people sent a text. This man apparently dispatched a Mustang. "Arey, woh toh main hi hoon," she replied, opening the door. "Chaliye phir."

The Mustang drew more than a few curious looks. Not that she was surprised. A white Mustang wasn't exactly subtle. Then again, subtlety had never seemed to be one of Dakait sahab's stronger qualities.

After nearly forty minutes, the cityscape began to change. Crowded markets gave way to wider roads, and eventually the towering gates of Baloch Mahal came into view.

The estate rose behind high stone walls, sprawling and imposing, its sandstone façade glowing softly under the afternoon sun. Ornate balconies projected from the upper floors, while fountains sparkled in the vast courtyard beyond the gates. It looked less like a residence and more like the sort of place where family feuds lasted three generations and every room contained at least one expensive chandelier.

The Mustang rolled to a smooth stop near the main entrance.

Before opening the door, she reached into her purse and pulled out a small bottle of vanilla perfume she always carried with her. A quick spray at her wrists, another lightly at her neck.

The familiar scent settled around her, warm and sweet. Especially when dealing with men who sent muscle cars instead of messages.

She slipped the perfume back into her purse, checked her reflection in the dark window for a second, and then stepped out.

A uniformed guard immediately moved forward and opened the grand wooden doors.

"Memsaab aa gayi hain," he announced into a walkie-talkie.

The statement travelled through the mansion like a royal proclamation.

She couldn't help smiling.

As she entered through the gates, a passageway with lush greenery on both sides and a white marble fountain with pink lotuses floating in it adorned the garden. She was led to the room by a female middle-aged housekeeper.

There he was.

Rehman Dakait sat in the infamous swing-chair Hamza had told her about, occupying it with the effortless authority of a man who had never once needed to announce his importance. He wore a navy-blue pathani kurta, the top buttons undone, exposing tanned skin beneath.

Uzair stood at his right shoulder. Hamza rested against a pillar a few steps behind.

Zalak slowed as she approached.

The faint scent of vanilla perfume reached the room before she did, softening the otherwise masculine atmosphere.

She offered a measured nod.

"As-salam-walaikum."

Rehman turned toward her.

For a moment, neither spoke.

His eyes settled on her face.

The pastel pink salwar kameez.

The kohl framing her doe eyes.

The silver chand baaliyan that swayed gently as she moved.

The silk dupatta was draped loosely over her shoulders.

Something unreadable flickered across his expression.

"Wa-alaikum-salam."

His voice came low and rough.

As she lowered herself into the chair opposite him, his gaze returned to her again.

And then, briefly-

Far too briefly,

It dipped toward her lips before lifting back to her eyes.

Zalak pretended not to notice.

Her fingers tightened slightly around her books.

"Baithiye."

She sat gracefully, placing her notes on her lap.

Up close, she could feel three different gazes on her.

Hamza's was familiar.

Careful.

Constant.

Uzair's was sharp enough to cut glass.

And Rehman's...

His attention seemed to wander back to her every few moments despite himself.

As though he were studying something he couldn't quite understand.

Silence settled.

Then Rehman leaned back in the swing chair.

"Toh aap journalism padh rahi hain?"

"Ji. Final year."

"Journalism." A faint smirk touched his mouth. "Aaj kal ke journalists ko dekh kar toh lagta hai sach se zyada drama pasand hai."

Zalak laughed softly.

The sound seemed to catch his attention immediately.

"Sir, drama toh aap log bhi kam nahi karte."

Hamza immediately looked down to hide a smile.

Even Uzair's eyebrow twitched.

Rehman let out a chuckle.

"Acha? Humne kya kiya?"

Zalak glanced toward the white Mustang visible through the window.

"Tuition teacher ke liye Mustang bhejna thoda dramatic nahi hai?"

A grin spread across Hamza's face.

Rehman smirked.

"Toh aapko gaadi acchi nahi lagi?"

"Ji nahi, gaadi mast hai. Poora mohalla jaanta hai ab ki main kahan ja rahi hoon."

This time, even Uzair let out a quiet snort.

The atmosphere eased.

Slightly.

As the conversation continued, Zalak became increasingly aware of Rehman's eyes.

Not constantly.

Not rudely.

But enough.

Whenever someone else spoke, she would occasionally find him already looking at her.

Watching.

Observing.

Admiring.

When she answered one of Uzair's questions without hesitation, Rehman's gaze sharpened slightly.

His eyes narrowed in thought.

Interested.

Dangerously attentive.

Later, after Faizal had entered and turned the entire room upside down with his complaints about having a tutor, the atmosphere had shifted completely.

Laughter replaced suspicion.

Even Rehman seemed more relaxed.

"Abbu, aap aise kaise kar sakte ho? Maine bola main khud padhunga!"

Hamza burst out laughing.

A reluctant smile tugged at Zalak's lips.

"Faizal, mere samne yeh sab drama nahi chalenge."

"Abbu... main kaise dhyaan de paunga? Teacher, itni khoobsurat hai."

The room froze.

For a split second.

Zalak nearly choked.

Hamza doubled over laughing.

And for the first time since she'd arrived, she saw Rehman genuinely caught off guard.

A breath escaped him through his nose.

"Faizal."

The boy immediately shut up.

The room dissolved into quiet amusement.

A few minutes later, Rehman rose from the swing-chair.

"Faizal, teacher ko library dikhao. Wahi padhna."

"Ji."

As Faizal gathered his books, Rehman looked toward Zalak.

His eyes met hers.

For a second longer than necessary.

Neither looked away immediately.

Something unreadable passed between them.

Curiosity.

Recognition.

A question neither had asked.

"Miss Zalak."

"Ji?"

"If Faizal zyada tang kare toh seedha mere paas complaint lekar aaiyega."

Faizal groaned.

"Abbu!"

"Main bas teacher ki madad kar raha hoon."

"Main bachcha nahi hoon."

"Result dekh ke lagta toh nahi hai."

Hamza laughed so hard he nearly choked.

Zalak shook her head, smiling despite herself.

As she turned to leave with Faizal, she felt it again.

That sensation of being watched.

Not by Uzair.

Not this time.

Her eyes lifted instinctively.

Across the room, Rehman was already looking at her.

The moment lasted barely a heartbeat.

Then she disappeared into the hallway.

And only after she was gone did Rehman finally look away.

in the library

The library was larger than some apartments Zalak had seen.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined every wall, their dark, polished wood accented with leather-bound volumes, history books, political memoirs, law journals, and novels from half a dozen languages. Tall arched windows overlooked the gardens outside, allowing ribbons of golden evening light to spill across the Persian rugs beneath their feet.

