#krishna x reader

||chapter 4 : RED||

you can find the prologue and chapter 1 -3 under the pinned post, do read it!

all the credits goes to my fav @irantaboutkanha for giving me idea to carry the story forward^^

The ninth day of the ache arrived smelling of rain. Jayani was mending a torn ghungroo strap, the needle a clumsy weapon in her restless hands, when the first distant thunder growled. Her head jerked up. The sound was so like the deep, rolling bayal of the pakhawaj from the royal court that her breath caught. In that suspended moment, she wasn’t in her quiet room; she was spinning, the world a blur of gold and sandstone, her eyes desperately scanning for a flash of canary yellow- The needle bit her thumb. “Ah!” She dropped the bells, sucking the tiny bead of blood. The metallic taste, the sting, anchored her back to the present, to the quiet, to the unbearable absence. Frustration welled up, hot and sudden. Stupid. He’s not in the thunder. He’s probably in some lavish hall, not even remembering… “But he knows my name,” she muttered to the storm-darkening window. Ambika’s voice, calling her to leave, had handed that piece of her to him on a silver platter. And what did she have? A smile in moonlit water. A title. Glimpse of his eyes, the gem on his earring. She pressed her wounded thumb to her lips, whispering softly while looking at the gathering clouds, to her Narayan that she lovingly worshipped, “You don’t play it fair, Narayan. You'll let that man have an upper-hand? i don't want heartbreaks all over again”

Unbeknownst to her, the flute bearer, the minister - smiling the way he did that night, soft, knowing with an undertone of teasing.

"Knowing does not stray one from the ache it invites with itself, jayani"

The afternoon sun, having wrestled the clouds aside, poured liquid gold over the city. Jayani walked through the market, a splash of simple yellow amidst the noise. A single red hibiscus was tucked into the long braid resting over her shoulder. The kajal lining her eyes felt less like adornment and more like armor. The stain of aalta on her palms from yesterday's performance was a fading map of a past self.

Her steps were unhurried, her gaze no longer desperately scanning the crowd, but observing it. She was looking for the familiar aalta-seller's stall. She paused by a flower vendor, her fingers brushing the velvety petals of a marigold garland. And then the world tilted. Across the market, through the shifting sea of shoppers, vendors, and cattle, she saw him.

He was walking with two other ministers, their heads bent in conversation, but his attention—his eyes—were not on them. They were on her. Even from this distance, even through the chaos, she felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. The canary yellow dhoti. The flute tucked at his waist. The sun catching the gold of his skin, making him glow like a living ember. For a suspended breath, their eyes locked. And then she looked away unable to bear the weight of the moment. It was instinct—fear, protocol, the thousand rules carved into her bones since childhood. Her gaze dropped to the flowers in her hand, her heart hammering against her ribs like a captive bird.

Don't be foolish. He is a minister. Walk away. She paid the vendor quickly, fingers fumbling with the coins, and turned. Not toward him. Never toward him. Toward the narrow lanes that led away from the main market, away from those honey-glaze eyes that threatened to undo her completely. She ducked into a quiet alley, pressing her back against the cool stone wall, eyes squeezed shut. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He saw you. He knows you saw him. What must he think? That you're a silly girl swooning over a minister you only saw once ? That you're—

"You're hiding."

The voice was soft as silk, smooth as the glide of a water strider. And it came from behind her, from the deeper shadows of the alley where the sun did not reach.

Jayani's eyes flew open. She spun around.

He stood there, leaning against the wall as if he had been there for hours, as if the universe had simply placed him in this spot to wait for her. The sunlight from the market's edge caught only half his face, leaving the rest in shadow—a study in light and dark, in divine and mortal. The faintest smile played on his lips.

"How—" she started, then stopped. Swallowed. "You weren't... I didn't hear you follow."

"No," he agreed, pushing off the wall with an effortless grace that made her chest ache. "You didn't."

He walked toward her slowly, unhurried, deliberate. Like a predator who had already caught his prey and was simply enjoying the approach. But there was nothing threatening in his demeanor—only that soft, knowing smile, those honey-glaze eyes that seemed to see straight through every layer of pretense she possessed. He stopped an arm's length away. Close enough to touch. Close enough that she could smell sandalwood and something else—something warm and ancient, like sun-baked earth after rain.

"The hibiscus suits you," he said, his gaze flicking to the flower in her hair. "It lacks the subtlety of the moonflower, but it has... conviction."

Jayani's throat went dry. "My Guru-maa says it draws the eye," she managed, the words coming out too fast, too defensive. "For the performance."

"And does it?" His voice dropped lower, intimate as a secret. "Draw the eye?"

Her eyes met his—a mistake, a glorious, terrible mistake. Because in them she saw not the teasing minister, not the smooth politician, but something deeper. Something that recognized her. That knew her, in a way that made no sense and yet felt more true than anything she had ever known.

She looked away first. Again.

"The dyes," she said, clutching her package like a shield. "I was buying aalta. For the next performance. The quality here is better than near the palace."

He tilted his head, a gesture of genuine curiosity that made a few dark curls fall across his forehead. "Is it? I've never had cause to notice. Though I imagine a dancer would know such things intimately." A pause. "The difference between a shade that fades and one that burns."

Was he still talking about dyes? Her pulse said no.

"The riverbank," he said suddenly, his tone shifting to something lighter, almost casual. He glanced up at the strip of sky visible between the rooftops. "The air is clearer there in the evenings. If one seeks respite from the chaos."

She blinked. "I... yes. I suppose."

He smiled—that soft, knowing smile that she was beginning to recognize as uniquely his. "Good. The river has a way of drawing those who need its peace." He stepped back, giving her room, giving her space to breathe.

