Like this is the most common plot of many abo fics the misunderstanding trope
Like hamza and uzi are ur alpha and omega, and in this one, hamza best friend is yalina, like she becomes his bsf after he saves her or smth .... like hamza wants to propose to uzi, and yalina is helping him .... and one night, he comes smelling like her, so uzi doesn't think much about it as he is already having a shit day in the factory, and then hamza tries to distract him by having sex .... so, like in this when uzi is desperate for knot and hamza is about to give it to him ... hamza phone buzzes, and then hamza stops in mid motion and goes to answer the call .... and then uzi is also sad thinking he is a bad omega, and the next day, he sees the call log and se yalina number and thinks hamza has found someone better than him... like angst, and he is all gloomy the entire day rehmam is concerned, and then he corners hamza, and then hamza confronts uzi at night and then lifts all angst ... and finally tell that he wanted to propose, and yalina is helping him... like all misunderstandings are solved ... and then some smut and fluff
If u r taking the reqs, can u pls write on it 🙏
My Alpha Is An Idiot And I Have The Ring To Prove It
Hamza X Uzair, non-spy, non-gangster, Omegaverse AU.
Hamza is an ex-Army Security consultant. Uzair works in Ordanance factory (ROFs)
The factory smelled like machine oil and frustration, which was, Uzair thought, an accurate summary of his entire Thursday.
He'd been on his feet since six in the morning. The third-shift supervisor had called in sick, which meant Uzair had covered, which meant he'd been walking the floor for twelve hours in shoes that had been lying about their arch support since approximately the third month, he'd owned them. The quality check on the new batch had come back with a seventeen percent defect rate, which his director had communicated to him in the tone of a man who needed someone to blame and had found a convenient candidate.
And then, to complete the composition, it had rained on his commute home. Not the soft, forgivable rain but the vindictive kind, the kind that finds the gap between your collar and your neck and makes it personal.
He was home by eight-thirty. He stood in the doorway of the flat for a moment, dripping slightly, and allowed himself fifteen seconds of quiet self-pity before he took his shoes off.
The flat smelled like Hamza. Cedar and sandalwood, the warm alpha-scent that had been Uzair's idea of home for six years, that his Omega had filed under safe before the rest of him had caught up. He exhaled, long and slow. Okay, he thought. Okay. He's home. It's fine now.
He was hanging his damp jacket when the door opened and Hamza came in.
Uzair's nose caught it before anything else did— the way an Omega's nose always does, cataloguing everything, compulsive and involuntary.
Under the cedar and sandalwood: something floral. Soft, feminine. A woman's perfume, light but present, the kind that transfers when you've been close to someone.
His stomach did a small, careful thing. He noted it. He did not react to it.
"Hey," Hamza said, and he looked — warm. Easy. The way he looked when he'd had a good day, which Uzair noticed because on bad days Hamza carried something tightly around the shoulders. "Jaan, you're soaked. Did you walk from the stop?"
"Mmm," Uzair said, which was not an answer.
Hamza came and pressed a kiss to his temple, and Uzair breathed him in and the floral thing was definitely there, faint but there, and he thought: it's nothing. It's a colleague. He has female colleagues around him. He has a life that exists outside this flat. He thought all of this very reasonably, and his Omega, which was not reasonable, noted it and filed it somewhere.
"Bad day?" Hamza was looking at his face with the attention he always paid, the kind that made Uzair feel simultaneously seen and transparent.
"Seventeen percent defect rate," Uzair said. "And my director’s a—" He stopped. Made a gesture.
"A what?"
"An experience."
Hamza's mouth pulled up at the corner. "Come here."
***
Hamza was, among his many qualities, good at distraction. He had always been good at it; the way he could shift the energy of a room with his hands and his voice and the warm, low frequency of his attention, the Alpha-comfort of him that Uzair had tried, in the early days, to be too proud to need, and had eventually stopped trying.
He made Uzair tea and asked specific questions about the defect rate in a way that suggested genuine curiosity rather than courtesy, and somewhere in the middle of explaining the problem with the third-line calibration, Uzair's shoulders came down from around his ears.
And then Hamza kissed him.
It started, as it often did, as something simple. Hamza's hand at the back of his neck, thumb running along the edge of his jaw, the warmth of him close and Uzair's body, which had been strung tight all day, simply opened toward it, the way a plant opens toward light without consulting its opinions about light.
"Better?" Hamza murmured, against his mouth.
"Somewhat," Uzair said, which was an understatement, and Hamza made a small knowing sound and kissed him again, and Uzair's hands had found the front of his shirt and were pulling, and things progressed in the way that things do when two people have been together six years and know the map of each other well.