Faizal tossed his notebook onto a massive oak table.

"I hate maths."

"Good," Zalak replied, taking a seat.

Faizal blinked.

"Good?"

"People who love maths don't need tutors."

The boy stared at her for two seconds before laughing.

"Abbu says people who hate studying become useless."

"That's not true"

Faizal immediately grinned.

"I like you."

"That was quick."

"You roasted Abbu."

"I did not roast your father."

"You kind of did."

Zalak opened her notebook.

"Sit."

He sat.

"Today we're doing fractions."

His face fell instantly.

"I don't like you anymore."

The next hour passed surprisingly smoothly.

Faizal wasn't unintelligent.

Quite the opposite.

The problem was that his attention span seemed to possess wings.

Every five minutes, he discovered a brand-new topic.

"Teacher, do journalists get shot?"

"Sometimes."

"Have you been shot?"

"No."

"Have you shot anyone?"

"No."

"Can journalists arrest people?"

"No."

"Can they slap people?"

"Depends on the person."

That answer made him laugh so hard he nearly fell off his chair.

Eventually, she managed to drag him back toward fractions.

To her surprise, once he actually focused, he understood concepts quickly.

Very quickly.

By the time they finished the chapter, he was solving problems without help.

Zalak leaned back.

"See?"

Faizal looked down at his completed work.

A proud smile appeared.

Then immediately vanished.

"I still hate maths."

"Of course."

Nearly two hours had passed when Faizal suddenly asked,

"Teacher?"

"Hm?"

"Are you scared of my Abbu?"

The question arrived so unexpectedly that Zalak almost dropped her pen.

She studied him.

Children asked questions adults avoided.

"Why?"

Faizal shrugged.

"Most people are."

Zalak considered her answer carefully.

Across the room, evening sunlight painted long shadows between the bookshelves.

"No."

Faizal looked surprised.

"Really?"

"Really."

"Not even a little?"

She smiled.

"Apke abbu kaafi ache hai"

"Kaise"

"Lyari mein school aur hospital unke funding ke waje se hi toh banne hai ."

Faizal frowned.

"Funding? wo kya hota hai?"

"Wo topic kabhi aur padht hai, Abhi filal maths."

The boy thought about that seriously.

As though filing the information away.

"Miss batao naa."

Then he lowered his voice dramatically.

"Funding matlab paise de kar kisi cheez ko banwana"

Faizal's eye widened

"What?"

"Wow, Abhi toh mein abbu se mere liye ek naye Mahal ke liye funding karwaunga"

"I highly doubt that."

"Aap bhi naaa"

Faizal nodded with absolute conviction.

A few minutes later, the library door opened.

Both of them looked up.

Hamza appeared carrying a tray loaded with biscuits and juice.

"Aap dono zinda hain?"

Faizal groaned.

"Unfortunately."

Hamza laughed.

"Teacher ne maara toh nahi?"

"Nahii Zalak did toh kitni pyaari."

"Aww Faizal zyada taareef karne se homework kam nahi milne wala"

"Didiii! Mein Abbu ko bulaungaaa"

"Bulalo fir"

Hamza was smiling from ear to ear. He was glad seeing Zalak get along well with Faizal. He adored her after all.  

He then glanced at the notebook.

His eyebrows rose.

"Tumne itne saare question kar liye?"

Faizal immediately sat straighter.

"Obviously."

The pride on the boy's face was impossible to miss.

Hamza noticed it too.

And for a brief moment, something softened in his expression.

Because anyone who spent enough time in this house knew that Faizal's smiles had become increasingly rare after his parent’s separation.

Yet here he was.

Laughing.

Showing off homework.

Acting like a normal ten-year-old.

The realisation didn't escape Hamza.

Nor did it escape the man standing silently outside the partially open library door.

Rehman hadn't intended to stop.

He had merely been passing through the corridor.

Then he'd heard laughter.

Faizal's laughter.

So he'd paused.

Just for a moment.

From where he stood, he could see only part of the room.

The edge of the table.

Hamza.

And Miss Zalak.

She was explaining something using a pencil and a biscuit.

Apparently, fractions are now involved in baked goods.

Faizal seemed fascinated.

The boy's attention never lasted this long.

Yet he hadn't looked bored once.

Rehman watched quietly.

Unseen.

Unannounced.

A strange feeling settled somewhere in his chest.

Relief.

Perhaps.

Because for the first time in months, his son looked happy.

Not polite.

Not pretending.

Genuinely happy.

His gaze drifted toward Zalak.

She was listening to Faizal's endless questions with surprising patience.

Laughing occasionally.

Correcting him when necessary.

Never speaking down to him.

Never trying too hard.

It came naturally.

Which made her look ethereal.

Inside the library, Faizal suddenly got out of his chair and ran towards Rehman.

And tugged behind his legs.

"Abbuuu aap dekho toh maine kitne sawal kar liye"

Hamza immediately turned.

Rehman stood there.

One hand in his pocket.

Expression unreadable.

For a second, nobody spoke.

Rehman entered.

"Zara mujhe bhi dikhao toh"

Rehman was amused. He had never seen his son this concentrated before.

His gaze shifted toward the notebooks.

Then toward Zalak.

"How was he?"

Before she could answer, Faizal jumped in.

"I am an excellent student."

"Teacher?"

Rehman asked.

Zalak smiled.

"Baat bohot karta hai"

Hamza barked out a laugh.

Faizal looked horrified.

"Didi!!"

"But," she continued, "he learns fast."

The boy immediately brightened again.

Rehman noticed.

And for a fraction of a second, genuine pride crossed his face.

Small and subtle

But she saw it.

"Good," Rehman said.

"Aur koi complaint?"

"Not yet."

Faizal pointed accusingly.

"Didi aap ko pata hai ki mein kitna accha baccha hu"

"Acha ji"

Hamza was laughing openly now.

Even Rehman looked dangerously close to smiling.

The atmosphere had shifted.

Only slightly.

"Chaliye, aaj ke liye aapne bohot zyada mehnat kar li."

Rehman's voice cut through Faizal's dramatic complaints and half-finished homework.

The boy looked personally offended.

"Abbu, maine sirf do chapter kiye hain."

"Jo tumhare hisaab se poore saal ke barabar hain."

Faizal gasped.

"Abbu!"

Zalak laughed, closing the notebook.

The evening sun spilled across the library windows, bathing everything in soft gold.

"Thoda chai pe charcha kar lete hain?" Rehman said finally.

The words seemed casual.