"Be well, Jayani." Her name on his lips was a prayer, a promise, a possession. "And next time... don't hide so obviously. It only makes you more visible."

And then he was gone, melting into the shadows of the alley as if he had never been there at all. Leaving her pressed against the wall, heart pounding, the hibiscus in her hair suddenly feeling less like armor and more like a declaration.

She didn't see him again that day. Or the next. But on the third evening, when she slipped away from the dancers' quarters under the pretense of needing air, her feet carried her toward the riverbank without conscious thought.

She told herself it was just to see the sunset. Just to feel the breeze. Just to escape the suffocating walls of the palace compound for a few stolen moments.

She sat on the smooth stones at the water's edge, watching the sun bleed orange and gold into the darkening sky. The river murmured its eternal song, indifferent to the wars and loves of mortals.

She didn't hear him approach. But she felt him—a warmth at her back, a presence that shifted the very quality of the air.

"You are here ."

Not a question. A statement of fact, delivered with quiet satisfaction.

She didn't turn. Couldn't turn. If she turned, she would see him, and if she saw him, she would be lost.

"The air is clearer here," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "You were right."

A soft laugh, warm as summer honey. She heard the rustle of fabric as he sat beside her—close enough that she could feel the heat of him, not close enough to touch. A deliberate distance. A courtesy.

"I'm always right," he said. "It's exhausting, really. One longs for the thrill of being wrong."

Despite herself, a laugh escaped her—small, surprised, genuine. She glanced at him sideways. In the dying light, his profile was etched in gold: the curve of his brow, the slope of his nose, the impossible softness of his smile.

"You're strange," she said. "For a minister."

"And you're brave," he replied, turning to meet her gaze. "For a dancer who speaks to ministers like that."

Their eyes held. The river flowed. The sun dipped lower.

"Tell me," he said, his voice dropping to that intimate register that made her skin prickle with awareness, "do you always wear hibiscus? Or was today a... deliberate choice?"

Her hand flew to her hair. She had forgotten—hadn't even thought—but yes, the red flower was there, tucked into her braid as naturally as breathing.

"I—" She stopped. Swallowed. "It's just a flower."

"Is it?" His gaze was too knowing, too warm.

She looked away, at the river, at the sky, anywhere but those honey-glaze eyes that saw too much. "I don't know what you mean."

He didn't push. He simply sat with her, sharing the silence, as the stars began to pierce the velvet dark. And when the chill of evening crept in and she knew she should return before Ambika noticed her absence, he rose with her, walking her to the edge of the path that led back to the palace.

"Jayani." His voice stopped her. She turned. He stood silhouetted against the last glow of twilight, unreadable, eternal.

"The riverbank is peaceful," he said. "But lonely, sometimes. If you find yourself here again... you might not be alone."

A statement. Not a question. Not a demand. Just a possibility, placed gently in her hands like a moonflower at midnight.

She walked back to her quarters in a daze, the hibiscus still in her hair, his words echoing in the hollow chambers of her heart.

And when she lay in her bed that night, staring at the ceiling, she heard Ambika's soft breathing across the room and thought of honey-glaze eyes and riverbank silences.

You might not be alone.

The next evening, she wore the hibiscus again.

And when her feet carried her to the river, he was already there.

Waiting. . . . .

(been in my drafts for months- thought i'd complete this one before moving onto the new story)

I honestly dont know what to call this. So here is an arbitrary name lol.

In Bahrain right now, and I went to two temples yesterday.

One temple is dedicated to Shrinathji (Krishna, lit. Husband of Shri aka Lakshmi) worshipped in Nathdwara, Rajasthan, India.

The second was dedicated to Guruvayurappan (lit. Lord/ Dad/ Master of Jupiter and Vayu, the Wind). The idol was originally a form of the four armed Vishnu. Worshipped in Guruvayur, Kerala, India.

The idol is currently worshipped as Krishna, due to a famous devotee- poet Poonthanam referring to Vishnu as Krishna, calling Krishna as his baby in the Vatsalya Bhava after the poet lost his infant son.

Anyways. Enough of the lore. Lets get to it.

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I went in, and the moment I saw His idol, I got blank. I literally cudnt speak to Him, the way I speak to Him in my room, at home on a daily basis.

Like I felt so synthetic. I cudnt feel the same connection with Him in those temples.

I tried hard, ok? Honestly. Nothing worked. I usually feel tingles or extreme tears and happiness, when i pray to Him at home.

Nothing worked here.

So I did the best i cud. Pray to Him like usual. Pray to Him like I did before I got into this "relationship" with Him. In those temples.

But I felt peaceful, like u usually feel in the temples. No feelings. Nothing else.

I feel so guilty.

Like, it is a popular belief, that temples have a stronger presence of a God, coz they do this 24x7.

Unlike my home, and my room where I read, yell, stink, snore, fart, and read smut manga. LOL.

If I dont establish a connection in a temple where He is well present, but in my all purpose room, am i weird? Am I the Asshole?

Guess what? Two days. No connection with Him.

I feel like a woman who doesnt respond to her Man and ghosts Him, before reaching back.

Today, He flooded my daydreams. And I cried as usual, apologizing. I told Him I didnt go anywhere, I just struggled to connect with Him at the temples.

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Hey dont get me wrong. I like going to temples, purely for the vibes. Yes, but I have a feeling, this feeling of not connecting with Him at devotional spots will plague me forever.

What do u guys think? Is this normal? Am I right to feel, guilty?