Later, he would mark this as the moment he should have said something. About the floral scent. About the small careful thing his stomach had done at the door. He should have said it then, when Hamza's hands were warm at his waist and his own thoughts were blurry at the edges and the saying would have been easy.
He didn't say it. He'd had a terrible day and he wanted this, wanted the closeness and the warmth and the particular Hamza-ness of being held by him and so he didn't say it, and the moment passed.
He was, he would think later, epically stupid about it.
The thing about an Omega's biology, which the literature discusses with great clinical detachment and which lived experience translates very differently, is that there is a point past which dignity becomes theoretical.
Uzair had reached this point. He was not ashamed of this, particularly. He was, if anything, extremely focused on the very specific thing he needed, which was Hamza, right now, completing the sequence of events they had emphatically started.
His alpha had caged him down under his weight. Uzair’s toes had curled at the specific intensity with which Hamza had started thrusting into him, clearly chasing his orgasm.
"Hamza," he said, which came out rather more desperate than intended.
Uzair felt the heat, pooling at the base of his stomach. The scent of his slick and Hamza’s musk mingled through the air.
He needed his Alpha’s knot. He needed the knot plugged in him, and keep him tied to Hamza. Forever if possible.
"Yeah," Hamza said, voice rough, "yeah, I've got you, my love—"
The phone buzzed.
Not once. The insistent triple buzz of a call, not a notification, and the light from the screen lit the side table and Hamza— Hamza, who should have been entirely focused on Uzair, who had made various unambiguous declarations about his current priorities, about filling Uzair up and stuffing him with his knot— went still.
"Ignore it," Uzair said. It came out somewhat strangulated, “Knot me, Alpha!”
"I will, just—" The phone buzzed again. "Sorry—"
"Hamza."
"Two seconds."
He moved, actually moved, the squelching sound of the wet cock coming out of him sudden and cold and Uzair was left staring at the ceiling in a state that could only be described as profoundly unresolved, while Hamza grabbed the phone and squinted at the screen and said, with an expression of mild alarm, "I have to, just a minute, it's important—"
"You are currently—" Uzair gestured at the general nakedness situation. "And you think that—" He pointed at the phone. "That is important?"
"Thirty seconds," Hamza said, already moving toward the doorway, phone pressed to his ear. "I swear. Thirty seconds."
He stepped into the hallway.
Uzair lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The ceiling offered nothing.
He could hear Hamza's voice— low, quick, the murmuring of someone having a brief and urgent conversation. He couldn't hear words. He didn't try to hear words because he was too busy being quietly mortified, which was, he felt, a reasonable response to being left in the middle of sex and verging orgasm, for a fucking phone call.
He pulled the blanket over himself. He stared at the ceiling. He felt, in a way that was entirely irrational and that he would acknowledge was irrational and that he felt anyway, like something was wrong with him. Like he was not— sufficient. Like if he had been enough, Hamza would not have answered the phone.
He knew this was the exhaustion talking. He knew this was the terrible day and the omega-biology frustration and the defect rate and the rain and all of it. He knew.
He also felt it completely.
By the time Hamza came back, Uzair had reorganized himself, emotionally, physically, everything, into a configuration that was fine. He was fine. He was in bed, in the blanket, with a very neutral expression.
"Sorry," Hamza said, and he sounded genuinely frantic, "I'm so sorry, I had to—it was—"
"It's fine," Uzair said.
"It's really not, Uzair, I—"
"Go to sleep, Hamza."
Hamza looked at him with the expression of a man who knew something had gone wrong and could not locate the precise fault line.
Uzair closed his eyes.
***
He saw the call log by accident.
Hamza was in the shower and his phone was on the counter and Uzair was passing through and the screen had lit with a new message and he wasn't trying to look, he wasn't snooping, he just saw it. The name on the top of the recent calls. The name that had been the interruption last night.
Yalina.
He stood with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth and looked at the name. A woman's name. And under it, the timestamp: last night, during.
He put the coffee cup down. He thought: there is a completely innocent explanation for this. He thought: Hamza has female colleagues. Female friends. This is nothing. He thought: the perfume yesterday was also nothing.
He thought all of this. His Omega thought none of it. His Omega was doing something ancient and unhelpful, curling itself around the knowledge of another woman's scent on my Alpha and making it into something large.
He went to work. He did not say anything.
***
The thing about Uzair's silences, Rehman bhai had always said, was that they were architectural. They had structure. You could feel the rooms in them.
Rehman came to his office on his lunch break, which he did sometimes when his restaurant was slow, and found Uzair eating his lunch with the specific stillness of someone doing internal load-bearing work.
"Who died?" Rehman asked, sitting down.
"No one."
"You look like someone died."
"I'm eating."