But he looked like he had been considering them for several minutes.

Zalak blinked.

"Sorry, par main chai nahi peeti."

"Phir coffee?" Rehman offered immediately. "Aap jo chahein."

A smile spread across her face.

"Chaliye phir. Faizal bete, ab kal milte hain."

"Thike didiiiii!"

Faizal threw his arms around her before darting out of the room with a football tucked under one arm.

His laughter echoed down the hallway.

For a moment, silence settled.

Then Rehman gestured toward the veranda.

"Aaiye."

The veranda overlooked the sprawling courtyard.

The sun was beginning to sink behind the trees, turning the sky shades of orange and pink.

A servant brought coffee and quietly disappeared.

Zalak settled into a wicker chair.

Rehman sat opposite her.

The conversation should have felt awkward.

Instead, it didn't.

Which was somehow worse.

Because comfort had arrived much too quickly.

For several seconds neither spoke.

A breeze lifted a loose strand of hair near Zalak's cheek.

Without thinking, she tucked it behind her ear.

Rehman's eyes followed the movement.

Only for a second.

Then he looked away toward the garden.

"Faizal pehli baar kisi teacher ko pasand kar raha hai."

The corner of Zalak's mouth lifted.

"Mujhe lagta hai usse bas padhai pasand nahi hai."

"Usmein aur mujhmein yeh baat common hai."

That made her laugh.

A genuine laugh.

The kind that reached her eyes.

Something shifted in Rehman's expression.

Tiny.

Almost invisible.

Yet suddenly, he seemed unable to look anywhere else.

Not staring.

Just... watching.

As though every smile she gave caught his attention before he could stop it.

"Toh aap bachpan mein bhi itne hi mushkil student the?"

"Main student tha hi nahi."

"Accha?"

"Haan."

"Phir?"

"Bas..." A faint smile appeared. "Zindagi ne alag syllabus de diya."

For the first time since she'd met him, there was no humour behind the words.

No performance.

Just truth.

A quiet one.

Zalak noticed.

And something in her expression softened.

Rehman noticed that too.

Unfortunately.

Because once he noticed it, he couldn't stop noticing things.

The way she wrapped both hands around the coffee mug when she listened.

The way her eyebrows pulled together when she was concentrating.

The way she always gave people her full attention when they spoke.

Small things.

Meaningless things.

The most dangerous kind.

The breeze grew stronger.

Her dupatta slipped slightly from one shoulder. Revealing the shape of her delicate torso.

She adjusted it absently while continuing the conversation.

Rehman's gaze dropped.

Then, it was immediately lifted.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

Zalak noticed.

Not the glance.

The correction afterwards.

Interesting.

She hid her smile behind her coffee cup.

"Waise," she said casually, "aap generally sab teachers ko itni hospitality dete hain?"

A look crossed Rehman's face.

One that almost resembled being caught.

"Generally mere ghar mein teachers aati nahi."

"Hm."

"And generally..." his eyes briefly met hers, "Faizal kisi ko do din se zyada tikne nahi deta."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.

Just aware.

More aware than either of them wanted.

Below them, Faizal yelled something incomprehensible from the football field.

Neither looked away.

For a second too long.

Then Zalak broke eye contact first.

Rehman leaned back.

A mistake.

Because distance didn't help.

Now he could simply watch her without appearing to.

And somehow that was worse.

She was speaking about the university now.

Some story about a professor.

He was listening.

Mostly.

But part of him remained distracted by the simple fact that she looked completely at ease sitting across from him.

As though she belonged there.

The thought arrived unexpectedly.

And lingered far longer than it should have.

Across the table, Zalak paused mid-sentence.

"What?"

Rehman blinked.

"What?"

"Aap sunhe mein interested nahi ho toh bata dijiye"

"Arey nahi waisa kuch nahi hai"

For the first time all evening, Hamza's voice floated from somewhere near the doorway.

"Pakde gaye."

Both of them turned.

Hamza stood there holding a cup of tea, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Rehman shot him a look.

Hamza only grinned wider.

Zalak laughed.

Again.

And Rehman found himself smiling because of it.

Not because of the joke.

Not because of Hamza.

Because she was laughing.

The realisation was deeply inconvenient.

And judging by the amused look Hamza suddenly wore,

He wasn't the only one who had noticed.

to be continued. ୨୧ ˖ㅤㅤ۫

authors note: anybody volunteering to co write this series lemme know. need help and advice asap. please dm me, need your creative juices, cuz meri ghee khatam hori hai bhenchod

⁺　︵　comment to be tagged ★

raazi ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧ (rehman dakait x fem!oc)

chapter. ii ♡ masterlist.

summary : (angsty, fluffy and first love all at once. fem oc (zalak mehra) is an undercover spy playing a journalism student in lyari and hamza Ali mazari accompanies her throughout the mission as he watches zalak fall in love with the bastard king of lyari - rehman baloch, while being foolishly inlove with her ever since he was 13.) warnings : angsty, fluffy banter, sad ending? not sure depends on what the reader chooses at the end :) disclaimer: this is purely fiction & does not represnt anyone in real life & is against terrorism. so treat as is and enjoy. love, aashu

The next morning smelled like gunpowder, coffee, and sleep deprivation. Zalak hadn’t slept.

Not really.

Every time she closed her eyes, she heard the same words again. Seduce and kill.

The training facility woke up before sunrise. Boots echoed through hallways. Officers barked instructions across the open grounds. Somewhere outside, metal clanged repeatedly from the combat arena. The entire place breathed discipline. And Zalak hated every second of it. “Oh bhenchod har subhe yeh chodbhangda karna padh raha hai ”, She murmured to herself. She stood in front of the washroom mirror, tying her hair into a tighter ponytail than necessary, staring at her own reflection like she didn’t recognise it anymore.

There were faint dark circles under her eyes now.

Good.

At least someone in this building looked haunted.

A knock sounded against the door.

“Five minutes,” came Jaskirat’s voice lazily from outside. “Agar princess ko aur beauty sleep chahiye ho toh bata dena, main nation ko hold pe rakh deta hoon.”

Despite herself, her lips twitched slightly.

Idiot.

“Tum jaise logon ki wajah se hi desh peeche hai,” she muttered while opening the door.

Jaskirat leaned against the wall outside casually, already dressed in black training gear. Turban tied perfectly. Arms crossed. Completely relaxed.

Too relaxed.

“How are you alive?” Zalak asked flatly.

“Good genetics.”

“Highly unfortunate.”

“Haan par tum phir bhi obsessed ho.”

She rolled her eyes and walked ahead, but he fell into step beside her easily.

