#aurangzeb

THE EMPEROR'S FAVOURITE?

Pairing: Younger! Aurangzeb x Reader

T.W: GUYS TAKE A CHILL PILL THIS IS VERYY INDULGENT AND NOT HISTORICALLY ACCURATE THIS DEPICTS AKSHAYE KHANNA. ALSO SMUT SO MDNI

The courtyard of the haveli is a sea of flickering oil lamps and swirling shadows. The scent of burning camphor and heavy oud hangs in the air, thick enough to taste. Aurangzeb sits on his low, silk covered bolster, his legs spread slightly, a picture of imperial dominance. He is young, his skin glowing in the lamplight, but his eyes are dark and restless. He isn't interested in the politics of the court tonight, he is a man driven by a simmering, physical hunger that the Eid festivities have only made worse.

The music begins with a slow, hypnotic beat of the tabla, a rhythmic thumping that feels like a heartbeat. The dancers emerge from the shadows, their movements fluid and serpentine. You are among them, your heart racing against your ribs. You feel the weight of the Emperor's gaze even before you see him, a heavy pressure that makes the fine silk of your Lehenga cling to your skin.

As the dancers begin to spin, the lyrics of the song drift through the courtyard, luring everyone into a trance:

Tune parda uthaya kya baat ho gayi... Haye ye mulaqat vardaat ho gayi...

The dancers move in a synchronized swirl of color, their heavy skirts flaring out like blooming flowers. Every time they turn, the golden bells around their ankles the ghungroos create a shimmering metallic rain of sound. You follow the rhythm, your body swaying, trying to keep your eyes downcast as you were taught, but the heat of the night and the intensity of the music make it hard to stay composed.

Nain milaye humne ek duje se yoon... Raat hui phir din phir se raat ho gayi...

The dancers' movements become more intricate, their hands tracing elegant patterns in the air, their hips snapping to the beat. You feel the sweat beginning to bead on your forehead, the warmth of the fire pits adding to the feverish energy of the night. You catch a glimpse of Aurangzeb, he hasn't moved an inch, but his eyes are locked onto you, tracking every curve of your body as you move.

Kacchi kali sadda masoom chehra... Niyat noorani sadda dil hai sunehra...

The music takes a turn, becoming more seductive, more teasing. The dancers move closer to the royal dais, their movements becoming more suggestive, a playful dance of shadows and light.

You feel a flush creeping up your neck. You are trying to be the kacchi kali, the innocent bud but the way the Emperor looks at you makes you feel like you are being stripped bare right there in front of the whole court.

Parde de pichhe ki hai kisnu pata... Parde de pichhe ki hai kisnu pata...

The dancers spin faster and faster, a whirlwind of silk and gold. The air is filled with the sound of jingling bells and the heavy, rhythmic breathing of the performers. You feel a sense of vertigo, the world blurring into a haze of light and music. Just as the song reaches its hook point, the music suddenly drops to a low, pulsing hum, leaving a silence so heavy it feels like a physical weight.

In that sudden, breathless silence, Aurangzeb stands. He doesn't just rises. He walks into the center of the performance circle, his heavy silk jama rustling softly. The dancers part for him like the Red Sea, their eyes wide with awe and fear.

He stops inches away from you. The heat radiating from his large, powerful body is overwhelming. You can smell the sandalwood on his skin and the faint, sharp scent of the chillum he was smoking.

He reaches out, his hand large and calloused from years of training with the sword. His fingers are slow, deliberate, as they slide into the neckline of your blouse. You gasp softly, your breath hitching in your throat as his warm knuckles graze the sensitive skin of your chest. He doesn't look away from your eyes. He pulls his hand back slowly, a heavy gold asharfia glinting in his grip, and presses his fingers to his lips while his gaze burns into yours.

"Is jashn-e-eid ki asli raunaq takht par nahi, tumhare kadmon mein hai,"* he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous growl that sends shivers down your spine.

"Aaj shab, humari khalwat mein tumhara intezar rahega. Kisi aur ko humari bargah mein aane ki ijaazat nahi."

_________________________________________________

The heavy, gilded doors of the khwabgah have finally closed, sealing Aurangzeb away from the loud celebrations. The room is vast and dimly lit, the amber glow of the lamps making the silk hangings shimmer like liquid gold. The air is thick with the scent of sandalwood and the sweet, herbal smoke of his chillum.

He sits on the edge of his massive bed, leaning back against a pile of velvet cushions. He takes a long, slow drag from the pipe, the ember glowing bright in the dimness

The heat of the night and the adrenaline from the courtyard have left him in a state of high tension, his blood humming with a dark, predatory anticipation.

As he exhales a cloud of smoke, his mind keeps drifting back to the moment he stood before you. He can still feel the phantom sensation of your skin beneath his knuckles when he tucked that gold asharfia into your blouse. The memory makes his jaw tighten with a sudden, sharp surge of lust.

He finds himself thinking of Hirabai, but not with the heavy grief of a man mourning. Instead, it’s a flicker of a memory a reminder of a beauty that once captivated him. You reminded him of her, yes, but you weren't a ghost. You were real, breathing, and standing right there in the moonlight. The resemblance was a spark that had turned his quiet interest into a roaring fire.

"Uski aankhein... bilkul waisi hi hain," he murmurs to himself, a small, dark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

It isn't a sad thought, it's a provocative one. The way you looked at him, so wide eyed and startled, had stirred a desire in him to see just how much of that innocence he could break.

He sets the chillum aside on a silver tray, his movements impatient. He is tired of waiting. The memory of your soft, trembling presence is driving him mad. He doesn't want to think about the past anymore, he wants to possess the present. He wants to see if your skin is as soft as it looked under the lamps, and if your voice sounds as sweet when you whisper his name in the dark.

He settles back, his eyes fixed on the heavy doors, waiting for them to creak open. His gaze is no longer that of a contemplative Emperor, but of a man who has decided exactly what he wants to do once his prize arrives. He is ready to claim you, to drown out the memories of the past with the intense, overwhelming reality of you.