"You're brooding." Rehman stole one of his biscuits. "Is it Hamza?"
Uzair said nothing.
"It's Hamza." Rehman pointed the biscuit at him. "What did he do?"
"Nothing. He didn't— it's nothing. I'm being stupid."
"Describe the stupid and let me judge."
So Uzair told him. Quietly, in the way he told Rehman things— without drama, just the facts laid out: the perfume, the phone call, the name, the particular feeling of being left mid-sentence, mid-everything, for Yalina.
Rehman listened. He ate two more biscuits. When Uzair finished, he had an expression on his face that Uzair could not entirely read.
"You haven't asked him about it," Rehman said.
"No."
"Why not."
Uzair looked at his lunch. "Because if he tells me, it's nothing, and I've made it into something, I'll feel like an idiot. And if he tells me it's—" He stopped. "I'm not ready for the other option."
Rehman looked at him for a long moment, and then he did something unusual: he said nothing. He didn't offer a verdict. He just sat there, which was, Uzair thought, its own kind of answer— Rehman bhai only withheld verdicts when he was holding something back, when he knew something Uzair didn't, when he was deciding how much to say.
"Bhai."
"Talk to your Alpha," Rehman said. "That's all I have to say."
"That's suspiciously convenient advice."
"I am a man of convenient advice. Go home and talk to him."
***
Hamza found him before he managed to go home.
He came to the factory at the end of Uzair's shift, which he did sometimes. It had started as a practical thing, the commute was faster together, and had become a habit, the kind that reveals how thoroughly someone has rearranged their own logistics around another person without quite noticing. Uzair came out of the staff entrance and found him leaning against the wall, hands in his jacket pockets, and felt the whole complicated mess of the day rise up in him.
Hamza looked at his face and said: "What's wrong."
"Nothing."
"Uzair."
"I said—"
"You've been weird since this morning," Hamza said, not accusing, just stating. "You ate breakfast without talking. You didn't—" He stopped, reorganizing. "I've been trying to figure out if I did something."
Uzair was quiet. The factory sounds went on around them, the end-of-shift noise of a place releasing people back into the world.
"Who's Yalina?" he said.
Hamza blinked. A short silence, the silence of someone catching up to an unexpected question, locating it in context, and then something shifted in his expression that Uzair could not read at all.
"Where did you—"
"Your call log. This morning. I wasn't snooping, the screen lit up." He kept his voice flat. "She called you in the middle of— and you answered. And you came home yesterday smelling like—" He stopped.
Don't do this in front of the factory.
"Can we go home."
***
Home.
The door closed.
The two of them in the kitchen, which was, in their flat, the room where things got resolved, where coffee was made during difficult conversations as though the making of coffee was itself a kind of structural support.
Hamza was looking at him with an expression that had moved through something complicated and come out the other side in a place Uzair couldn't identify, and Uzair had his arms crossed and his jaw set, and the kitchen was very quiet.
"You think—" Hamza started.
"I don't think anything. I'm asking."
"You think there's something between me and Yalina."
Uzair said nothing, which was itself an answer.
Hamza looked at him for a moment, and then he made a sound that was half a laugh, that was not quite a laugh, that was the sound of someone arriving at a feeling they hadn't expected.
"Uzair."
"Don't— don't do the voice. Just tell me who she is."
"She's my—" Hamza pressed his hand over his mouth for a second, collecting something. "She's my jeweller, Uzair."
A beat.
"Your."
"Jeweller. She’s a jewellery designer. I met her six months ago when I helped her security set up at her shop. It doesn't matter. The point is she does custom work, and I have been going back and forth with her for three months about a— about something. And yesterday I went for the final fitting and she put the box in my jacket pocket and maybe that's why I smelled like her perfume, because she hugged me when it was done, because she was excited, because—" He stopped.
He looked at Uzair.
He looked at Uzair with an expression that was somewhere between exasperated and desperately fond and slightly panicked in the way of someone whose plan has gone extremely sideways.
"Because what," Uzair said, slowly.
Hamza exhaled.
He went to his jacket, which was on the hook by the door. He put his hand in the pocket. He came back to the kitchen.
He set the box on the counter between them.
It was small. Dark blue velvet, the size of a ring box, and it had clearly been custom-made because the velvet was very good and the little gold clasp was not factory-standard.
Uzair looked at it.
He looked at Hamza.
"The phone call last night," Hamza said, his voice very careful, "was Yalina calling to tell me that she'd forgotten to include the certificate of the stone. She was worried I'd need it if I was— presenting it soon. She wanted to make sure I had all the documentation." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I answered because I'd been trying to figure out the right moment for this for two weeks and I panicked and thought something had gone wrong with the ring."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"You were going to—" Uzair said.