For a few seconds, neither spoke.

And strangely enough, that silence felt familiar.

Safe. “Did you sleep?” he asked quietly. There it was. The softness beneath the jokes. Zalak kept walking. “Did you?” “Deflection. Nice.” “Observation. Hmm .” Jaskirat let out a quiet laugh beside her. “Tu har baat pe itna defensive kyun ho jaati hai?” “I’m not defensive.”

“Haan, aur main six-foot ka fairy princess hoon.”

Zalak shot him a look. “Tera sense of humour genuinely bakwas hai.”

“Phir bhi tu roz mere saath walk karti hai.”

“Hallway public property hai.”

“Dil bhi?”

She almost choked on air.

“Tum na,” she muttered, “har waqt itne cringe kaise ho sakte ho?”

“Natural talent.” “Narcissism.”

“Obsession.” He glanced at her sideways. “Mostly tumhari.”

Zalak ignored the sudden warmth climbing up her neck and kept walking ahead. “Tumhari problem kya hai exactly?”

“You don’t smile enough.” “I smiled kal.” “Haan, 0.2 seconds ke liye. Historic moment tha.” “You counted?” “I notice things.” “That’s creepy.” “That’s caring.” “That’s worse.”

Jaskirat grinned lazily. “Tu jab irritate hoti hai na, tab aur cute lagti hai.” She stopped walking so abruptly he almost walked into her. “Tumhe koi filter issue hai kya?” “Nahi. Bas self-control weak hai.” Zalak stared at him flatly. “Therapy try karo.” “Tu chal mere saath?” “Chal hatt.” “Date pe bhi nahi?”  “Use liye toh kabhi nahi.”

“Harsh.” “You’ll survive.”

“Depends. Tum aur kitni baar attitude dikhaogi?”

She resumed walking. “Jitni baar zarurat padi.”

“Haan, but ek baat bataun?”

“Kya?”

“Tu jab gussa hoti hai na…” his mouth twitched slightly, “tab tere left cheek pe dimple aata hai.”

Zalak’s entire expression froze.

Then immediately hardened.

“I hate you.”

“Liar.”

“I’m serious.”

“Haan woh toh dikh raha hai.” He leaned slightly closer while walking beside her. “Isi liye subah uthte hi sabse pehle meri awaaz sun rahi thi.”

“That was unfortunately unavoidable.”

“But memorable.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“I literally am not.”

“Tu literally hai.”

She glared at him harder, which only made him laugh quietly. God, she hated that laugh. Mostly because some stupid part of her liked hearing it. Jaskirat looked at her properly then. And immediately regretted asking. Because she looked exhausted. Not physically.

Emotionally. Like someone had reached inside her chest and rearranged something permanently. His jaw tightened slightly.

Arun Mehra had done that.

The morning combat session was brutal. Not because the drills were difficult. But because Arun was leading them personally. “Again.” His voice echoed sharply across the arena. Zalak wiped sweat from her forehead before throwing another punch toward the padded target in front of her.

Harder this time.

“Again.”

“Your opponent will not wait for hesitation, Zalak.”

Punch.

“Again.”

By the twentieth repetition, her knuckles burned. By the thirtieth, her breathing became uneven.

By the fortieth- “You’re angry,” Arun observed calmly. Zalak stopped abruptly.

The entire room fell quieter. Jaskirat glanced between them carefully from across the arena. Arun stepped closer slowly. “That anger will get you killed undercover.”

“Acchi baat hai na, mar toh jaungi at least.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Silence.

Even the officers nearby pretended not to hear. Arun’s face hardened instantly. “Control your emotions.”

Zalak laughed bitterly. “Control? Papa, you literally asked me to prostitute my trust for nationalism.” Jaskirat shut his eyes briefly. Wrong thing to say. Wrong place. But maybe the truth wasn’t supposed to sound polite. Arun lowered his voice dangerously. “Watch your tone.”

“No, you watch yours.” Her chest rose unevenly now. “You don’t get to turn me into a weapon and still expect me to speak like your obedient little daughter. Just because meine bachpan se aapke khilaaf kuch nahi kiya aap mujhe “fragile” nahi samjh sakte ho”

For one second, just one- hurt flashed across Arun’s face.

Then it disappeared beneath discipline again. “Training hall. Ten minutes. Full combat round,” he said coldly before walking away. The punishment didn’t surprise her. The disappointment did.

Ten minutes later, Zalak stood inside the boxing ring, tightening the wraps around her hands while officers gathered around casually to watch. Nobody interrupted Arun Mehra’s punishments. Especially not here.

Jaskirat climbed into the ring opposite her with a look that already said: I hate this.

“You don’t have to hold back,” Zalak muttered.

“Yeah?” he said dryly. “Aur phir uncle mujhe goli maar denge.”

“Jassi.”

His expression softened slightly.

“I’m not hitting you properly.”

“Then I’ll hit you properly.”

“That sounded violent.”

“Good.”

Before he could reply-

“Begin.”

The fight started instantly.

Zalak lunged first.

Fast.

Too fast.

Jaskirat barely blocked the strike before she swung again.

And again.

And again.

Every hit carried frustration.

Fear.

Humiliation.

Jaskirat understood almost immediately.

This wasn’t training anymore.

This was grief with fists.

He stopped attacking completely after that.

Only defending.

Which annoyed her further.

“Fight back!”

“Zalak—”

“FIGHT BACK!”

Her punch landed against his jaw this time. Hard enough that the officers around them reacted slightly. Jaskirat’s head snapped sideways. Then slowly back toward her. And suddenly, He grabbed her wrists.

Firm.

Controlled.

Not hurting.

Just stopping her.

The entire ring became silent.

His voice dropped low enough that only she could hear. “You’re allowed to be scared.” That almost broke her. Because nobody else had said it. Not once. Not her father. Not the nation she was apparently supposed to die for.

Her breathing became uneven instantly. Jaskirat noticed. Of course, he noticed. He always noticed. “Leave me,” she whispered. But her voice cracked halfway through. And something inside him shattered quietly. He loosened his grip immediately. Zalak stepped back before anyone could see the tears building in her eyes. “Match over,” Arun ordered from outside the ring.

Cold.

Clinical.

Like he hadn’t just watched his daughter unravel in front of him.

Later that evening, Lyari appeared for the first time.

Not physically.

On screens.

Maps.

Files.

Photographs.

The briefing room lights dimmed as satellite images flickered across the projector wall. “Lyari,” Arun said calmly. “One of the oldest and most volatile regions in Karachi. Gang influence. Political corruption. Arms movement. Drug channels.” Images changed rapidly: narrow streets, crowded rooftops, armed men, port routes,crime scene photos. Then, finally,A photograph appeared. The room stilled slightly.