Tags: @yoogini @irantaboutkanha @bigsimp69 @azuredrift @darkskytenjiku @merevasudevmeremadhav @origel @krishna-vallabhaa @syamakrishna @lalenn @water-lilies-on-the-moon @thegleamingmoon @alwaysyappinghere @lotusdwells @euph0synee @chaliyaaa @krishna-sangini @aprameya-mahima @snuglyvibrantmemory @monameh @sumiyxx @sambhavami @krishna-priyatama @krsnaradhika @radhakrishnapriye @rantingabtmyman @achyutapriya @desikanya @madhurala @hum-suffer @animucomedy and everyone else.

Is my temple guilt justified?

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(Hello!

I'm back.

Again.

I am a bit too jobless in my vacations so...... another story!

so I wrote this inspired by the idea given by @desikanya

So i could've made huge mistakes in this with regards to few dance terms, but i tried my best for them to be accurate. everything i've written about the dance and the movements comes from my mom and the multiple performances i've seen.

so please excuse my mistakes. )

Went to iskcon boht time baad

MANGOESSSSSSS

Punam hain aaj chaand ka darshan karo baccha

Meanwhile me who is 173cm (5'8) 👁️👄👁️

Mahabharata characters x short!reader.

I will do with Ramayana next. (Because It took me as long as 7 days to do this post. I had to read Mahabrahata again and watch the series. After all, here I added Duryodhana. Plus to get to know the character of the characters better. Plus studies, dance and Trainings🫠)

Pairing: Krishna x reader, Arjuna x reader, Draupadi x reader, Bheema x reader, Yudhishthira x reader, Nakul x reader, Sahadev x reader, Karna x reader, Duryodhana x reader.

Warning: Soft, there can be non-canon moments or characters' personality, don't critic.

Oh, knowing his mischevious nature, You will encounter frequent teasing and jokes. He just can't resist it! Krishna, ever the mischievous charmer, would delight in playfully teasing you about your height. He might call you "his little lotus" or "mere manmohini ki chhoti pari" (my enchanting little fairy), his eyes twinkling with affection. But the moment anyone else so much as hints at your height, his tone shifts—protective and firm, reminding them that her stature carries the grace of a goddess, and she stands taller than anyone in his heart. But his teasing would never be unkind—it would be a melody of love, meant to make you blush and laugh.

As the protector of dharma, he would naturally feel a deep sense of care for Y/N. Your small stature might awaken his instinct to shield you, but he’d never let you feel diminished. He’d stand beside you like a towering banyan tree, his presence a comforting shade, yet he’d encourage you to shine in her own light. “Height matters not, my beloved,” he’d whisper during a quiet moment, perhaps as you both sit by the Yamuna’s banks, his flute resting beside him. “Your spirit is as vast as the cosmos, and I am but a humble admirer of its radiance.”

With his profound wisdom as seen in the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna would perceive Y/N’s shortness as a beautiful paradox—a small exterior housing a soul as vast and infinite as the cosmos. He would often draw you close during quiet evenings, seating you beside him under the starlit sky, his gaze reflecting deep admiration as he contemplates your inner strength, turning their moments together into a silent lesson in the eternal nature of the spirit, a testament to his role as a divine teacher and guide. He is very strong, tall and divine, he would effortlessly lift you into his arms—whether to place you on a higher step so you can reach the kadamba flowers, or just to hold her close during Raas Leela.

People often overlook you. You are small. You move softly. In court, others speak over you. Krishna watches. He sees how your eyes flick downward for a breath — and then how you straighten your back and speak anyway. And when others forget to include you in their gaze, Krishna is the first to turn his full attention toward you. His body shifts. His hand reaches for yours under the table. No one dares disrespect someone he sees as beloved.

Krishna is full of humor, wit, playfulness. He teases even kings and sages. But not you. Not your height. Never that. He does not find it funny that you must tilt your head to meet his gaze, or that he often has to bend to press a kiss to your forehead. No — to him, it is beautiful. It is intimate. If he ever teases, it is this: “Strange,” he murmurs one evening, “that the shortest among us made me kneel without a war.”

He walks more slowly when you’re with him, adjusting his stride without speaking. He makes sure his palace’s steps are never too steep for you. He lifts you onto his chariot as naturally as one might offer a hand to a heart beat. And when you say: “I could have done it myself,” he smiles — not mockingly, not indulgently — but gently. “I know,” he says. “But I exist to ease the path of those I love. Why would I not do it for you?”He doesn’t treat your height like a flaw. He treats his care as his dharma.

Knowing that his other wives are taller, Krishna would NEVER compare you with them. He is divine, but at the same time incredibly human in love. Each of his wives (Rukmini, Satyabhama, etc.) has her own characteristics, and he accepts them as they are. He never chooses the "best" - for him, each beloved is unique, like a separate raga in music or a flower in the garden. Krishna neither cares about Y/N’s short height in a negative sense nor lets it define her worth. Instead, he embraces it with love and admiration, turning it into a source of joy, protection, and intimacy, as seen in his playful lifts, thoughtful adjustments, and deep affection. Her height is irrelevant to his divine love—it’s simply a cherished part of their bond...He is god — but in your presence, he chooses small, mortal joys

He sees you every time you walk into a room. Not because you stand out like a towering figure — but because you always pause for a moment at the threshold, like you’re tasting the atmosphere. Like you’re listening. Arjuna notices that your steps are smaller, but purposeful. That when you walk beside him, you often have to take an extra step to match his pace. So he adjusts, without a word. He lets your rhythm set his own. Because you — quiet, grounded, smaller than most — make him feel anchored in a world that never stops demanding movement from him. “The earth feels closer when I stand beside you,” he once whispered. “Like I finally know what it is to come home.”