The heavy doors creak open, a sliver of light from the hallway cutting through the darkness. Aurangzeb doesn't move; he simply watches as a figure slips into the room, moving with a practiced, swaying grace. In his state of heightened arousal, his senses are clouded by the smoke and the desperate need to feel skin against skin.

He doesn't wait for her to approach, he reaches out, his large hand catching her waist with a sudden, commanding force that pulls her flush against him.

He is aggressive, his movements driven by a raw, unbridled lust. He doesn't offer a greeting or a soft word, he simply turns her, his mouth crashing against the curve of her neck and then descending toward her cleavage. He is hungry, his kisses hot and demanding, his tongue tracing the line of her skin with a primal intensity. He wants to lose himself in the sensation, to drown out the world in the heat of this encounter.

But as he presses his face into the soft valley of her chest, his lips brushing against her skin, he realizes something is wrong. The scent is different not the soft, innocent fragrance of jasmine and rose that belongs to you, but a heavy, muskier perfume. The skin feels different under his touch, less delicate. He pulls back abruptly, his eyes snapping open, the imperial fire in them turning into a sharp, cold flash of realization.

The lamplight catches her face, revealing the features of the other dancer a woman who is beautiful, certainly, but she lacks the luminous, soul stirring quality of your gaze. She is not the dancer he has been dreaming of. She is just a body, a distraction. The frustration hits him like a physical blow, a sudden, sharp irritation at his own momentary lapse in judgment.

He lets out a low, guttural sound of annoyance, his grip loosening. He doesn't cast her out with a shout, he is still a King, even in his lust. He leans in one last time, giving her a final, lingering lick to her cleavage a parting mark of his temporary, redirected interest before his voice turns to ice.

"Jao. Tum woh nahi ho jiska humein intezar hai," he commands, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The dancer, sensing the sudden shift from passion to cold dismissal, hurriedly gathers her silks and retreats, her face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and confusion. As the doors click shut behind her, the room falls into a silence that feels even heavier than before. Aurangzeb sits there for a moment, his chest heaving slightly, his eyes fixed on the door. The mistake has only served to sharpen his hunger. Now, he is truly, dangerously ready.

Just as he is about to reach for the chillum again, he hears a much softer sound. It isn't the confident stride of a dancer, but a hesitant, trembling footfall. He looks up, and there you are, standing at the threshold of the massive doors, looking small and breathtakingly beautiful in the dim light, your eyes wide with a mixture of awe and pure, delicious terror.

He looks up, and his breath catches. There you are, framed by the doorway, looking so small and fragile against the immense grandeur of the imperial chamber. The dim light of the oil lamps catches the soft curve of your face and the wide, luminous quality of your eyes eyes that hold none of the practiced boldness of the woman who just left, but only a pure, trembling innocence. You stand there, frozen, your fingers twisting nervously in the fine silk of your dupatta, looking as though you might bolt back into the shadows at any moment.

"Aao..." his voice breaks the silence, a low, commanding rumble that vibrates through the very air of the room.

It isn't a loud command, but it carries the absolute weight of his authority.

"Humari sabr ka imtehaan mat lo." His gaze is intense, tracking the way your shoulders quiver under his stare, his dark eyes drinking in the sight of your shy, beautiful form.

But you don't move. You remain rooted to the spot, your gaze fixed somewhere near his feet, your face flushed a deep, beautiful crimson. You are overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the room, the intimidating power of the man sitting before you, and the terrifying realization that you are finally alone with the Emperor. Your heart is drumming a frantic rhythm against your ribs, and your breath comes in short, shallow gasps.

Seeing your hesitation, Aurangzeb doesn't wait for you to find your courage. He rises from the bed, his movements slow and predatory, yet possessing a strange, magnetic grace. He doesn't walk like a man in a hurry, but like a King who knows that his prize is already won. As he approaches, the soft rustle of his heavy silk jama sounds like a warning in the quiet room. The sheer physical presence of him grows larger and more imposing with every step he takes toward you.

He reaches you before you can even think to move, his shadow completely engulfing your smaller frame. The scent of him sandalwood, expensive musk, and a hint of warm skin wraps around you like a heavy cloak. Without a word, he reaches out, his large, warm hand sliding firmly around your waist.

The contact is electri; his palm is broad and hot, even through the layers of your clothing, and the strength in his grip is undeniable.

He doesn't pull you roughly, but he guides you with a dominant, effortless ease. He turns you so that you are walking side by side with him, his arm a solid, unyielding weight around your waist, pulling your hip flush against his.

You can feel the hard muscle of his thigh brushing against yours with every step. He leads you toward the center of the room, toward the massive, silk draped bed that looks like an altar of indulgence.

"Itna khauf kyun?" he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, intimate vibration near your ear, sending a fresh wave of shivers down your spine.

"Tumhari ye thartharahat bata rahi hai ki tumne abhi tak Alamgir ka jalaal nahi dekha. Humare dabdabe se darna laazmi hai, magar humari nawazish ko radd karna namumkin hai."

He leads you to the edge of the massive, silk draped bed, the fabric feeling unnaturally soft beneath your trembling knees as he guides you to sit. The room feels smaller now, the air thicker, charged with the heavy, intoxicating tension of his proximity.

Aurangzeb doesn't sit beside you instead, he stands between your parted knees, looming over you like a god descended from the heavens. His shadow falls over you, a dark, protective, and terrifying canopy.

His eyes roam over your face, tracing the line of your trembling lips and the way your eyelashes flutter against your flushed cheeks. A slow, possessive smirk curls his lips.

He reaches out, his large hand cupping your chin, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip with a pressure that is both tender and demanding. He is looking at you not just as a dancer, but as a woman he intends to mark as his own.

"Tumhari aankhon mein woh chamak hai jo humein sukoon deti hai,", he murmurs, his voice dropping to a velvet rasp.

"Magar aaj, hum chahte hain ki tum sirf sukoon hi nahi, balki humari shaan ka bhi hissa bano."

He turns slightly, reaching for the heavy, jewel encrusted ornaments laid out on a nearby silver tray. You expect him to reach for a necklace or perhaps a pair of earrings standard gifts for a favored woman.