Rehman Baloch.

The image looked recently taken. Dark kurta. Silver watch. Sharp eyes staring directly at the camera like he already knew who was watching him.

Not smiling.

Not angry.

Just… dangerously calm.

Zalak felt something uncomfortable crawl down her spine. She hated to admit that she did find him attractive, like something so mysterious. Something so beautiful, under the mask of a strong, dangerous man. She knew he wouldn’t be cold towards her. She knew he’d melt.

Because he didn’t look monstrous.

He looked intelligent.

Which was somehow worse. Because oh God, she felt her body pulsing as she saw his images, in his sheer black kurta and the build he had. This woman was drawn. “This man,” Arun said evenly, “has survived six assassination attempts, bribed officials across three borders, and built one of the most protected underground networks in Pakistan.” Jaskirat stayed unusually quiet beside her. Arun continued: “He trusts very few people. He kills faster than he forgives. And if either of you makes one mistake…”

The next slide appeared.

Bodies.

Blood.

Execution photographs.

Zalak looked away immediately. She didn't want to believe it. How could such a pretty face be so monstrous?

Jaskirat didn’t.

His eyes stayed fixed on the screen. Cold.Calculating.Already becoming Hamza.“Your flight leaves in forty-eight hours,” Arun finished.

Then finally, He looked at his daughter. Not like a father. Like an officer evaluating risk.“From this point onward,” he said quietly, “fear is a luxury you cannot afford.” And for the first time in her life,

Zalak wondered if her father had ever truly seen her as human at all.

Four Months Later

Four months were enough to turn fear into routine. Lyari no longer felt foreign to Zalak. That terrified her the most. The narrow streets had become familiar now. So had the chaos. Children running barefoot through crowded alleys. Bikes are speeding recklessly past tiny tea stalls. Cricket matches in broken lanes. The distant sound of azaan melting into loud political arguments at roadside cafés. And somehow, among all of it, she had learned how to belong.

Or at least pretend to.

“Aapi! Ball dena!”

Zalak blinked before looking down at the little boy standing below her balcony expectantly. His cricket ball had landed near the flower pots beside her evening chai table again.“Tum logon ko har roz meri balcony hi milti hai kya?” she called out.

“Good luck hota hai!” She snorted softly before tossing the ball back down. “Chal jhoote!”

The children laughed loudly before running away again. For a moment, she simply stood there quietly. Four months ago, she had arrived in Lyari trembling so badly she couldn’t hold her passport straight.

Now? Now shopkeepers greeted her by name. Now, aunties in the neighbourhood sent food to her apartment and invited her to iftaars. Now she knew which streets to avoid after sunset. That was the dangerous thing about survival. Human beings adjusted too quickly.

Officially, Zalak Mehra no longer existed.

Now she was:

Zalak Sheikh.

A journalism postgraduate student researching: “Socioeconomic neglect and youth radicalisation in Lyari.”

A harmless civilian. A curious student. A girl carrying notebooks instead of secrets. And she played the role perfectly. Mostly because nobody ever suspected girls like her.

Soft-spoken. Polite. Educated. Always smiling, carefully and adorned in beautiful floral Salwaar Kameez.

Exactly the kind of woman dangerous men overlooked. Or so intelligence had believed.

Her apartment sat above an old tea shop named “Washma Butt Biryani and Chai Shop”.

Tiny. Warm. Barely enough space for:

a mattress

books

camera equipment

coded transmitters hidden beneath loose floorboards

At night, she sent reports quietly.

Movement routes. Political meetings. Weapon rumours.

Anything connected to Rehman Baloch. Though most information still came indirectly.Because after four months, she still hadn’t met him properly. Only glimpses. Whispers. Fragments. And somehow that made her feel even more anxious.

“Baloch sahab kal raat phir aaye the.” “Police checkpoint band karwa diya unhone.” “Kisi minister ka aadmi uda diya.” “Lekin orphanage ka paisa bhi wohi deta hai.” Every conversation contradicted the last.

Monster.

Messiah.

Criminal.

Protector.

Nobody described Rehman Baloch the same way twice. But everyone lowered their voice while saying his name.

Meanwhile, Hamza Ali Mazari had become real. Painfully real. Jaskirat sat silently inside the smoke-filled room while half a dozen armed men argued around him in aggressive Balochi Urdu. Illegal shipment routes. Port timings.Bribes.Weapons.The air smelled like cigarettes, sweat, and danger. And at the centre of the room sat Rehman Baloch.

Jaskirat had expected someone louder.Crueler.More dramatic.Instead, Rehman barely spoke. And somehow that made him terrifying.Because everyone else in the room spoke nervously around him.While he simply listened.Watching.Observing.Calculating.The first thing Jaskirat noticed about him was his eyes. Nothing escaped them. Not trembling hands. No hesitation.Not lies.

Over the past month, something inside Rehman’s circle had shifted without anyone properly noticing when it started.

Hamza wasn’t treated like an outsider anymore.

At some point between dock fights, late-night drives, and sitting through endless meetings in overheated safehouses, he had become part of them. Rehman trusted him enough to hand him responsibilities without questioning every move, and Uzair somehow had gone from wanting to put a bullet in his head to acting like Hamza personally represented his blood pressure problems.

The safehouse was unusually loud tonight.

Donga was stretched across the couch, eating chips he definitely hadn’t paid for while Uzair argued with him over absolutely nothing.

“I’m telling you,” Uzair said, looking genuinely offended, “normal insaan chai ke saath biscuit khata hai. Tu nimco kyun kha raha hai?”

Donga looked at him blankly. “Kyunki mere andar creativity hai.”

“Tere andar acidity hai.”

Hamza snorted softly from the chair beside them while cleaning his gun. “Doctor ban ja tu. Bohot scope hai.”

Uzair pointed immediately. “Dekha? Yeh samajhta hai mujhe.”

“Main sirf yeh bol raha hoon ke tu har cheez pe lecture deta hai.”

“Because none of you thinks.”

“Tu itna sochta hai phir bhi dimak se dhila hai ,” Donga muttered.

“Allah tujhe utha kyun nahi leta honestly.”

“Application reject hogayi hogi.”

Siyahi, sitting near the window with his hood pulled over his head despite the heat, quietly slid Donga’s lighter away before he could burn the couch again.

Donga looked down. “Mera lighter?”

“Confiscated,” Siyahi replied calmly.

