Headcanon : Derek D'Souza dating Raggie's Sister!reader
So, I'm writing again after ages, and honestly, I have no idea how this turned out. This one's dedicated to @maxpaglu and @vexillia ...Thank you for supporting me, and helping me find my way back to writing.. Love you babies ❣️
• You knew about Derek before he even spoke to you. Raggie mentioned him a few times, always with that particular edge in his voice that is reserved for people he finds genuinely threatening. When you finally see him in person, you understand why.
• The first conversation happens by accident when both of you reach for the same canteen counter space. Which somehow leads to a dry comment from him about H3 and a drier one back from you. He looks at you like nobody has talked back to him like that in a while. That was the beginning of everything.
• Maya notices it first the way she notices everything about you. When she addresses it, she says it softly like it’s fragile, almost like she's talking to herself, "He's different from what Raggie thinks him to be." You don't respond. Not because you disagree. Because saying anything out loud would make it real, and some part of you is still deciding whether you're ready for that. Maya doesn't push.
• Soon your paths start crossing. He's different one-on-one. Quieter, more careful. He asks about you and actually listens, which you weren't expecting. You mention a book once offhand, and a few days later you see him reading it in the library. When you call him out on it, he looks somewhere between caught and unbothered. You don't let it go and he almost smiles. It was barely there but you felt your heart twist inside your chest.
• He knows who you are. You know he knows. Neither of you name it. Raggie sits between every conversation like something neither of you want to trip over. So, you both decide it is better to ignore and deal with it when the time comes.
• Derek had a reputation. He was used to everyone being scared of him. So, when you're not, he can't figure out what to do with that. He keeps waiting for you to treat him carefully the way people do when they want something from him. You just argue with him about GC and steal food off his plate and look at him like he's completely ordinary. It undoes him a little every time.
• He remembers every small thing, like the route you take after lectures, the way you eat late and go quiet when you're annoyed. He doesn't do anything with this information. He just holds it. That's how he knows he is down bad.
• And then someone from H3 sees you and Derek at the canteen and tells Raggie the way people tell things they know will land badly, with just enough details. Raggie comes to you that evening. Not yelling. Quiet and controlled, which is somehow worse. He says Derek is playing you to get back at him. He says you don't know what their history actually is. He says you're smarter than this.
• He doesn't forbid you outright. He just goes cold which is worse than shouting, the one that means he's genuinely hurt. You grew up with that expression. It works on you even when you know he's wrong. You spend three days not knowing what to do with yourself.
• Derek hears about it. He doesn't ask you what happened or push for your side of it. He just quietly disappears. No more canteen, no more accidental run-ins, no more study sessions in library. It's considerate and it makes you furious. Maya sits with you that night and for once doesn't say anything chaotic. She just lets you be angry.
• The absence is worse than the tension was. You watch H4 lose an event at GC from the H3 stands and see Derek hold the boys together anyway, relentless and steady and you wish you were there to support and comfort him. That day you go back to your hostel and stare at the ceiling for a long time and finally make the decision.
• You find him behind H4 after practice, sitting on the ground with a cigarette in his hand, looking at nothing. You sit nearby without asking. He doesn't tell you to leave. The silence settles into something comfortable. After a while he sits closer.
• He eventually says that your brother was not wrong to be careful with you. You stay quiet for a while before saying that Raggie was wrong about him. Derek looks at you sideways, checking if you mean it. You did. He turns back to the dark and nods once, slowly, like something has been decided. He looks lighter after that.
• Raggie doesn't come around easily and you don't rush him. Everything shifts is the GC final when he watches H4 fight with everything they have, and he watches how Derek refuses to let his team collapse even when they should. Raggie has spent years dismissing H4 as a joke but watching Derek that day, he couldn’t do it anymore.
• Raggie finds you in the crowd afterward. He doesn't say sorry cause that's not how Raggie functions. Doesn't say he was wrong. He just stands next to you and watches Derek with the H4 boys and says, quietly, "He doesn't give up, does he." It's the most he's capable of offering and you take it.
• He and Derek never become friends. That would be too neat, too fast. But there's a moment weeks later where they're in the same space and Raggie nods at him, not warm, just real and Derek nods back. You watch it from across the room. It's the smallest possible thing but it means everything.