But his hand bypasses the delicate gold chains and the pearl strands. Instead, his fingers wrap around the base of his own magnificent, embellished turban, the one that holds the weight of the Mughal Empire itself.

Your breath hitches in your throat, your eyes widening in pure, unadulterated shock. You freeze, your heart hammering so hard against your ribs it feels as though it might burst.

He is reaching for his royal aigrette and the very crown of his head. This is not mere jewelry, this is the symbol of his divine right to rule. No servant, no queen, no even his most trusted generals are permitted to touch the regalia that rests upon his brow. To touch it is to touch the Emperor himself.

"Huzoor..." you gasp, the word escaping your lips in a tiny, breathless whisper of disbelief.

You want to reach out and stop him, to warn him of the sacrilege, but your body is paralyzed by the sheer audacity of his movement. You watch, mesmerized and terrified, as he slowly, deliberately takes off the heavy, silk wrapped turban from his head.

His dark hair spills loosely around his shoulders, making him look less like a distant monarch and more like a primal, dangerous man. He holds the magnificent headpiece in his hands, the rubies and emeralds catching the flickering lamplight and casting dancing red and green shadows across your skin. He leans down, his face inches from yours, his eyes burning with a dark, triumphant intensity.

"Yeh humari pehchaan hai," he whispers, his breath warm against your skin as he begins to lean forward, intending to place the heavy, royal ornament upon your head.

"Aur aaj se, iska ek hissa tumhara hai. Hum chahte hain ki jab hum tumhe dekhein, toh humein apna hi aks nazar aaye."

You sit there, trembling, the crown of the Mughal Empire having just been placed upon your brow a gesture so sacrilegious and intimate that your mind struggles to comprehend the reality of it.

But the most shocking moment is yet to come. Aurangzeb, the man whose word is law from the mountains to the sea, the man who bows to no one but Allah, begins to move. He does not stand over you with his usual imperial dominance. Instead, his powerful frame begins to descend. Your breath hitches, your eyes widening in sheer disbelief as the Emperor of India sinks slowly, deliberately, down from his height.

The silk of his jama rustles softly against the floor as he lowers himself until he is kneeling between your legs. He is at your level, his head bowed, his massive shoulders hunched in a gesture of profound, almost terrifying submission. The sight is enough to make your head spin; you have seen him command armies and execute traitors without a flicker of hesitation, yet here he is, making himself small at your feet.

He reaches out, his large, calloused hands trembling ever so slightly as they wrap around your ankles. His touch is surprisingly gentle, as if he is handling the most fragile porcelain.

He pulls your feet toward him, his eyes never leaving yours until the very last second, when he finally lowers his gaze to the delicate skin of your arches. The vulnerability in his posture is staggering, he has stripped away the Emperor, leaving only the man, raw and hungry for the grace you possess.

Then, he leans forward. You feel the warmth of his breath against your skin before you feel the sensation itself. He presses his lips to the top of your foot in a slow, lingering kiss. A profound act of worship. The heat of his mouth against your skin sends a jolt of pure, electric sensation straight up your spine, making your toes curl and your breath catch in a jagged sob of surprise.

"Tum sirf ek nasha nahi ho..." he murmurs against your skin, his voice muffled and thick with a passion that borders on desperation.

"Tum mera sukoon ho. Humne duniya jeeti hai, magar tumhare kadmon mein jhukne mein jo santosh mil raha hai, woh kisi takht par nahi."

He lifts his head, his dark eyes looking up at you from his kneeling position.

He looks at you as if you are the very sun around which his entire world revolves. The power dynamic has shifted in a way that is both dizzying and intoxicating, he has given you his crown, and now, he offers you his soul.

His hands slide up from your ankles to your calves, his thumbs tracing slow, sensual circles into your skin.

The intensity of his gaze, combined with the lingering heat of his kiss, makes your heart race with a new kind of fever. The air is no longer just heavy with scent, it is heavy with the promise of what is to come. He is no longer just a man who wants to possess you, he is a man who wants to be consumed by you.

As he rises from his knees, the intensity of his gaze shifts from worship to a dark, unyielding hunger. He doesn't let go of your ankles, instead, he uses his strength to guide you backward, pulling you slowly toward the center of the vast, silk draped bed. You sink into the plush velvet, your breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps as he looms over you, his shadow once again engulfing your frame.

His hands, still warm from the worship of your feet, travel upward, tracing the line of your thighs before coming to rest at the waistband of your lehnga. The air in the room feels electric, the scent of sandalwood and your own nervous warmth swirling together in the dim light.

"Daro mat..." he whispers, his voice a low, gravelly command that vibrates in your chest.

"Aaj sirf tum aur hum hain. Is duniya ka koi niyam nahi chalega."

With a slow, steady motion, his fingers find the intricate ties of your heavy, embroidered skirt. He undoes them one by one, his eyes locked onto yours, watching the way your pupils dilate with anticipation and trepidation.

As the heavy fabric of the lehnga begins to slip, pooling around your hips in a heap of shimmering silk and gold thread, you feel a sudden, delicious vulnerability.

The cool air of the room hits your skin, a sharp contrast to the searing heat of his gaze. He watches the fabric slide down your curves with a predatory focus, his jaw tight, his breathing becoming heavier as the expanse of your skin is revealed to him.

He does not stop there. His hands move to the delicate fastenings of your blouse, his touch light yet possessive. He works with the precision of a man who knows exactly how to dismantle a treasure.

Each small knot he unties feels like a heartbeat skipped. You find yourself arching slightly toward him, your body betraying your shyness as the primal need to be touched by him overrides your hesitation.

The silk of the blouse begins to part, revealing the swell of your breasts and the frantic rise and fall of your chest. The sight of you, draped in his royal crown and half unveiled in the amber light, seems to push him to the brink of his legendary self control. His eyes darken until they are almost black, reflecting a lust so deep it feels ancient. He reaches out, his fingertips grazing the very edge of the fabric, teasing the boundary between modesty and total exposure.