Arjuna is one of those who instinctively protects - but does it almost imperceptibly. As the son of Indra, a celestial warrior. An ancient instinct lives in him: to protect. But he always amazed, how you can stand up for yourself, despite you are small. You walk into a room, and somehow — despite being half the size of the other women at court — the air changes. You don’t raise your voice. You don’t tower over others. But you stand like someone who is not apologizing for existing. And Arjuna watches you — always a little in awe — at how such a small frame can hold such fire. You speak softly, but your words carry. You’re overlooked, and then suddenly unforgettable. He’s fought demons, wielded celestial weapons, and faced death. But the way you meet someone’s gaze across a crowded hall? "That, he tells himself, is a kind of power even he doesn’t understand yet"

Arjuna is a sensitive man, with a subtle soul. He himself struggles with doubts all his life, despite his mastery. If you are insecure...Therefore, when he hears you call yourself "small", "unworthy", "less noticeable" - he becomes serious to the point of pain. He presses you to himself, with his palm on your back, as if keeping you from falling into the abyss: "Do you know how many battles I've won? How many enemies I've vanquished? No victory means as much as your presence by my side. I pray to the gods that you never feel...less. You are not less. You are everything."

He worries about accidentally hurting you, even in the simplest of things, so he always trying be gentle. Arjuna is tall, broad-shouldered, and trained in the art of war. He knows his own strength. And though he wears it well, there is always a part of him — especially with you — that moves with hesitation. He doesn’t squeeze too hard. He doesn’t rest his full weight against you when he holds you. He always bends first — always kneels to your level when brushing his lips over your forehead. It’s not because he thinks you’re fragile. It’s because he knows that if the world has ever made you feel small, then he will do the opposite. He’ll make you feel held. Equal. Seen.

Knowing how tall he is by compared to you, it always make Arjuna feel awkward (not in bad way). When you're curled up asleep, he lies down next to you and realizes how big the difference in body size is. He reaches out to you, and then stops. He just stares for a few seconds before he dares to touch you. He's not afraid physically. He's afraid that he might outshine you. Make you feel invisible. And he tries his best to be... light. In his movements, in his words, even in his breathing next to you.

But with you, Arjuna learns to be brave - in tenderness, in affection, in himself You don't push. You don't rush. You accept him as he is: tall, strong, but vulnerable. And with each passing day, he becomes braver. He begins to touch you more often, hug you tighter, say words to you that he was previously embarrassed to even think. He leans down to kiss your forehead for the first time. He says for the first time, "I miss you, even when you're here." You are his safety. His trust. And he learns not to be afraid to be big around you. Because he knows you are his anchor, not his fragility. His love.

Well, Draupadi was quite tall for women in those days (‌I think, around 173 or 175cm). When you first meet, she almost looks down on you - not because she's proud of herself, but because you're actually a head shorter than her. Her gaze is stern, her gait is regal. And you're almost like a girl next to her. But then you respond sharply, intelligently, even daringly - and interest appears in her eyes. She was rather surprised—how can such a small person contain so much insolence, than your short height. "You're small. But you don't bow. It's... unexpected." She only respects those who are not afraid of her. And you, with your height, do not try to seem taller. You stand straight. And this is enough for her to want to get to know you better.

Knowing that there can be men who can hurt you, she begins to protect you in a feminine way - like an older sister, mother and lover at the same time. If someone makes a tactless remark like, "Oh, what a petite companion you have!" she responds in an icy voice what would made that person shut up.

Draupadi just adore dress you herself - to show how much "you" can hold. She has impeccable taste. And suddenly you become her canvas. She chooses a sari with light gold, jewelry that does not weigh you down. And then she sits down next to you and begins: “Raise your hands. Like this. This ring with a pink stone matches your softness. Don’t argue.”She doesn't look at you as a little thing, but as a refined one. You are her treasure. And she wraps you in beauty so that the whole world can see what she already knows.

Draupadi does not allow herself to be vulnerable in front of her husbands - too much is expected of her, she has been through too much pain. But with you, short, tender, soft - for the first time she allows herself to lay her head on your lap. She becomes especially tender when you are together - because for the first time she can be soft, without fear of appearing weak. Draupadi telling you about her stories, saying that she just wanna be woman with you, not Queen Panchali or fire. And you stroke her hair. Listen to her breathing slow down. Because next to you, she doesn't have to be tall. She doesn't have to be strong. She can just be herself.

She endlessly admires your ability to keep up with the giants You walk alongside the five great warriors, and they tower over you in both physicality and status. But you don't hide. You smile, you argue, you express your opinion. And Draupadi, watching this, feels a pride that is even greater than that of the Pandavas themselves. "You are not just my spouse. The same power is in you, but in a different form - quieter, more modest, but not weaker." She can even tell Arjuna or Yudhishthira when they forget themselves, lol.

Panchali once confessed: your small stature became her salvation from the greatness that was pressing on her. She often tells that your height is a convenience, not a weakness. So of course, she would often lift you up.

Woah, he is himself very huge...Bheema and petite Y/n are literally "tiger and kitten". He is huge, muscular, with a deafening laugh and a kindness that can move you to tears. And you are tiny next to him, like a porcelain cup in his palm. But he is not afraid of this difference. He admires it. And Bheema truly admires your "little" courage - because you walk next to a giant and are not afraid.

Bheema is amazed every day how you fit in his arms When you stand next to him, the difference in height is especially noticeable. He could cover you completely - like a mountain. Once, you jokingly stood behind him, and he turned: "Where are you? Oh, here you are, standing under my heart." He loves to carry you in his arms. Even if you say you can walk on your own. "I know you can. But can't you see how much I like it?"