• The H4 boys fold you in without ceremony. Mummy talks to you like you've always been there. Anni gives Derek one look of pure teasing that Derek ignores completely. You realize at some point that you've started thinking of these loud, chaotic so-called losers as yours too. You don't say this out loud. Derek would definitely make fun of you but he would also be quietly, completely delighted.
• He never says the big things directly. He just remembers everything, makes space for you without being asked, shows up quietly and consistently in a hundred small ways. You've learned to read him. You already knew. You just wait for him to know that you know.
Tags copied from my music posts because I genuinely have no idea who wants to be tagged. Let me know if you'd like to be added or removed: @cloudmast @hum-suffer @tere-naal-nachna @gehra-hua @mandaakiniii @perfectcherryblossomrebel @misteriadare @poetry-beauty-love-writez @vcantwrite @afortoru @euphorkive @warnermeadowsgirl @mehfil-e-random @kajuuuukatliiiiii @inkaurishq @harrystyleskiwi9 @tere-ni-kararan @scentedwolfdragon @erenfox @mainyahaankyunhoon @tessa-bl @delusionpromaxxsubhu-99 @yalinawithdaddyissues @ppinkitten @iamadelusionalwriter @maxpaglu @jassisinghrangi @luvvkk @carpediemdps707 @yearnerray @canteenkasastamaal @breadpakodapaglu @obsessedwidskincare @sanamkhanani @s4nzt @hamzakamehroomkurta @sunf1over @pleasetagmejaaneman
♡charminarpaglu; it's not ur prodosh da unless you see the smoke rings of a cigarette escaping his lips, while he deeply ponders on a case. When you try to scold him, he smiles, and the crowfeet near his eyes, with his downturned smile makes you melt, as he adds, "Eirom shasti diyo na hiya(heart),case ta niye bhalo bhabe bibechona na korle kikore hoi boloto?" "Cha kore di darao, khali pet e esob koro na" you say, sighing, wondering how'd you even end up with your felu mittir in the first place.
♡avid book collector, would never dare to put a flower inside, but has hoarded that one flower he tucked into your hair, the first time he asked you out on a date to Trinicas in Park Street, which with the passage of time, had dried and ended up on his fav book as a bookmark. "Boi porle tothyo r bodole sudhu tomaye mone pore eibhabe priyo", he says as he smells into the flower, a smug smile spreading at his face.
♡Is the biggest sondeshpaglu. He even tried to make some at home with Topshe to impress you, but the jol bhora sandesh didn't come out that jol bhora. You still ate it though, for it was the effort that counts.
♡Is a calm gentle man. Gets up everyday at 5, without fail, and chides, "kal raat e ja dhokol gelo priyo" and stretches his back, the hazy sun filtering in through the curtains in the wee hours of dawn falling on him as he subtly(and knowingly)flexed his sculpted v back, making you yearn for another dhokol for him(and you).
♡is the most respectful, non impulsive man, except when it comes to his todonto(investigation). He's also had ur hand donned with a white string with the charm "hiya"(meaning heart) engraved on it, which he had carefully chosen from a curio shop back in Lucknow.
♡WALKING ENCYCLOPEDIA. He pretty much knows everything and anything, ranging from Macbeth to Nihar Ranjan Ray. He loves to infodump to you as well as Topshe and Lal Mohan Babu, much to their annoyance yet happiness, for it is their favorite Felubabu/Feluda. You love the way his eyes lights up as he unlocks the last riddle, as he yells 'Eureka'. While explaining them to you, he paces up and down the room, saying, 'Isshh etokhon dhore amar chokher samnei nachchilo ei dhadhar somadhan, aar ami bokar moto..' but quickly comes before you, kneeling as u sat in the sofa in the living room, saying, "tumi chara amar ki hoto" and lightly kisses your hand, a "hopelessly in love" smile tugging at his lips.
♡carries a .32 colt revolver, but for the days he wanted to refine his shooting techniques, he'd use a practice pistol, or a shotgun, but the way his fingers were placed on the trigger, his eyes engrossed with the target, the way his veins popped on his years of practiced hand, on the firearm, made you feel something, different, perhaps wishing you were the gun-
♡is like a father figure to Topshe, and the best friend to Lal Mohan Babu. He loves his family and puts them at a pedestal, which included you. A total family man, a man who'd kill if it promised your safety and wellbeing.