"Mashallah...Kya tumhe jannat se bheja he...?," he groans, his voice thick with a hunger that is almost painful to witness.

He leans down, his face hovering just inches from yours, the heat radiating from his body enveloping you.

Slowly, he descends. He begins at the hollow of your throat, his tongue tracing a hot, wet path downward. He licks the sensitive skin of your collarbone, then moves lower, his mouth grazing the swell of your breasts.

Every pass of his tongue is deliberate, a slow and agonizingly sensual exploration that makes your muscles twitch and your hips lift instinctively toward him. You are a storm of sensation, your skin tingling wherever his heat touches you, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

As his mouth wanders lower, tracing the soft dip of your stomach and the delicate line of your hips, the pleasure becomes an overwhelming tide. You can no longer contain the sounds escaping you. Your head tosses back against the silk pillows, and your fingers tangle desperately in his dark hair.

"Huzoor..."* you moan, your voice a broken, breathless plea.

"Jahanpanah... Alamgir..." The sound of his imperial title, spoken with such raw, uninhibited lust on your tongue, hits him like a physical force.

He pauses for a fraction of a second, his breath hitching at the sound. He loves the way your lips shape his name, the way the title of the world conqueror sounds when it is a desperate cry for pleasure.

It is the ultimate tribute, a surrender of your very breath to his glory. He drinks in the sound, his eyes flashing with a dark, triumphant pride. Hearing his title from the mouth of the woman he has just crowned makes his blood boil with a primal, possessive need to claim you completely.

His descent continues, his tongue moving with predatory intent toward the center of your heat. He licks the sensitive folds of your pussy, his mouth hot and demanding, swirling against your clitoris with a rhythmic intensity that sends jolts of electricity through your entire frame.

You are arching wildly now, your thighs trembling as you try to press yourself harder against his face. The sensation is so intense, so sharp, that you feel as though you might shatter into a thousand pieces of pure light.

But the teasing is almost too much to bear. Just as you reach the precipice of a screaming climax, his movements change. He pulls back for a heartbeat, his eyes locking onto yours with a ferocity that is both terrifying and beautiful.

Aurangzeb can no longer endure the agonizing distance between your bodies. With a sudden, primal movement, he rises from between your legs, his eyes burning with a dark, predatory fire. He reaches for the fastenings of his own heavy, embroidered jama, his movements no longer slow or methodical, but driven by a desperate, urgent hunger.

He strips himself of his royal finery with a fierce impatience, the expensive silks falling to the floor in a discarded heap of gold and crimson. The heavy jewelry, the symbols of his immense power, are cast aside as if they were nothing more than shackles holding him back from his true purpose.

As he sheds the last of his clothing, his powerful, muscular physique is revealed in the flickering lamplight a body honed by conquest and command, bronzed and radiating a heat that seems to pulse in time with his heavy breathing.

He settles himself over you, his weight a delicious, grounding pressure against your soft curves. He looms over you, a god of flesh and bone, his dark eyes searching yours for the final sign of surrender.

You reach up, your hands trembling as they roam over the hard planes of his chest and the broad strength of his shoulders, pulling him closer, needing the friction of his skin against yours. The sheer masculinity of him is overwhelming, a force of nature that threatens to consume you entirely.

He reaches down, his large hands gripping your thighs and spreading them wide, exposing your slick, aching center to the cool air and his searing gaze.

He positions himself at your entrance, the broad head of his cock teasing your folds, slick with your own nectar. You gasp, your hips tilting up in an instinctive, desperate plea for him to fill the emptiness that is driving you mad. The anticipation is a physical ache, a tension so tight it feels as though your very soul is vibrating.

With a low, guttural groan that sounds more like a lion's roar than a man's voice, he lunges forward. He plunges into you in one deep, powerful thrust, his entire length burying itself deep within your tight, velvet heat.

The sensation is staggering, you feel as though you are being split open and filled all at once, a massive, overwhelming fullness that forces a high, keening cry from your throat. The sheer scale of him stretches you, claiming every inch of your interior with a divine, territorial force.

He doesn't give you time to adjust he immediately begins to move, his thrusts long, hard, and unrelenting. He is not gentle he fucks you with the same ferocity with which he conquers empires, his hips slamming against yours with a bruising, delicious intensity.

As he drives deeper, hitting the very depths of your womb, the pleasure becomes a language of its own. You can no longer speak in the simple tongues of commoners; your voice rises in a melodic, desperate stream of Urdu, the words dripping with the same honeyed lust that saturates the air.

"Mere Maula..." You moan, the words catching in your throat as he lurches forward.

"Aapke jaisa koi nahi... aap hi mere khuda hain..."

The syllables are soft, breathy, and saturated with a devotion that is as much spiritual as it is carnal.

He groans, a deep, vibrating sound that you feel in your very bones, as your praises act like an intoxicant to his already fevered senses. The sound of your voice, singing his glory in the most intimate of ways, pushes him toward a state of madness.

Then, the breaking point arrives. A sudden, sharp contraction seizes your core, a wave of exquisite agony and ecstasy that starts deep within your womb and radiates outward to your very fingertips. Your back arches violently, your toes curling into the silk sheets as you let out a long, high pitched cry that dissolves into a series of broken, rhythmic moans. Your internal muscles clench around him in a frantic, pulsing grip, milking him with a desperate intensity that pulls a roar of pure, unadulterated triumph from his throat.

The sensation of your climax triggers his own. Aurangzeb stiffens, his entire body vibrating with the force of his release. He lets out a guttural, earth shaking groan, his eyes rolling back as he delivers several final, devastatingly deep thrusts. You feel the hot, pulsing surge of him filling you, a torrential flood of his essence that seems to coat your very soul.

As the waves of the climax begin to recede, leaving you limp and trembling in the aftermath, the frantic energy in the room slowly dissolves into a heavy, peaceful languor.

The only sounds left are the ragged, synchronized gasps of your breathing and the distant, rhythmic crackle of the oil lamps. The air is thick with the scent of sex, musk, and the fading sweetness of jasmine, a heavy shroud of satisfaction that settles over the bed like a warm blanket.