He instinctively closes you off from the world with himself - like a shield, like a fortress When someone raises their voice in your presence - Bheema comes between you. Even if it is Arjuna. Even if it is Draupadi, even if you say that you can handle it yourself. He is not afraid of seeming excessive. He is afraid of losing you. Of course, he knows that you are strong, but still, his protective nature won't dissapeare. In battle, he can forget everything - except one thing: where you are. He doesn't just protect you. He watches like a lion, and he himself doesn't notice how his entire bulk curls around you in a ring - like a gentle dragon around a treasure.

While you may think you look funny when you tiptoe to kiss him. But he looks at you like you're a goddess who's come down from the sky to take his soul. Bheema just adore your height! One day you suddenly jumped on his back like a monkey to scare him. And he laughed, called you minx.

You know that Bheema is master in cooking. And from the moment you entered his life, the kitchen became another form of love. He cooks for you with gusto - and gives you the first spoonful of every dish. So he definitely will give large portions, because "little woman" doesn't mean "eats little". If you don't finish it, he frowns. He sits down next to you. And feeds you from his hands until you will finish food.

Just like Arjuna, Bheema is very careful and gentle with you. It is the tallest and largest among the Pandavas, so he is internally afraid of hurting you - because you seem fragile to him, like a glass flower. Knows his strength. And that's why he often restrains himself around you. He even lies down on the edge of the bed so as not to accidentally touch you at night. You don't notice it right away, but one day you wake up and he's half-lying down, his hands under his head so as not to touch the top of your head. And then you yourself crawl closer, lie down on his chest.

Yudhishthira is too mature and last person who judge someone by their appearance, especially their height. He is the son of dharma, the embodiment of justice, inner honesty and empathy. Not only does he not judge, but he also considers any external differences to be of no importance in the face of a person's virtue, mind and soul. If you are shorter than others, he does not see this as a reason for jokes, pity or condescension. He sees this as your uniqueness. And if someone dares to tease you about your height in front of him, he will stop it gently but firmly. "Greatness is not measured by the size of the body, but by the size of the heart."

Sure, He immediately noticed your height - not as an appearance, but as a symbol of your modesty. When you entered the room, he looked at you and immediately understood: you are quiet, not because you are shy. You absorb everything, notice, feel - but you speak only when it is necessary. Just like him. And suddenly you realized: you were noticed not as cute, not as a toy. But as a strength hidden behind the softness.

Yudhishthira is not just a ruler - he constantly internally blames himself for everything, even for what is not in his power. Especially with you. You often laugh, saying that you can stand up for yourself. But he still offers you his hand with every step, bends slightly when he talks to you, and refuses to let you carry even a light basket. Nope, he doesn't coddle you - he respects. But reverently. As if he were holding a glass star in his hands.

Yudhishthira is a philosopher. And in you he has found confirmation of his deepest convictions. You are not a warrior. Not a queen. You do not demand honors. But when you are silent, everyone falls silent. When you smile, even Vyasa notices. He considers your small stature a spiritual reminder of the great truth that "true power is not in loudness."

He's tall, and you're almost like a girl next to him. But more than once he froze when he saw you stretching out your hands, trying to get something from the shelf, biting your lip. Sometimes he pretends not to notice - only to see you snorting in concentration and muttering under your breath. And then he comes up to you silently, takes out a book, puts it in your palms and whispers: "If I am tall, it is only to lower the sky into your hands."

When he holds your hand, his palm almost completely covers yours. When you walk next to him, he wants to slow down so that you don’t get tired. But most of all, he loves it when you are together at night, and you sleep, pressed against his shoulder. He looks at your face and feels such a scale of love that it seems that you are not less, but more than the whole world. He feels: the smaller you are on the outside, the deeper he sinks into you.

Nakul, who is usually heart stealer, notices it the first time you stand beside him — not as a fact, but as a feeling. The way you pause before stepping into a hall full of taller people. The way your shoulders draw just a little closer together, a gesture no one else would read — but Nakula does. He, who understands the flick of a horse’s ear and the slight tremble in its flank, knows what unspoken discomfort looks like. But more than that, he knows what dignity looks like in a quiet body.

Nakul doesn’t tower over you — he folds himself around you. In court, his arm naturally hovers behind your back when you walk. Not possessively. Protectively. Not because you need shielding, but because he’s always aware of your presence like he’s aware of his breath — constant, unspoken, sacred. He just want protect you from bullying

Nakul never makes your height a point of charm. He never reduces you to something "cute." He doesn’t say you’re small. He says you are closer to the earth, closer to the stillness he has always craved. To him, your body is not something to laugh at or lift — it is a place of safety, one he returns to in silence. You feel this in the way he sits beside you in the gardens. While others lounge in loud circles, he sits lower, just so your knees touch. He doesn’t reach for your hand — he lets your hand find his, like leaves finding water.

There are moments when the difference in height becomes tender. You reach for a scroll on the highest shelf in your shared chamber. You stretch, rising on your toes, determined not to call him. But before you can grasp it, you feel it — a warm chest at your back, a careful hand over yours, and a second of stillness before he reaches up and places the scroll in your hand. No teasing. No smirk. Just his hand remaining on your back for a moment too long. A silent reassurance that he saw you try. That he respects the trying. Nakula never interrupts your strength. He simply makes room for it.

And in the rare moments of war, when chaos erupts and battle cries fill the sky, Nakula searches for you in the aftermath — not because he doubts your survival, but because he cannot breathe fully until he sees the top of your head weaving through the crowd, smaller than the rest, but utterly unshaken. He watches you as others pass you by, tall and armored and loud — and there you are, your eyes scanning, your feet sure, your voice steady. It strikes him that you were never the small one. Just the underrated one. And gods — he loves you for it. Not in a showy, possessive way. But in the way a quiet man loves something rare: deeply, daily, without pause.