♡his love language would be gift giving and quality time. He loves to pamper you with thoughtful gifts. Maybe you had mistakenly uttered something you had wanted a long time ago, and the next day, you would find it under your pillow with a note written by him, with him always apologizing for the delay in getting it for you. "Sotti, amar chai na eta, you'd say, but his index would find ur lips, stopping you, "kintu tomar chokh toh onno kotha bolche priyo", which is another prime example of where he used his exceptional deductional qualities, somehow always knowing what you want.
♡Is always doing khunsuti w Topshe, and riddles him on the breakfast table, saying, "mogojastro ta khata re, nahole ja gowal ghor marka budhi hoche tor, jodio tui emnitei ekta goru..." (use your brainpower Topshe, otherwise it is turning into a cowshed, although you urself quite resemble one of the cows) and thus starts their friendly fire while solving cases, eating gorom phulko luchi and alur torkari.
♡biggest supporter of Prokhor Rudra, aka the detective in Lal Mohan Babu's detective novels. Is always gifted with one copy of the same, but he always buys one more, unbeknownst to Lal Mohan Babu, to increase sales, and as he found out,he told Lal Mohan babu he was just checking if the publisher had erred or not, which always warmed your heart.
Took my daughters and my best friend to the beach today 🌊
The girls ( @duayaps @overacting-ki-dukaan ) dug a giant hole in the sand, declared it important, and then refused to explain. There were cartwheels, sandy hugs, stolen snacks, and approximately a hundred "MOM LOOK AT THIS" emergencies and my dear best friend @claymaison absolutely no help and encouraged every bit of it 😮💨
Somewhere between the chaos, the sunset, and laughing until my stomach hurt, we accidentally had the perfect day 🩷
p.s. missed @danishpandor a little..could've used the backup 🥹❤️
Author's Note: Guess who's (temporarily) backkk?! This piece has been sitting in my drafts for 2 months but I was never satisfied with it so I thought what better way to ease back into writing than by editing a piece that has already been written. Not sure I am happy with it but I think 2 months later, it ain't getting any better than this. But what better way to come back than with my cutie pie Ghazal! I hope you enjoy this little slice of self-indulgent heaven! Alright logging off again so I don't drive myself crazy fussing over this. Much love to all my loves 💋
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The Haveli was breathing with the slow, rhythmic hum of a Sunday afternoon, the kind of stillness that only settles when the sun is high and the belly is full. In the dining room, the air was warm with the lingering scent of spices and saffron. Zaara and Ulfat moved in a practiced, quiet dance, the gentle clink of silverware against china echoing softly as they cleared the remnants of lunch.
Across the hall, the drawing room felt like a different world, cooler, hushed, and thick with the comforting, masculine scent of old parchment and the faint, woody trail of Rehman’s expensive tobacco. Rehman himself was nearly invisible, buried behind the broad sheets of his newspaper, the occasional crisp, authoritative snap of a page the only sign that he was tracking the world’s events.
In the centre of the room, Uzair provided the only source of kinetic energy. He was pacing the length of the ornate Persian rug, his large frame casting a long shadow against the sun-streaked floorboards. His phone was pressed to his ear, his voice a low, gravelly rumble as he navigated the city's complexities, his brow furrowed, his jaw set in that hard.
It was a scene of perfect domestic clockwork, a delicate balance of peace and power, until the heavy silence of the hallway was punctured by a bright, skipping rhythm. The sound of small, energetic feet slapping against the marble grew louder, accompanied by the faint jingle-jingle of the tiny silver bells on her anklets, signalling that the whirlwind had arrived.
“Uzair!”
The name cut through the heavy, Sunday stillness like a lightning strike. The house froze. In the dining room, the rhythmic clink of china ceased instantly, leaving a glass-sharp silence in its wake. Zaara’s hand paused mid-air, a porcelain saucer hovering over the table, while Ulfat’s eyes widened in a look of pure, bewildered shock.
Across the hall, the broad sheets of the newspaper in Rehman’s hands went rigid. Even the smoke from his tobacco seemed to curl more slowly as he peered over the top of the paper, his usually unflappable expression replaced by a look of sheer, delighted disbelief.