With a heavy, exhausted sigh, Aurangzeb finally pulls himself from your spent, aching body. The sensation of him leaving you is a bittersweet ache, a sudden emptiness that makes you shiver despite the heat. He doesn't move away far, instead, he collapses onto the bed beside you with a heavy thud, his large frame sinking deep into the plush mattress. He lies there on his back, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on the dark, ornate ceiling as he tries to reclaim his breath.

The sensation of the bed cover's fabric against your bare skin is a soft, welcoming embrace as you settle back into the warmth of the bed. You feel small and delicate in the wake of his massive presence, yet for the first time in your life, you do not feel disposable. The dread that had been tightening your chest begins to dissolve, replaced by a dizzying sense of wonder. You are not being dismissed, you are being kept.

Before you can even settle, his arm sweeps around you with a sudden, possessive grace. He pulls you toward him, dragging your body across the silk until your back is pressed firmly against the hard, warm expanse of his chest. His arm is a heavy, muscular band around your waist, anchoring you to him as if he fears you might vanish into the night if he lets go for even a moment. The sheer heat radiating from him is intoxicating, a living furnace that wraps around you and banishes the cool air of the room.

He tucks his face into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and rhythmic against your sensitive skin. You can feel the steady, powerful thrum of his heartbeat against your spine, a deep and resonant drumbeat that seems to synchronize with your own.

"Tum jaa nahi sakti," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a dark, velvety caress that sends a fresh shiver dancing down your arms.

"Aaj ki raat, aur shayad har raat... tum sirf humari ho."

The possessiveness in his tone is absolute, a royal decree that settles deep in your bones. It is a promise and a claim, a vow that you have been woven into the very fabric of his life.

You let out a long, shaky breath, finally allowing your muscles to go limp in his embrace. Your head rests against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut as the exhaustion of the night finally begins to take hold.

The weight of his arm, the scent of his skin, and the overwhelming sense of being wanted not just as a pleasure, but as a presence envelops you. As you drift toward sleep, the last thing you feel is his lips pressing a lingering, tender kiss to the nape of your neck.

Maybe you're the Emperor's Favourite afterall...

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For my bbg @kajuuuukatliiiiii

Part I

The Diwan-e-Khas did not belong to noise.

It belonged to judgment.

White marble reflected filtered afternoon light in muted brilliance. Columns carved with intricate geometry rose toward a ceiling painted with delicate restraint rather than indulgent excess. The Mughal court was not theatrical under Aurangzeb’s reign; it was precise.

When he entered, no announcement preceded him.

He walked with unhurried control, each step measured, each movement stripped of unnecessary flourish. His robes fell in disciplined lines, his expression composed beyond interpretation.

Men who commanded armies lowered their gaze.

Scholars who debated theology spoke only when permitted.

Power, in his presence, did not shout.

It compressed.

You had stood within that hall before, summoned weeks ago for translation of provincial correspondences. Your presence had been technical, temporary. You were neither noble nor ornamental. You were useful.

Usefulness, in this court, was currency.

The day’s petitions unfolded with familiar rhythm—land disputes, taxation clarifications, border skirmish reports. Aurangzeb listened more than he spoke. When he did speak, it was decisive and final.

A governor from the Deccan misquoted a revenue assessment. You corrected it—briefly, clearly.

Silence followed.

The governor stiffened.

Aurangzeb’s gaze shifted toward you.

It did not soften.

It did not sharpen.

It assessed.

When the matter concluded, he said only:

“Darbar bar-khaast kiya jata hai.”

The hall began to empty.

Then—

“Aap thehriye.”

The words were not loud.

Yet they altered the air.

One by one, courtiers withdrew. Sandaled footsteps faded. Heavy doors closed with dignified finality.

The echo lingered.

You remained standing beneath carved arches that now felt taller, emptier.

Aurangzeb did not look at you immediately.

He reached for the tasbih resting near the arm of the throne. The beads moved between his fingers with steady rhythm, the quiet click against one another marking measured thought.

Finally, he spoke.

“Kal jo aap ne hisaab ki durusti ki… us mein sahih nishandahi thi.”

It was not praise.

It was acknowledgment.

You bowed your head slightly. “Huzoor ki khidmat mein sach arz karna farz hai.”

His eyes lifted then—dark, unwavering.

“Aksar log farz se zyada apni hifazat ko ahmiyat dete hain.”

“Khauf agar sach ko rok de, to farman kamzor pad jata hai, Alam Panah.”

A faint shift. Barely perceptible.

He rose from the throne.

Descended the shallow steps without haste.

The distance between ruler and subject narrowed to something more intimate than court protocol preferred.

“Be-baaki aur be-hissi mein farq hota hai,” he said quietly. “Har alfaaz soch samajh kar ada kiye jate hain.”

You held your composure.

“Bandagi mein hadain wohi hoti hain jo aap muqarrar farmayen.”

Silence deepened.

His gaze lingered longer than before.

“Aap ko apni had ka ilm hai?”

“Jitna zaroori ho, huzoor.”

The tasbih beads stilled.

For a breath—only a breath—there was something unguarded in his eyes.

Then it was gone.

“Aap ja sakti hain.”

Dismissal.

Precise.

Measured.

And yet—

It did not feel indifferent.

The second summons came after nightfall.

The palace corridors were dimly lit, torches burning lower, guards quieter. Shadows gathered in archways like silent witnesses.

When you entered his private chamber, you understood the difference between spectacle and solitude.

The room was restrained. A writing desk positioned near a latticed window. Shelves of Qur’anic manuscripts and administrative records. No excessive ornamentation. No indulgent luxury.

He stood with his back to you, hands clasped behind him.

“Aap ko takleef di,” he said without turning. “Burhanpur ke muamle mein wazahat darkar hai.”

You approached the desk.

Explained the misinterpretation in trade phrasing that could alter levy percentages.

He listened without interruption.

The only sound was your voice and the distant rustle of night wind against carved stone.

When you finished, he turned.