“Abe bhenchod de mereko”

“Aaja beta muh khol dedeta hu” Hamza said without looking up.

“Waah,” Donga scoffed dramatically. “Ek mahina pehle yeh banda naya tha. Ab muh mein lene wali baate kar raha hai”

Uzair leaned back with a grin. “Progressive environment hai hamara.”

“Progressive teri gaand,” Donga snickered.

At the far end of the room, Rehman sat silently with one arm resting against the chair, watching them over the rim of his teacup.

He rarely interrupted these conversations.

Mostly because the idiots entertained themselves well enough.

Hamza noticed it too, eventually, the way Rehman listened more than he spoke. The way a single glance from him could shut the entire room down despite the chaos five seconds earlier.

Father wasn’t the right word.

Rehman Baloch was far too dangerous for that.

But sometimes, watching him sit there while the boys argued over stolen snacks and terrible opinions, the resemblance came uncomfortably close.

“Waise,” Donga said suddenly, looking toward Hamza suspiciously, “ek baat bata.”

Hamza raised an eyebrow. “Kya?”

“Teri zulfein naturally achi hain ya effort daalta hai?”

The room went quiet for two seconds.

Then Uzair started laughing so hard he nearly dropped his cigarette.

Hamza stared at Donga in disbelief. “Tu mujhe dekh ke yeh notice karta hai?”

“Bhai mashallah kaafi khoobsurat hai tu.”

“Harami lighter ke liye kitna maska maar raha hai.”

“Nahi maar sakta,” Donga said smugly. “Dil se attached hai hu.”

Even Rehman’s shoulders moved slightly with suppressed amusement at that one.

Hamza leaned back in his chair, shaking his head quietly while the arguing continued around him.

And strangely enough,

for the first time in years,

the noise didn’t feel exhausting.

It felt like family.

Four months earlier, Hamza Ali Mazari had entered Lyari as a smuggler looking for work.

Violent reputation. Fake military contacts. No attachments.

Exactly the type of man Rehman’s network respected. Jaskirat had earned trust carefully. One fight at a time. One deal at a time. One controlled act of brutality at a time.

And that part disgusted him most.

Because sometimes, he was too convincing.

Even to himself.

“Hamza.”

Jaskirat looked up immediately.

Rehman’s attention shifted toward him now.

Sharp. Unreadable.

“Faizal ke liye tuition dhundna hai.”

That was it. That was the opening. Hamza and Zalak waited for 4 months. All the hard work they put in to set up now had a tiny flicker of hope. Jaskirat shrugged once casually. “Bazaar waali colony mein kaafi saari nayi tuition khuli hai bhai. Mein dhundke deta hu”

Rehman hummed.

For three long seconds, he simply stared at him.

Then finally,

a small smile appeared.

“Ek acchi private teacher lo le aana, kal shaam tak. ”

“Bhai aaj kal toh sabke khudke institutions hi hai”

“Mujhe nahi fark padta. Mujhe wo private tutoring ke liye gharpe chahiye”

Later that night, Jaskirat stood outside the warehouse smoking alone near the docks.

The Karachi air felt heavier at night. His phone vibrated once inside his pocket.

One coded message.

From Zalak.

You alive?

He stared at the screen longer than necessary.

Then typed back:

Unfortunately.

Three dots appeared instantly.

Then:

Still dramatic I see.

For the first time that entire day—

he smiled slightly.

God.

He missed her. Even after four months of seeing her occasionally during covert exchanges and accidental encounters during the bazaar errands that Donga and Hamza had to run, he still missed her. Maybe because neither of them could ever truly act normal anymore.

Meanwhile, across Lyari, Zalak sat cross-legged on her apartment floor surrounded by scattered interview notes and fake university paperwork when another message arrived.

It’s time.

Her fingers froze instantly.

Her heartbeat sped up before she could stop it.

Three months of preparation. Four months in Lyari.

And finally, it was time to meet him.

Zalak swallowed slowly before typing:

And?

This time the reply took longer.

Much longer.

Then finally:

He needs a tutor. A private tutor for his only child, Faizal.”

A pause.

Another message a minute later. A rather long one

You remember all the briefings, right? Rehman is exactly thirty-eight, divorced, and no longer in contact with his ex- wife, Ulfat. Has one kid, Faizal, 10 years old and in 4th grade. Faizal lives with Rehman since Ulfat has given up child custody.

Zalak rolled her eyes.

Yes yes, itni bhi bhulakkd nahi hu yaar.

Hamza smiled and then replied.

This is our chance; you have to impress him and grab the spot permanently. Kal shaam ko 6 baje Baloch mahal pohochna.

Zalak stared at her screen silently. Outside, Lyari buzzed endlessly beneath the night sky. Somewhere in this city, the man meant to destroy her life was breathing under the same darkness. And for the first time since arriving in Pakistan.

She felt genuinely afraid again.

to be continued. ୨୧ ˖ㅤㅤ۫

authors note: guys omg i hope i didnt dissapointtt. the love chapter 1 has recieved is insane, like sooo many dms omg. so the long ass text that hamza sent i hope that clarified rehman's background. next chapter is when they are finally meeting omg omg .

⁺　︵　comment to be tagged ★

raazi ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧ (rehman dakait x fem!oc)

chapter. i ♡

summary : (angsty, fluffy and first love all at once. fem oc (zalak mehra) is an undercover spy playing a journalism student in lyari and hamza Ali mazari accompanies her throughout the mission as he watches zalak fall in love with the bastard king of lyari - rehman baloch, while being foolishly inlove with her ever since he was 13.) warnings : angsty, fluffy banter, sad ending? not sure depends on what the reader chooses at the end :) disclaimer: this is purely fiction & does not represnt anyone in real life & is against terrorism. so treat as is and enjoy. love, aashu

The world started spiralling around her, blurring eventually as she was unable to differentiate between a bad dream and reality. “Seduce and kill,” these were the last words she heard from her beloved father before she passed out.

Zalak Mehra, the kind of girl you’d see only in movies. Not that she was drop-dead gorgeous or flawless, like Aishwairiya Rai - she surely did have flaws , but she was the kind of daughter every parent prayed for. Papa ki pari. Papa ki jannat. Not that she was some straight-A student who worked four part-time jobs to feed her family, no, but she obeyed her father. Always obeyed, obeyed, and obeyed. Sometimes, when her heart wasn't willing, she still obeyed because to her, her father was Batman and everything he did was “beta tumahre bhala ke liye hi hai”. She was the beloved daughter of none other than an army intelligence officer, Arun Mehra. He was a charmer at work; although he was a single dad, he somehow managed to strike the perfect work-life balance.  