Uzair stopped mid-stride, his heavy boots coming to a dead halt on the edge of the Persian rug. The phone remained pressed to his ear, but his voice simply vanished. His entire frame locked into place, muscles tensing under his shirt as if he’d been turned to stone by the sheer audacity of that tiny voice. In these halls, his name had never been uttered by that specific, high-pitched voice. To that voice, he was only ever Baba.
“Uzair!”
The voice was closer now, rounded the corner with all the casual confidence of a toddler who owned the floorboards. That second call snapped Uzair out of his trance. He didn't even say goodbye, he just muttered a clipped, “Main baad mein karta hoon,” and lowered the phone, staring down at his daughter in a state of pure, bewildered shock.
Ghazal came to a stop right in front of him, her tiny hands planted firmly on her hips. She looked up at him with wide, expectant eyes, her head tilted to the side as she waited for him to acknowledge her presence. She didn't understand why the air in the room had suddenly turned to lead, she was just wondering why her favourite person was taking so long to answer.
Zaara emerged from the dining room, the mulmul of her dupatta fluttering behind her as she walked toward the centre of the room. Her eyes were wide, dancing with a volatile mix of maternal horror and suppressed hilarity. She reached Ghazal and knelt down on the rug, her knees clicking in the sudden silence. With a soft, lingering touch, she brushed a stray silken strand of hair behind the girl’s ear, her thumb grazing a rosy cheek. Her voice, when it finally came, was a strained, shaky blend of amusement and much-needed correction.
“Meri jaan,” Zaara started, her lips twitching uncontrollably as she tried to maintain a ‘teaching moment’ face. “Aap Baba ko naam se nahi bula sakte. Bilkul nahi. Yeh achi baat nahi hoti.”
Ghazal’s response was instantaneous. Her tiny brow furrowed into that sharp, serious V-shape, the look she usually reserved for when her crayons snapped. She looked at her mother with genuine, unblinking confusion. “Kyun?”
Zaara took a slow, grounding breath, her mind racing to simplify the invisible social hierarchies of the Haveli for a three-year-old’s logic. “Kyunki...kyunki woh aap se bade hain. Aur woh aapke Baba hain, na? Unka rutba alag hai. Unka naam lene se... woh gussa ho sakte hain. Badtameezi hoti hai.” She gestured toward the sofa where the boys usually sat. “Jaise Naieem aur Faisal bhaiya Taya Abbu ko ‘Abba’ bulate hain, right? Woh unhe ‘Rehman’ toh nahi kehte? Agar woh unhe naam se bulayenge, toh Taya Abbu gussa honge.”
Ghazal’s gaze drifted toward the sofa, following her mother's hand. Rehman was fully visible now, the newspaper forgotten in his lap. His brow was arched, a visible, delighted smirk playing on his lips. He looked like a man who had just won the lottery, leaning forward slightly to catch every syllable of his cousin being dismantled by a toddler in a frock.
Ghazal looked back at her father, who was still standing there like a giant statue, watching her with a mixture of intense love and absolute bewilderment. She looked at his soft eyes, the gentle curve of his mouth, and the way he was practically vibrating with affection despite her ‘badtameezi.’
A triumphant, knowing smile broke across her small face. She turned her laser-focus back to Zaara, completely discarding the Taya Abbu example.
“Par Baba gussa nahi honge,” Ghazal declared with absolute, unwavering certainty, her little chin tilting up proudly. “Baba toh mujhse bohot pyaar karte hain. Woh mujh par kabhi gussa nahi hote. Toh main unhe Uzair bula sakti hoon!”
Uzair let out a weak, helpless sound in the background, entirely defeated by the fact that his daughter knew exactly how weak he was for her. From the sofa, Rehman let out a low, rumbling chuckle, completely undermining the lecture. “Baat toh sahi hai vaise” he called out, his eyes glittering with mischief as he looked at his cousin. “Bahaar toh bada sher bana phirta hai, aur apni beti ke samne abhi muh bhi nahi khul raha.” Uzair shot Rehman a look of profound betrayal.