“Saltanat tafseel par qayam rehti hai,” he murmured. “Aur tafseel ko dekhne wale kam reh gaye hain.”

“Jo dekhta hai, us par zimmedari zyada hoti hai,” you replied.

He studied you.

“Zimmedari… ya jur’at?”

“Dono, Padshah.”

The word settled between you like something fragile.

He stepped closer.

Not abruptly.

Not aggressively.

Deliberately.

The air narrowed.

His presence carried no perfume beyond faint sandalwood and parchment ink. Yet it felt consuming.

“Darbar mein aap ki nigah kabhi jhukti nahi,” he observed.

“Jhoot ke saamne jhukna be-adbi hoti.”

A pause.

His hand reached toward the document.

Your fingers brushed.

The contact was brief.

But unmistakable.

He stilled.

The tasbih in his other hand ceased its rhythm.

For the first time, you saw restraint strain.

Not collapse.

Strain.

He withdrew first.

“Aap ja sakti hain.”

His voice remained level.

But it required effort.

You bowed and left.

Behind you, the beads resumed—slightly faster than before.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

The pattern established itself with quiet inevitability.

Summons after dusk.

Consultations framed as necessity.

Conversations that lingered beyond political relevance.

He never smiled.

Never indulged softness.

Never crossed the invisible line that separated ruler from subject.

And yet—

He asked questions no emperor needed answered.

“Saltanat ke liye sab se bada khatra kya hai?”

“Ghuroor.”

“Aur Badshah ke liye?”

You hesitated.

“Tanhai.”

He regarded you carefully.

“Badshah tanha nahi hota. Us ke gird lashkar, wazir, mashir hote hain.”

“Magar faisle akelay karta hai.”

The words did not accuse.

They observed.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Aap ko lagta hai hum tanha hain?”

“Ijazat ho to arz karun… jo shakhs jazbat par poora qabo rakhta hai, woh aksar tanha ho jata hai.”

Silence followed.

Heavy.

Intentional.

He stepped forward once more, close enough that you felt warmth through layers of silk.

His hand lifted—

Not decisively.

Not with the confidence of command.

It hovered near your cheek.

A ruler accustomed to control.

A man unfamiliar with hesitation.

Then—

It lowered.

“Yeh guftagu yahin muntahi hoti hai.”

Dismissal.

Again.

Controlled.

But not untouched.

Court noticed before you did.

The Mughal darbar was not easily shocked, but it was perpetually observant. Patterns were studied. Proximity was measured. Favour was weighed with ruthless accuracy.

Your presence had become a pattern.

At first, it had been administrative. Practical. Justifiable.

But repetition, in a place ruled by discipline, invited interpretation.

One afternoon, as the court debated revenue reforms, a senior mansabdar cast you a glance edged with faint disdain.

“Alam Panah,” he said smoothly, “kuch logon ko zaroorat se zyada qaribi naseeb ho rahi hai. Darbar mein haddain wazeh rehni chahiye.”

The implication was careful. Respectful. Dangerous.

Aurangzeb did not react immediately.

He let the silence stretch.

The court shifted uneasily.

Then, without raising his voice, he replied:

“Darbar ki haddain hum muqarrar karte hain.”

Nothing more.

No elaboration. No irritation.

The mansabdar bowed instantly. “Farman sar aankhon par.”

The matter ended.

But it did not disappear.

You felt the weight of altered gazes that day—curiosity sharpened by calculation.

That evening, the summons came earlier than usual.

When you entered the private chamber, he was seated at the writing desk rather than standing by the window. The lamp cast steady light across parchment, illuminating the deliberate stillness of his posture.

“Aap ne aaj jo dekha, us par kya rai hai?” he asked without looking up.

You understood his meaning.

“Darbar har cheez ko siyasi nazar se dekhta hai, huzoor.”

“Aur aap?” His eyes lifted.

“Me zarurat ko.”

A faint pause.

“Log zaroorat aur raghbat mein farq nahi kar pate,” he said.

“Log farq dhoondhte rehte hain,” you replied softly.

His gaze held yours longer than protocol required.

“Aap ko apni shohrat ki fikr hai?”

“Izzat hifazat se zyada nazuk hoti hai,” you said carefully. “Magar agar huzoor ka itminan ho, to logon ki rai ahmiyat kho deti hai.”

He leaned back slightly.

“Hum kisi ki rai se mutasir nahi hote.”

“Magar log farman se hote hain.”

Another silence.

This one different.

Less political.

More personal.

He rose slowly and crossed the space between you.

Not hastily.

Not thoughtlessly.

Deliberately.

“Aap ko maloom hai ke qaribi ka matlab kya hota hai?” he asked quietly.

You met his gaze. “Zimmedari.”

“Aur?” His voice lowered.

“Qeemat.”

His jaw tightened—subtle but visible.

“Tanhai ki qeemat?” he pressed.

“Har us shakhs ko ada karni padti hai jo qudrat se zyada qabo ko tarjeeh deta hai.”

Something in that answer struck deeper than either of you anticipated.

For a moment, he looked less like a sovereign and more like a man measuring his own reflection.

Then discipline returned like armor sliding back into place.

“Aap had se aage badh rahi hain,” he said.

“Ijazat ho to arz karun,” you replied evenly, “hadain aap ki marzi se badalti hain.”

His hand moved—swift enough to surprise, controlled enough not to alarm.

It closed around your wrist.

Not harshly.

Not violently.

But firmly.

The contact sent a quiet shock through the air.

He did not pull you closer.

He did not lean in.

He simply held.

The pulse beneath your skin beat steady.

His thumb shifted slightly—as if registering that rhythm.

The tasbih beads lay abandoned on the desk behind him.

“Aap ko dar nahi lagta?” he asked, voice lower now, almost introspective.

“Dar tab hota hai jab niyat par shakk ho,” you answered.

“Aur hamari niyat?” he pressed.

“Saltanat.”

The word hung between you like a shield.

His grip tightened for half a breath—

Then released.

He stepped back first.

Always him.

Always first.

“Aap ja sakti hain.”