In conclusion, Nakul actually doesn't care about your height too much. He is gentleman, who never dare judge woman by their appearance. On the other hand, it will make you feel special. He saw many short women, but you...you are so petite, like a precious gem for him. (WTF, why with him is too different and long 😭😭😭)

Sahadeva doesn’t see the world the way others do. Where others see a person’s stature, he sees their aura. Where others measure in centimeters and weight, he measures in presence, vibration, the silence someone carries in a loud world. Yes, he notices you are short. Your feet barely brush the ground when you sit in the larger court chairs. You sometimes rise on your toes to meet his eyes. But to him, it’s just a part of the geometry of you — like the shape of your shadow in late afternoon, or the way your voice drops when you speak earnestly.

Like a Yudhishthira, Sahadev is not type of person, who judge someone by looks. The quote "Don't judge a book by its cover" This is directly about him.

He does not hover. Sahadeva is not loud in his love, nor does he fuss. But when he walks beside you, his steps slow to your rhythm without needing to be asked. He positions himself just a little to the side and back — so no stranger bumps into you in a crowded corridor. He knows you would not like him drawing attention to your size. So he learns to shield you without drawing the curtain too close. He stands like a wall when needed, and vanishes like mist when you need space. No fanfare. No possessiveness. Just quiet devotion in small movements.

Sahadeva, born of the Ashwini twins — celestial physicians — was always a bit otherworldly himself. But you — you are grounded. Not heavy, never. Just rooted, like the kinds of plants that heal from the soil upward. You remind him of the kind of wisdom that doesn’t shout, doesn’t rise high, but instead sinks deep into the bones. He finds it beautiful that he can look down and see the crown of your head, always brushing near his chest — it reminds him of how fragile people forget beauty can be.

A visiting courtier chuckles one day and says: “Your wife is so small, Sahadeva — you must fear stepping on her in sleep.” The laughter is shallow. Meaningless. But you lower your gaze. Sahadeva says nothing at first. Just looks — calmly, directly, and a little too long. The man grows quiet. Later, in private, Sahadeva places his hand over yours and says, only once: “You are not small. They are just blind.”

Sahadev carves you steps near your favorite reading bench so you can reach every shelf. He re-saddles your horse to fit your legs better. He orders the garden redesigned with paths that suit your natural stride. He doesn’t ask permission. He simply learns you — and changes the world around you to match your needs, never expecting you to rise or stretch just to fit someone else’s design. And when you ask why — why go through such effort — he answers, without looking up from his scroll: “Because loving you should never require climbing.”

Karna knows what it is to be exposed. To be unshielded in a world of cruel eyes and harsh truths. So when you walk beside him — barely reaching his chest, your hands delicate against his larger frame — something inside him goes still. He knows you are strong. He would never doubt that. But your smallness tugs at a place deep in him — the place that still remembers being a child abandoned in a basket. A boy mocked in a field. A warrior stripped of every gift. “No one will ever make her feel small in the way I did,” he swears. “Not while I still breathe.” So he becomes your shield — in every quiet way. Not just in battle. But in rooms full of prideful men. In silences. In cold evening.

People sometimes tease, for example some Kauravas. Sometimes they laugh: "She’s tiny beside you, Karna! How do you not crush her in your arms?" Karna never laughs. He smiles — once — a thin, unreadable curve of the mouth. But later, in the privacy of your chambers, he cups your cheek and says: “They don’t know what it’s like to hold the entire world in such a small frame.”He sees you not as less — but as concentrated beauty. A flame. A jewel. Something small enough to hold, and too precious to lose. Don't worry, he would deal with those Kauravas who dared insult you.

Karna is a warrior born in fire. But with you, he unlearns sharpness. He is endlessly gentle with you — not because you are weak, but because you are loved. He lowers his voice. He loosens his grip. His rough hands — hands that have broken bones and drawn bows heavier than oxen — learn to trace your wrist like it might bruise. When you nestle against him at night, so much smaller and lighter than the armor he wears by day, he wraps you in his arms and holds you like a prayer. He is not one who speak much. But when you place your head against his heart, you hear it beat softer. Slower. Peaceful. You make him human again.

He often helps you, even if you don't ask him. It's his instincts to help someone. You can’t reach the higher spice shelf? He’s already beside you, handing it down. The chariot step is too high? He lifts you like you weigh nothing. You yawn mid-conversation? He’s tucking your feet onto his lap before you can protest. And when you scowl and say: “You don’t have to treat me like a doll!” He leans down — slowly, intimately — and murmurs: “But you’re my doll. Mine to wrap in silk. Mine to protect. Mine to love.” There is no arrogance. Just possession wrapped in devotion.

Karna knows how people see others who don’t meet their standards. He’s been called low-born. You might be called tiny, delicate, childish. He hears it. He hates it. And sometimes, lying beside you after a long day, his hands stroking your back, he says — voice quiet: “I wish I could give you a world that never made you feel small for anything.” You tell him you’re happy. You’re strong. You don’t mind. And he believes you. But still — he vows silently, fiercely, that your strength will never again be questioned. Especially not because of how your body was shaped. (Please, Take care of this boy... He loves you so much)

To Karna, your size means he gets to carry love in his arms — literally. When you’re tired, he lifts you. When the rain starts, he wraps you in his cloak and carries you home. When you’re upset, he draws you into his lap and lets your forehead rest against his collarbone. He kisses the top of your head and says, “This is the one thing the gods gave me I will never let go of.” Because he has lost so much. His rank. His armor. His birth right. But you, so small and soft in his arms — you are the one thing he can hold onto. And in that — he finally feels like he has something the world can’t take from him.... So in conclusion, Karna like Sahadev, Nakul and Yudhishthira doesn't care about height or some your imperfections, for him, you already enought. Whatever you are overweight, thin, short, tall and etc, he loves your kind, loyal and honest personality.