Yet somewhere beneath the bedtime stories and annual amusement park visits, Arun Mehra carried a darkness no one,not even his daughter, had ever truly seen.

For Zalak, her father was everything.

He braided her hair when she was seven because she refused to let the maid touch it. He stayed up till 3 a.m. helping her build a solar system model in eighth grade. He clapped the loudest at every debate competition. Every birthday, without fail, he wrote her handwritten letters beginning with: “To the bravest girl I know.”

And maybe that was why it hurt more.

Because brave girls were never warned before being sacrificed.

When Zalak woke up, the sharp smell of antiseptic filled her nose. Her lashes fluttered open slowly. White ceiling. Dim yellow light. And an uneasy sort of cold from the air conditioner. For a moment, she thought she was in a hospital, until she realised hospitals didn’t usually have armed guards outside the door.

Her throat burned. “Papa…?” The word barely escaped. The door opened immediately. Arun Mehra stepped inside. Fresh uniform. Sleeves rolled perfectly. Expression unreadable.

But his eyes, his eyes looked exhausted.

The moment he saw her awake, relief flashed across his face for half a second before the officer in him returned. “You fainted.” Zalak pushed herself up weakly. “You drugged me?” Silence. That silence answered everything. Her breathing became uneven. “You weren’t joking…” “No.”

“You actually want me to go to another country?” Zalak chuckles humourlessly, “And that too a country like Pakistan?” Arun looked away.

Not live.

Not survive.

Just infiltrate.

Complete mission.

Disappear if necessary.

“Rehman Baloch hai uska naam,” Arun finally said. “Lyari’s most untouchable criminal asset. Arm routes, political contacts, underground financing, saalo se track kar rahe hai usse.” His voice became colder, professional.

“Every officer we’ve sent failed.” “Aur aap abhi mujhe bejne wale ho?” she whispered. “You’re the only way in.” The room felt suffocating. Zalak laughed suddenly, a broken, disbelieving laugh. “Wow.”

Her eyes filled instantly.

“All those years…” she said shakily, “all those bedtime stories and birthday cakes and I love you beta… was I being raised as your daughter or as your backup plan?” That hit him.

Hard.

She saw it in the way his jaw tightened. But Arun Mehra was a patriot before he was a father. And patriots were experts at burying guilt beneath duty. “You think this is easy for me?” he snapped. “Then don’t do it!” “I don’t have a choice!”

“You ALWAYS have a choice!”

Her voice cracked violently. Outside, even the guards went silent. For two whole minutes, they just looked at each other with heavy breaths, unable to comprehend what they had brought upon themselves.

Arun took a long breath before speaking again, quieter this time. “You think I don’t know what kind of man he is?” He stepped closer. “I’ve read every file. Every photograph. Every murder scene. Rehman Baloch is dangerous, intelligent, and manipulative. “Par mein kyu papa? Mein kyu? Mein aapki pari thi aur aap mujhe itni aasani se bejne wale ho?”

“Beta asaan nahi hai. Par mujhe pata hai tum karlogi, because he has one weakness.”

Zalak stared at him. “He falls in love too easily with women who look fragile.” The insult settled slowly. Fragile.

“Fragile? Mein kamzor? Papa aap kya khudko sun rahe ho?” She spoke as if trying to sound strong, but her eyes betrayed her. He stayed silent, almost as if pretending he didn't hear her.

A pawn dressed as bait. Tears rolled down her cheeks now, uncontrollably. “You’re asking me to die.” “No,” Arun whispered. “I’m asking you to save your country.” There it was. The sentence every soldier’s child grows up hearing. Nation before self. Duty before emotion. India, before everything. And suddenly Zalak understood something horrifying. Her father had already convinced himself this was worth it.

“Seduce and kill” was the plan. For the last three months, Zalak spent time reading every piece of information about this man and physically training for emergencies. Zalak was never good with books; she’d often daydream as she sat in the library across from her father, monitoring her.  And when it came to mastering physical training, she did it as if she were born with a six-pack of abs. She was a master of all trades atleast as long as it had nothing to do with books.

time skip (training arena)

The first time Zalak met Jaskirat Rangi after three years, he was bleeding from his eyebrow and grinning like an idiot.

“Still staring?” he smirked, tossing his boxing gloves aside. “Ya army training ne aankhon ki sharam bhi nikaal di?” Zalak rolled her eyes from where she stood near the training hall door, arms crossed tightly over her chest.“Arey main toh bas yeh dekh rahi thi ki tum aaj kal poore bandar jaise ban gaye ho.” Jaskirat laughed loudly, the same loud, carefree laugh she remembered from childhood summers in Delhi. “Achha ji? Mujhe toh yaad tha aapne bachpan mein bola tha ki aapko monkeys bade cute lagte hain.” The same boy who used to climb compound walls to steal raw mangoes for her because she once casually mentioned liking them.“Cute aur tum mein zameen-aasmaan ka farq hai.” Zalak smirked playfully.  

“Oho.” He placed a dramatic hand over his heart. “Itni insult? Aur main woh banda hoon jo tere liye compound walls cross karta tha. Kacche aam churata tha.”

“Haan, aur har baar pakde bhi jaate the.”

“Woh strategy thi.”

“Usko bezzati bolte hain.”

Jaskirat grinned, walking closer. “Par aam toh tujhe milte the na?”

Zalak hated how easily he could still make her smile. “Tumhara confidence na, genuinely concerning hai.”

“Aur tera attitude genuinely hot hai.”

“Flirting band karo.”

“Army walon ko orders dene ki aadat hoti hai kya?”

“Tum jaise logon ko control mein rakhna padta hai.”

“Dangerous ho gayi hai tu.” He tilted his head, eyes dragging over her face for a second too long. “Pehle sirf daant-ti thi. Ab aankhon se bhi attack karti hai.”

Before she could reply, Sushant from the training hall yelled, “OYE JASSI! Training khatam ho gayi ya romance period chal raha hai?”

The entire room burst into laughter.

Zalak immediately straightened. “Romance? Iske saath? Please.”

Jaskirat looked offended. “Excuse me, mere standards bhi hain.”

“Exactly. Isi liye toh shock ho raha hai.”

One of the girls sitting nearby snorted. “Yaar tum dono ki shaadi kara do koi. Roz ka yehi hai.”

“Shaadi?” Zalak nearly choked.

Jaskirat, meanwhile, looked way too entertained. “Dekha? Public demand.”

“Public ko therapy ki zarurat hai.”