The dismissal carried strain beneath its surface.

You bowed and turned.

Before reaching the door, you heard him speak again.

“Darbar mein aap ki jagah barqarar rahegi.”

It was not reassurance.

It was decree.

The days that followed grew heavier.

Whispers intensified. Courtiers measured your movements more carefully. Invitations were extended and withdrawn with equal subtlety.

But Aurangzeb’s conduct in public remained immaculate.

He did not single you out.

Did not praise you.

Did not protect you openly beyond what decorum required.

The restraint was deliberate.

Calculated.

And yet, the night summons continued.

One evening, rain fell against the palace roofs in steady rhythm. The air smelled of wet stone and distant earth. When you entered his chamber, he stood near the lattice window, watching the storm.

“Aaj barsaat der se aayi,” he murmured.

“Har cheez waqt par nahi hoti,” you replied.

“Magar hoti zaroor hai.”

He turned then.

There was something different in his gaze that night—less guarded, though no less intense.

“Hum ne apni zindagi ka har faisla aql se kiya,” he said slowly. “Jazbat ko kabhi hukm nahi diya.”

“Aur kya jazbat ne kabhi hukm maanga?” you asked softly.

His eyes darkened.

“Aap sawal zyada karne lagi hain.”

“Sawal na hon to jawab ki ahmiyat kam ho jati hai.”

The rain intensified outside, striking stone like distant drums.

He moved closer again.

Closer than before.

Close enough that your breath mingled in the dim light.

His hand lifted once more.

This time it did not hover uncertainly.

It reached your jaw.

Fingers resting just beneath your chin.

Not possessive.

Not gentle.

Steady.

He tilted your face upward slightly.

You held his gaze.

There was no smile in him.

No softness.

Only conflict held in iron restraint.

“Aap jaanti hain,” he said quietly, “ke har had ko paar karna mumkin hota hai.”

“Aur phir?” you whispered.

“Phir saltanat kamzor padti hai.”

“Aur agar saltanat aur shakhs mein takraav ho?” you asked.

His grip tightened fractionally.

“Saltanat kabhi nahi jhukti.”

It was not merely a political answer.

It was personal creed.

For a moment—just one—the distance between command and confession dissolved.

Then discipline returned.

He released you.

Stepped back.

Turned away.

“Aap ja sakti hain.”

This time, the words sounded like armor reforged.

You left.

And behind you, in a chamber built for power and restraint, Aurangzeb remained standing long after the rain ceased—wrestling not with rebellion or empire—

But with himself.

The change began with absence.

Three nights passed without summons.

No quiet knock at your door. No guarded escort through torch-lit corridors. No measured voice waiting in lamplit solitude.

Court resumed its disciplined rhythm. Petitions rose and fell. Governors reported. Decrees were signed.

Aurangzeb did not look at you longer than necessary.

If anything, he looked less.

The distance was deliberate.

And it unsettled you more than proximity ever had.

On the fourth evening, the summons came—not after dusk, but before the final assembly of court dispersed.

Unusual.

When you approached the Diwan-e-Khas, the hall was already half-empty. Ministers bowed themselves out, murmuring respectfully as they passed. The marble floor carried the faint echo of retreating footsteps.

He remained seated upon the elevated throne.

Still.

Composed.

Waiting.

“Darbar mukammal hua,” he said quietly. “Magar aap thehriye.”

The doors closed.

The hall expanded into silence once more.

This time, he did not descend immediately.

He regarded you from above—not arrogantly, but thoughtfully.

“Logon ki guftagu barh rahi hai,” he said.

You did not feign ignorance. “Darbar ko fursat kam hi milti hai, huzoor.”

“Aur jab milti hai,” he continued evenly, “to woh kahaniyan banata hai.”

“Har kahani mein sach ka hissa hota hai.”

He rose then.

Descended the steps slowly.

The distance between throne and marble narrowed.

“Aap kya samajhti hain,” he asked, stopping before you, “ke yeh silsila kis had tak ja sakta hai?”

You held his gaze steadily.

“Jitni ijazat di jaye.”

A long pause followed.

“Aur agar ijazat wapas le li jaye?”

The question was controlled.

But it carried weight.

“Phir bhi yaad rehta hai ke kabhi di gayi thi.”

For the first time, something almost like frustration flickered across his features.

“Aap har guftagu ko nazariyati bana deti hain.”

“Aap har ehsaas ko nazm mein bandh dete hain.”

The words left your mouth before caution intervened.

Silence struck the hall like a bell.

His eyes darkened—not with anger, but with something far more volatile.

He stepped closer.

Closer than ever before in public space.

“Hum ne apni zindagi mein kabhi jazbat ko hukm nahi diya,” he said, voice low but firm. “Har faisla aql se kiya.”

“Aur kya aql kabhi ghalat nahi hoti?” you asked softly.

His hand moved before either of you could reconsider.

It closed around your wrist again—but stronger this time.

Not violent.

But decisive.

He pulled you a step closer.

Close enough that the vastness of the Diwan-e-Khas faded into irrelevance.

“Aap had ko azma rahi hain,” he said quietly.

“Had aap ne muqarrar ki thi,” you replied.

His grip tightened slightly.

“Aur hum use tod bhi sakte hain.”

The words were not boastful.

They were truth.

You felt your pulse beneath his hand.

Steady.

Unflinching.

“Agar todi,” you said, voice barely above breath, “to phir kya bachega?”

His gaze searched your face.

For the first time, there was no calculation in it.

No emperor.

Only conflict.

“Saltanat,” he answered at last.

“Ya khud?”

The question landed like a blade wrapped in silk.

His fingers shifted, rising from your wrist to your jaw once more.

He tilted your face upward—not harshly, not gently.

Steadily.

Your breath mingled in the vast stillness of the hall.

For one suspended moment, centuries of discipline trembled.

His forehead nearly brushed yours.

Not quite.

Never quite.

“Aap samajhti nahi,” he murmured, voice roughened by restraint. “Badshah ka har qadam tareekh likhta hai.”