"I have been trying to," Hamza said, with feeling. "I had a plan. I had a whole— there was a plan, and a dinner, and I was going to—" He gestured at the general landscape of failed intentions. "Last night was supposed to be the night. I was going to do it after dinner, but then you came home looking like someone had dragged you through the city sideways, and I thought— tomorrow, I'll do it tomorrow, tonight I'll just—"
"Distract me."
"Yes. And then Yalina called, and you—" He looked at Uzair's face. "I didn't realise. I didn't see that you'd — I should have seen."
Uzair was looking at the box.
His throat was doing something complicated.
"Darling," Hamza said, and he came around the counter and stood in front of him, and his hands came up to frame Uzair's face, tilting it down, and the look on his face was the undisguised one, the one Uzair only got occasionally and which always made him feel like he'd been trusted with something significant. "I am not— there is nobody. There has never been anybody. You are so— you are the most important thing in my life, and I have been trying for three months to do this correctly, and the universe has been making it extremely difficult—"
"The universe," Uzair said, slightly unsteadily, "or your timing."
"My excellent timing, yes." He picked up the box. He opened it.
The ring was simple. Not small— the diamond was real and good— but the setting was clean, not fussy, the kind of thing that suited Uzair's hands, that someone had looked at Uzair's hands and thought about. The band was dark metal and the stone caught the kitchen light and Hamza was holding it and looking at him with his heart completely visible.
"I had a speech," Hamza said. "It was good. I practiced it."
"Say it."
"I can't remember it now."
"Hamza."
"Uzair." He exhaled. "Uzi. I have wanted to ask you this for a year. I have rehearsed it and planned it and Yalina has listened to me stress about it on four separate occasions and charged me a therapy surcharge, which I paid, because I was desperate." He pressed his forehead briefly to Uzair's. "Marry me. Please. Because I am going to keep making a mess of the timing, and I need you to make it make sense."
Uzair made a sound that was not quite a laugh and not quite a sob and was mostly just the sound of a very long terrible day becoming, unexpectedly, the best day.
"You stopped—" He got his voice under control. "You stopped. In the middle of knotting me. For a ring certificate."
"The documentation is important. You'll thank me later."
"I will not thank you later, I was lying there staring at the ceiling—"
"I know, I know, I'm sorry, I—"
"Yes," Uzair said, and then, because that landed too simply, too easily, after all of this— "Yes, I'll marry you, you absolute idiot."
Hamza slid the ring on his finger. His hands were not quite steady.
Uzair looked at his hand. The ring sat there like it had always been there, like it was the obvious conclusion of a sentence.
"It fits," he said, somewhat stupidly.
"Yalina measured it from your other rings." A beat. "I borrowed one. You didn't notice."
"I—" Uzair looked up. "Which one?"
"The silver one. The one you never wear."
"I never wear it because it's slightly small on that finger—"
"And yet," Hamza said, gesturing at the perfectly fitted ring, "here we are."
Uzair looked at him— at this man, who had consulted a jeweller for three months, who had practiced speeches, who had answered a phone call about documentation at the worst possible moment, who had just proposed to him in the kitchen over nothing more ceremonious than a closed ring box and the wreckage of a terrible day— and felt the specific, structural love of someone who has understood another person, not perfectly, not without frustration, but completely.
He pulled Hamza in by the front of his shirt.
"I'm still annoyed about last night," he said, against his mouth.
"I know," Hamza said.
"Hmm," Uzair said, and kissed him, which was its own kind of answer, and outside the kitchen window the city went on about its business, and inside, things were resolved in the way they always eventually were— badly planned, sincerely felt, and fundamentally theirs.
***
Later, much later, legs tangled in the sheets, and smell of sex lingered in the air, Uzair lay with his cheek against Hamza's shoulder and looked at the ring catching the low light and thought about Rehman Bhai's expression— the held-back verdict, the go talk to your Alpha.
"Rehman Bhai knew," he said.
"...yes."
"He knew and he didn't tell me."
" I asked him not to."
"I'm going to—"
"He helped me with the restaurant reservation, Uzair. I went to ask for his blessings. "
A pause. "Oh."
Hamza pressed his mouth to his hair. His hand was warm at Uzair's waist, thumb tracing the curve of his hip with the absent, possessive ease of someone who had just been told yes and was still quietly processing it.
"Uzair."
"Hm."
"I love you."
Uzair turned his face into his shoulder. The ring was solid and real on his finger. The cedar-sandalwood scent of Hamza was all around him, no perfume, nothing foreign, just him.
"I know," Uzair said. Settled. Warm. Entirely meaning it.
Outside, the city did what it always did. Inside, eventually, they slept.