Zaara bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud at Ghazal’s flawless logic and Rehman’s commentary. “Haan, Baba aap se bohot pyaar karte hain,” Zaara conceded “Lekin yeh baat galat hai.”
Ghazal looked back at her father, who was still standing there looking like a deer in headlights, and then turned her laser-focus back to Zaara. Suddenly, her eyes lit up, a triumphant “Aha!” moment dawning on her face. She had spotted the glaring hole in her mother’s argument.
“Par…" she started, her tone dropping into a logic-heavy, final pitch. “Par aap Baba ko Uzair bulati hai.”
Zaara let out a startled, melodic laugh that bubbled up from her chest, her head shaking in disbelief at the trap she had walked into. “Haan…” she managed. “Lekin woh isliye, kyunki woh mere shohar hain.”
Ghazal went quiet. The room held its breath again as the little girl tilted her head, her dark pigtails swaying as she processed this brand-new piece of information. She seemed to be weighing the word “shohar” against the word “Uzair.” Then, with a shrug of total nonchalance, as if she were simply asking for another strawberry, she asked:
“Toh...main apne shohar ko naam se bula sakti hoon?”
A strangled, guttural groan erupted from Uzair, the sound of a man who had survived power struggles and street wars only to be defeated by a three-year-old’s vocabulary. The paralyzed shock finally vanished, replaced instantly by a sudden, protective panic that made his heart hammer against his ribs.
He moved forward in two large, predatory strides. His large, calloused hands, hands that usually held the weight of weapons, reached out with surprising tenderness to scoop Ghazal up, hoisting her high into the absolute safety of his chest.
“Koi shohar-vohar nahi hoga,” he muttered, his voice a gruff, low rumble that vibrated right against her small ear. It was the tone of a man issuing a permanent decree, yet it was melting at the edges with a fierce, desperate affection.
He tucked her small, fragrant head into the warm crook of his neck, his palm splayed across the back of her skull as if physically shielding her from the very concept of growing up or ever leaving his side. “Khabardar,” he added with a mock-sternness that fooled no one. “Meri jaan hamesha apne Baba ke paas rahegi. Hamesha.”
Ghazal didn't care about the logistics of names anymore. She just felt the familiar, cedar-scented warmth of his cotton kurta and the steady, comforting thrum of his voice against her cheek. The tension of her interrogation dissolved into a giggle. She wrapped her small, soft arms around his neck, squeezing with all her might, her bright, toothy smile pressing into his shoulder.
“Baba,” she whispered, the word a soft, perfect anchor that pulled him back from the ledge of his overprotective spiral.
Uzair closed his eyes, his shoulders finally dropping as his features relaxed into a genuine, tired smile. In the quiet of the sun-drenched drawing room, under the amused gaze of his family, he was relieved, even grateful, to just be Ghazal’s Baba again.
Rehman watched the scene from the depths of his armchair, the forgotten newspaper now resting squarely on his knees. He didn’t say a word, but the smirk on his face had softened into something much deeper, something profoundly quiet. He looked at Uzair, the boy he had raised, the hardened orphan who had spent his life building a suit of armour out of silence and steel. Rehman had seen that boy grow into a man whose name was whispered with caution in the dark corners of the city, a man who had forgotten how to be soft because the world had never been soft to him. Yet here he was, reduced to a sputtering, overprotective mess because a four-year-old in a yellow frock. Seeing Uzair’s large, scarred hand cradling Ghazal’s head as if she were the most fragile glass in the world was the only proof Rehman ever needed, the boy who had lost everything had finally found a home that didn't require him to be a soldier.
Zaara, still kneeling on the rug, looked up at the two of them, the mountain of a man and the tiny whirlwind tucked against his neck. The suppressed hilarity in her eyes had shifted into a warm, shimmering glow. She watched the way Uzair’s jaw, usually so tight it could crack stone, had completely relaxed against Ghazal’s hair. She saw the fierce, unyielding devotion in the way he held her, as if he were trying to pull her into his very skin to keep her safe from the world. A quiet, profound sense of peace settled over her. She thought back to the fear and the uncertainty of their beginning, and then she looked at the father her daughter was currently clinging to. I’m so glad it was you, she thought, a small, secret smile touching her lips. I’m so glad she has a heart like yours to grow up in.