“Aur agar tareekh mein ek lamha insaniyat ka likha jaye?” you whispered.

His jaw tightened.

“Aur agar us lamhe se saltanat kamzor ho?”

“Aur agar us se aap kam tanha ho jayein?”

The word lingered between you.

Tanha.

He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second.

Only a fraction.

When they opened again, the emperor had returned fully.

His grip loosened.

Then vanished entirely.

He stepped back first.

Always him.

Always first.

“Yeh guftagu yahin khatam hoti hai,” he said, voice steady once more.

Not strained.

Not broken.

Reforged.

“Aap kal se darbar mein hazir rahengi. Magar raat ki mulaqatein muntahi.”

The decree was final.

You felt the absence before it even settled.

“Aapka farmaan sarankho par, Alam Panah.”

A flicker—barely visible—crossed his face at the formal title.

He turned away from you.

Faced the throne once more.

“Hum ne apni zindagi mein bohot kuch qurban kiya,” he said quietly, though his back was to you. “Yeh bhi sahi.”

There was no bitterness in his voice.

Only acceptance.

You stood for a moment longer.

Waiting.

But he did not turn.

“Aap ja sakti hain.”

The final dismissal.

You bowed.

Walked across the marble floor.

Each step echoed softly.

At the threshold, you paused—not long enough to be defiant, not short enough to be indifferent.

He did not look back.

The doors closed.

From the next day forward, nothing appeared altered.

You stood in court as before. Spoke when necessary. Remained when required.

He treated you with immaculate distance.

His gaze did not linger.

His tone did not lower.

The empire saw an emperor unchanged.

Disciplined.

Unyielding.

But once—only once—during a quiet debate over provincial levies, your eyes met across the hall.

Just for a second.

In that second, you saw it.

Not regret.

Not longing.

But knowledge.

He had chosen.

And so had you.

Silence would remain between you—not empty, but deliberate.

He would not name what nearly was.

He would not claim what threatened order.

He would not allow desire to fracture rule.

And yet—

Long after the court dispersed, and long after torches dimmed in palace corridors, Aurangzeb would sometimes pause by the lattice window of his private chamber.

Tasbih beads moving steadily between his fingers.

Discipline intact.

Empire secure.

But the memory of a boundary almost crossed—

Burning quietly in the one place he permitted no rebellion.

His own heart.

A/N : Soooo Do we like it ??

I have originally planned it to be a 3 part series.

Also, @kajuuuukatliiiiii mj would you like me to integrate smut into this or should I keep this high tension only ??

Moving on to my current fics Lines don't cross is finally over. Stitches & Secrets is a 10 chapter + Epilogue fic. I have another Major Iqbal coming up for my girl @sarahmuradjuber

Credit for divider : @uzmacchiato

Queen 👑.

Urdubegis

The urdubegis were a group of female warriors in the Mughal Empire, who protected the zenana, the harem of the emperor. Although the origins of female bodyguards go back to the beginning of Indian civilizations, the urdubegis were a Mughal creation. The only member of the urdubegis known by name is Bibi Fatima, who served in Humayun's and Akbar's court.

Origins

Starting from Chandragupta Maurya's court, we have two important texts that mention the need for female bodyguards. The first text comes from Megasthenes, a Greek ambassador to the court of Chandragupta Maurya (r. c. 321 to c. 297 BCE). He reports the presence of women who protected the Mauryan king, especially while he was out hunting. Women hunters accompanied the king, riding on chariots, horses, and elephants equipped with weapons. Although having male guards next to the king for his protection, was something very common in the Western world, the presence of their female counterparts was a bit of a surprise for Megasthenes.

The second text was the Arthashastra, written by Kautilya (l. c. 350-275 BCE), the advisor of Chandragupta Maurya. He wrote about the necessity of female guards due to the number of murders of previous kings. Kautilya describes the dangers of the harem:

When in the interior of the harem, the king shall see the queen only when her personal purity is vouchsafed by an old maidservant. He shall not touch any woman (unless he is apprised of her personal purity); for hidden in the queen's chamber, his own brother killed Bhadrasena; hiding himself under the bed of his mother, the son murdered king Karusa; mixed rice with poison, as though with honey, his own queen poisoned Kasiraja; with an anklet painted with poison, his own queen killed Vairantya; with a gem of her zone bedaubed with poison, his own queen killed Souvira; with a looking-glass painted with poison, his own queen killed Jalutha; and with a weapon hidden under her tuft of hair, his own queen slew Viduratha. (1.20, ed. Kangle)

Between 340 and 293 BCE, another group of female warriors was formed under the instruction of Kautilya. Known as the Visha Kanya (Poison Girls), these women were trained from childhood by being given small doses of poison, which would gradually help them build up a tolerance. Thus, these assassins would lure their prey by using their beauty and charm and then administer the kiss of death to the enemy of the King. According to a 9th-century Arabic text, the Secreta Secretorum, Aristotle (384-322 BCE) warned his student Alexander the Great (r. 336-323 BCE) about the dangers of these "venomous virgins" before the young general set off on his Indian campaign. In another legend, the death of Alexander the Great was said to be the result of an embrace with a Visha Kanya, that may have been given to him as a trophy by King Porus, after his defeat.

The Visha Kanya were Indian, but other female bodyguards may have been brought from Central Asia, where the ancient Greeks believed the Amazons and other warlike women were located. Unfortunately, many sources are tantalizingly silent regarding the social background of these armed women. In ancient India, a king's retinue of women displayed his power, wealth, and status. Thus, female bodyguards seemed to serve two purposes: not only did they protect the king but also added to the king's stature in a theatrical display of divine power. While these warriors did exist, they did not have a specific title by which they were known, until the Mughal era.

What if we organize a fest for 🍊 on Tumblr like other Tumbler people do for Caesar. My idea is, we can all make drawings of maratha attire, war drum sounds, war slogans etc. once a year so that Aura minus breaks his leg again. What do you think?

OMG YOO THAT'S SUCH A GREAT IDEA LOL

I'm most interested in making 🍊 break him leg again while shitting 🤣🤣🤣🤣