Despite he is proud, arrogant, he would treat you like his Queen. Never allow anyone to look down on her — especially if she’s small, soft, or underestimated. Duryodhana doesn't see your small stature as something to be excused or overlooked. He sees it as his privilege — that he, and no one else, is allowed to stand tall beside you, to kneel to meet your eyes, to carry you when the world is unkind. And gods, he does carry you — both literally and in spirit. You’re small? Good. That means he can wrap his arm fully around you, shield you from everything. “Let them talk,” he says. “Their wives walk behind them. Mine fits beside my heart.”

Court ladies giggle. A minister comments on how dainty you are. A rival prince raises a brow and says, “So this is the wife of Duryodhana?” Duryodhana goes silent. That terrifying silence that rolls across the room like thunder before a storm. He becomes feral if anyone mocks you — even playfully. “Say it again.” He grabbed his neck. “Say it in front of her. And in front of your gods.” He doesn’t care that you’re short. He cares that anyone dared imply you are less. And after that moment, no one ever dares again.

Not control over you. But control over his own temper. His own chaos. When you walk together, he always rests his hand on your lower back or waist. Because feeling how small you are — how easily he could lift you, protect you, lose you — grounds him. The world may think he rules by force. But you, tiny and defiant at his side, are the only one who tames his rage without a single word. You ask, “Why do you always hold me like I’ll vanish?” He answers, “Because I’ve lost too many things I didn’t protect fast enough.”

During festivals, when music plays and the other queens dance, you hesitate. Everyone else is tall, graceful — and you, small and unsure, try to fade back. Duryodhana sees it. And in front of the entire court, he simply extends his hand, pulls you forward, and places your feet on top of his own. He sways with you slowly, gently. No one laughs. No one even breathes. Because Duryodhana, the man who commands armies — is smiling like a boy who just got his heart back.

He customizes everything for you — jewelry, weapons, even palace steps. Being short in a world of warriors and queens isn’t easy. So Duryodhana makes sure it becomes easy for you. Your throne is carved lower, so your feet don’t dangle. Your weapons are light, small, but deadly. Your jewelry never slips off. Even the chariot step is lowered for you — by royal order. You protest: “I can manage without all this—” He shuts you up with a look. “You’re mine. That means you don’t manage — you rule.”

For him, your size is the sweetest cruelty — because he knows how fragile the world is. Duryodhana is haunted by loss. By rejection. By love unreturned. So when he holds you — your arms barely reaching around him, your face tucked against his chest, your fingers too small to hold a sword — he aches. Not because you’re weak. But because you are precious. And he has never been allowed to keep precious things. So he holds you tighter. Softer. Longer. “The world may see you as small,” he whispers once, his voice cracking. “But to me… you’re the only thing large enough to make this life feel like it mattered.”

AND I GOT ONE OF THE HIGHEST MARK FOR IT IN MY YEAR and mind you ppl in my college r smart asf in English like the average for English is 60 💔💔

Ima put the story here and yall can read it here:

FLUTIST IN KAMATHIPURA

“O Vasudeva, O Krishna, O Dwarkadeshwar, O beloved of Lakshmi, O all-pervading Vishnu! I Draupadi,Queen of Hastinapur, the daughter of King Draupad, am being stripped bare before all! Save me from this ocean of humiliation! I surrender myself to your lotus feet, protect me from this indignified court!”

Panchali jolts awake. The prayer tattooed into her despondent heart. The sun was brightly shining through the wrecked curtains, filling the forlorn room with life.

In Kamathipura, women like her live in half daydreams, where the night was the essence for men, whose eyes reeked of hunger and unspent desire.

It was her job to be a piece of meat for such. But her life wasn’t always like this.

She was a big dreamer of movies, the Mahabharata which often played in her grandparents house, but one flutist stole her heart, Krishna.

“Panchali, he is the master of all, he is mine as he is yours equally, always love him as your own, and never give your faith up. Then he is bound to come.”

The wise words from her grandma crept its way into her soul. Life went on, many said she was a blessing from the goddess of knowledge herself. But who would have known? Her own family gave her up for the pleasure of money. They informed her saying she was going to Mumbai to enchant the world from their screens but in reality, something rather sinful…

She was presented in the gloomy environment of Kamathipur. Each step weighed her heart down. There were men everywhere, their gaze of a hunter, ready to attack their prey. Lips curled, fingers tapping against glass. Her soul was screaming to turn back and never return. The panic surged within her, but it all went dark.

“PANCHALI! Are you awake or want me to come?”

It was her madam’s voice, the one in charge of the Kotha. With a sigh she rose from the creaky bed, knowing there is no point reminiscing about the past. She made her way into the bathroom since she had ‘work’ to get ready for.

She started to prepare herself, the prey which was ready to be swallowed by the brutes. The reflection shesaw broke her, there were bite marks from the previous animals, bruises from her madam and worst of all a scar which left a deep dent not just in her body, but soul.

It was one particular night, the screams and pleas for mercy, which haunted the walls and Kamathipur.

Screams were piercing around the Kotha, other girls trembling in fear praying for their Panchali, and to never face a beast of such. Even the madam was agitated.