He leaned against the punching bag casually. “Waise tujhe pata hai, tu jab irritate hoti hai na…” He lowered his voice slightly. “Tab aur pretty lagti hai.”

For one stupid second, her breath caught.

And of course, he noticed.

The idiot’s smirk widened instantly.

“Haye,” one of the boys whistled dramatically. “Major sahiba toh gayi.”

Zalak grabbed the nearest towel and threw it straight at Jaskirat’s face while everyone around them howled with laughter. “Tum sab pagal ho.”

He was the same. Except he wasn’t really a boy anymore. At twenty-eight, Jaskirat had grown into something far sharper. Broad shoulders. Turban tied neatly. Heavy eyes that always looked like they were hiding ten different thoughts at once. His father had once served beside Arun Mehra before dying during a covert operation years ago. After that, Arun practically became family to him.

Which meant Jaskirat had grown up around Zalak, too. And unfortunately for him, he’d fallen in love at thirteen and never truly recovered from it. It was stupid, honestly. Because Zalak never noticed. Or maybe she did and simply chose not to say anything. “Papa said you’ll be helping with field prep,” Zalak muttered, rolling her eyes. “Helping?” Jaskirat scoffed. “Baby, I practically begged for this assignment.” That made her look at him.

Begged?

Before she could ask, Arun entered the hall. The atmosphere shifted instantly. Even Jaskirat straightened slightly, and Zalak tucked her hair back as she stood up. Arun placed a file onto the metal table. “From today onward,” he said, voice calm and emotionless, “you are Hamza Ali Mazari.” Jaskirat’s eyes dropped to the forged passport inside the folder. New name. New identity. New religion. New country.

A whole new man.

He had done undercover work before, but this one felt different the second he looked up and saw Zalak sitting across the room.

Because she looked terrified. And Arun Mehra still looked willing to send her anyway.“You’ll enter Karachi through Balochistan routes,” Arun continued. “Rehman Baloch’s men have been expanding recruitment inside Lyari. We’ve managed to create an opening.” Jaskirat flipped through the file silently.

Hamza Ali Mazari.

Age twenty-eight.

Arms runner.

Ex-military connections.

Violent record.

No family.

The perfect kind of man for someone like Rehman to trust. “You’ll join his network first,” Arun said. “Gain proximity. Build credibility.” “And her?” Jaskirat asked quietly. Arun’s eyes shifted toward Zalak. “She enters later.” Zalak stiffened slightly. Undercover training had changed her in three months. She carried herself differently now. Sharper posture. Controlled breathing. Fewer unnecessary words. But Jaskirat still noticed the tiny things. Like how her fingers curled whenever she was anxious. Like how she stopped making eye contact whenever Arun discussed the mission too clinically.

“Her identity?” Jaskirat asked.

“Zalak Sheikh,” Arun answered. “Civilian.A journalism student. No intelligence links. She’ll cross paths with Rehman naturally.”

Naturally.

The word sounded sickening. Because everyone in the room knew nothing about this was natural. Jaskirat closed the file slowly. “And what exactly is her role once she gets close?”

Silence.

Then Arun finally said it.“Lure him. Make him fall in love. Charm him. Basically, carry out an elaborate honey trap. ” The rage that rose inside Jaskirat was immediate. No.”The room went still. Arun looked at him coldly. “Excuse me?”I said no.” Jaskirat stood now, jaw tight. “You trained her for intelligence gathering, fine. Surveillance, fine. But this-”

“This mission is not up for debate.” “But you’re asking her to manipulate a man who cuts people open for entertainment!”

“Enough.”

“No, sir, not enough.” His voice hardened. “You know exactly what men like Rehman Baloch are capable of.” Zalak stayed silent the entire time. And somehow that made it worse. Because she wasn’t disagreeing. She had already started accepting it. Arun stepped forward slowly. “You were chosen because you can separate emotions from duty.” That almost made Jaskirat laugh. Because if there was one thing he had never been able to separate from Zalak.

It was emotion.

“You made the wrong choice then,” he said quietly. For the first time, Arun’s expression shifted slightly.

A warning. But Jaskirat didn’t care anymore.“She’s not bait.” Arun’s eyes became steel. “The nation does not care about your feelings.” And there it was. The final nail.

Duty over humanity.

Country over daughter.

Mission over everything.

Arun broke this silence, realising what he just said, “ There is no one I trust more to do this job apart from you two. I know you two will accomplish the mission without any hindrances. And return to India.”  

Jaskirat looked toward Zalak then. Maybe expecting her to fight harder.Maybe expecting her to say she wouldn’t do it. Instead, she asked softly, “What are the chances I make it out alive?” Arun didn’t answer immediately. And that silence terrified Jaskirat more than any spoken truth ever could.

time skip (later that day)

That night, Jaskirat found her in the shooting range long after everyone else had left. The room echoed with bullets.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Every shot is perfectly centred. Zalak reloaded mechanically without looking at him. “You should sleep. We leave in two days.” He whispered.

“It’s not something you should care about now, Jassi”

“Come on, Zalak, I have known you ever since we were kids. I know when something is wrong, and you don't have a say in this.”

Another shot.

“Little late for that conversation.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Finally, she lowered the gun. Her eyes looked exhausted. “Tumhe lagta hai mein nahi janti kya ho raha hai” she whispered. “Papa keeps calling it patriotism because it sounds prettier than sacrifice.”  Jaskirat’s chest tightened.

“Then walk away.” She looked at him for a long moment.

And smiled sadly. “You know I can’t. Bachpan se papa has raised me for this, not that I have known about this mission, but I have come to accept my fate, Jassi. ” Because she was Arun Mehra’s daughter. Raised on stories where heroes died smiling for their country. Raised to believe fear was weakness. Raised to obey. Jaskirat hated it. Hated the uniform. Hated the mission. Hated Arun for putting her here. But most of all, he hated Rehman Baloch already. Because somewhere in the future, another man would get to hear her laugh, see her smile, touch her life…while Jaskirat would stand beside him pretending to be Hamza Ali Mazari.

Pretending not to know the girl he’d loved since he was thirteen.

to be continued. ୨୧ ˖ㅤㅤ۫

⁺　︵　comment to be tagged ★

aashu ♡ | 18 y.o | math student ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

just a girl writing fanfics about men twice her age ♡

jesus, ariana grande, olivia rodrigo, saiyaara, harry styles, pink pantheress, glitters, fries and dip, cheesecake, mylittlepony, dhurandhar, 10 things i hate about you, heath ledger.

masterlist ˚₊‧꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

stay awhile angel ౨ৎ