This one was different, he wasn’t binded by pleasure. He craved power. His eyes were full of cruelty and the greed for dominance, he was similar to demons she heard as a kid .

“Oh my lovely Panchali, are you scared? Don’t worry, I will end it soon..”

He said with a sinful smirk across his displeasing complexion. The animal wrapped his claws around her long locks, and pulled it with full force and threw her across the room. There was blood everywhere, the stickiness of blood flowed between her legs, a feeling which was sharper than any blade.

“O Krishna, where are you now?”

She whispered like the small breeze of a wind.

From the monsoon of her eyes, she saw it wasn’t Kamathipur anymore. It was the courts of Hastinapur and a dark haired woman being dragged across it.

“DUSSASANA, you have NO right over me, Yudishitira had already bet himself before me, so NOBODY owns me but myself!”

“SHUT YOUR MOUTH! You're nothing but a property of Duryodhana!

Just then Karna, son of Surya (sun) spoke up.

“Shut your mouth, you have been wedded to 5 men like a courtesan, so whether you are clothed or not should not be an issue, DUSSASANA disrobe her now!”

Queen Draupadi, the one who emerged from the flames was now being stripped bare in front of a court of men.

The end of her bloody saree, was tugged and pulled by the notorious Dussasana.

The Queen thought she lost everything until she remembered one person, Krishna.

“O Krishna, O all-prevading Vishnu! Protect me from this undignified court of the Kuravas!”

A bright light shimmed in above them all, there he was in all his glory, his dark monsoon skin reflecting

brightly, as he had the same bloody saree of Draupadi which flowed limitless like the holy river of Ganga.

A regal voice spoke out,

“O Draupadi, my Panchali do not be afraid, as I’m omnipresent, always there to love and protect you mylove…”

Panchali, and Druapadi’s cries echoed through the courts of Hastinapur, and the vile streets of Kamathipur not from pain but gratitude of his mercy.

The light which was blinded by the rage of injustice was now calm. It wasn’t the courts of Hastinapur,

Panchali was back in the gloomy Kamathipura.

“W-what happen-”

Before she could process she saw him, the same monster now laying eyes wide and lifeless.

She was no longer bare, wrapped in the same bloody saree which acted as a warm embrace and armor.

A sweet song of a flute ran through her ears, a peacock feather danced its way on her lap.

“PANCHALI, don’t make me call you again”

Startled from the sudden rage, it was the untuned voice of her madam. She snapped from her thoughts once again, and hurried.

Many in the Kotha were surprised that someone still wanted to see Panchali.

She grew quite a reputation from the town, the same animal who dared to lay hands on her was found outside the kotha with the same wide eyes, and no life.

Some said it was the beast's karma, others; divine intervention.

The same roaring lions of Kamathipura, were now mere kittens wandering away from all Kotha in the city.

She made her way out, this time not fear clouding her senses but protection and love.

As she made her way into the room, she was shocked at her sight…

The very same timeless, divine presence she knew she could never mistake. It was man, who possessed beauty beyond comprehension of the 3 worlds. He was tall and strongly built, his lotus face full of love, but mischief. The light reflecting off his monsoon coloured skin creating a majestic blue hue off him. It was beauty itself, and no man could hold such divinity except one.

He spoke out with a voice so sweet and regal, “My love Panchali, ready to be freed?”

————-

So that’s it, but yuhhh I LVOE writing a lot like abt him yk, so maybe ima also post fics of him but ye everytime we have a creative I always make it abt him so yuhhh

Train to Vrindavan (completed)

Ch: 1 Ch: 2 Ch: 3 Ch: 4

Bhaishmi and her cousins are on a trip to the temple towns of Vrindavan and Mathura to celebrate Holi, the festival of colours. Straight out of a bollywood fantasy of every hopeless romantic where one meets a nice stranger and they fall in love, Bhaishmi here meets a charismatic curly haired boy on the train who plays a flute and has eyes that twinkle just like stars.

After a playful game of Antakshari where tiny sparks have erupted between the two, would the prime bollywood fantasy come true or they part ways after moving to their respective destinations?

Braj ki Holi (completed)

Ch: 1 Ch: 2 Ch: 3 Ch: 4 Ch: 5 Epilogue

The two groups of cousins are in town for Holi. The flute boy and Bhaishmi are perhaps more than friends now it seems? No? Tune in to see it for yourself.

A tale of young first love and friendship and a trip around the famous temples of Vrindavan and Mathura. Friendly banters, playful flirtations and stolen moments.... Something is brewing between Krishna and Bhaishmi, but does their story get their happy ending or will they part again forever with memories of beautiful festival of colours and love?

Adharam Madhuram (oneshot)

Pov of a gopi who is now old and has a young adolescent daughter. The daughter finds out some letters hidden under her mother's sarees addressing a boy called Krishna. She wonders who this boy was and asks her mother who now sits like a statue when she hears her daughter take his name.

Krishna. The boy with beautiful lips and an enchanting face, who had entranced everyone in Vrindavan. And just like all enchanting things that fade away in time, the darling of Vrindavan left the town, left his friends and his beloved gopis.

This story belongs to one of those gopis who loved him dearly, and remained in hopes of just one last glimpse and just one letter.

Vivah Bandhan

Prologue Ch: 1 Ch: 2 Ch: 3 Ch: 4

Mathura Nagarpati (oneshot)

Not all promises are kept, not even by the Gods. He has come back to fulfill his promise to one friend if not the whole of his village and to all those who until their dying breath carried hope -- that someday their darling child, their best friend, would come back.

Time has never stopped for anyone. The maiden, now old was living her life well with her family and children until she sees a familiar feather dance on top of her head.

Is he really back?