#desi!reader

[the-whispers-of-death]

Bartender!Reader

This is a masterlist of all of the Bartender!Reader Drabbles. The reader is gender neutral and with Simon "Ghost" Riley.

Pretending to Be Ghost's Partner

Ghost Scaring Away a Flirty Regular

This may not be a completed list (it may be expanded upon)!

[winterrrnight]

soft!rafe cameron x desi!kook!reader 🪷🛺🪔🧺📿🫖🕯️

she’s new to the outer banks, and her desi culture is what intrigued rafe the most; something which he has never had the chance of being familiar with. with time, he falls for her deeply, and finds himself with a burning desire to explore her background more, allowing himself to immerse in the desi culture more and more. <3

(desi!reader is so incredibly underrated!)

[jester-lover]

Hiya! Saw that you had three request slots open so I thought I'd give it a go (if they aren't open anymore or you already got other requests ignore this)

I was wondering if I could request a twisted wonderland fic where the characters see the reader in traditional desi clothes for the first time, I'm not sure if you have a specific character limit so I'll just ask for Idia, Azul and Malleus. Ignore this if this goes against anything, thank you! ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ♡

I couldn't find the shirt for my favorite Lehenga, so I accepted this request to cheer me up, also, my character limit is 5-10 depending on the size and detail of the request. I'll do all the characters here bc I like this request.

contains- fem! reader, fluff, mentions of insecurity

Dorm Leaders Seeing Their S/O in Traditional Desi Clothes for the First Time

Riddle

Riddle is such a blushy boy whenever he sees you in your traditional clothing

His first instinct is to put his red face in his hands and tell you how pretty you look, even though his vision is horrifically obscured

His favorite on you is definitely something red and gold, a lehenga would destroy this man

After he’s done freaking out, he’s literally so honored to be standing next to you, he’s so proud to have a pretty girl on his side

Carries around several safety pins, to keep you looking (and feeling)  your best

“You’ve blown away all my expectations, just- just give me a second to um, recuperate.”

Leona

YES

You just look so powerful in traditional clothing, and he loves powerful women

If you ever get up to dance, he’s definitely in the back, holding your purse bc he's respectful like that

Leona is happy no matter what you're wearing, but golden or saffron toned clothes just make him smile

Will you see that smile? Probably not.

“Do you need me to hold anything? I've got pockets.”

Azul

He has the most shy deposition around you whenever you're dressed up!

Cannot look you in the eyes

If you're wearing SILVER?? Just put him in a coffin already because he’s GONE

Will be holding your hand for the entire party, refuses to admit he’s jealous

Honestly who wouldn't be, you look perfect!!

Definitely the type to wear a kurta alongside you (if you feel like dressing him up)

Azul cannot dance for the life of him, he will be at all the family functions eating all the pakoras

“Look, we match! Now nobody will think I’m single!”

Kalim

He has the sweetest smile on his face

(Aladdin is a mishmash of so many cultures, and desi cultures are one of them, so I assume he’s seen traditional clothing before)

Something about you in your sweet, flowing traditional clothing opens a domestic hole in his heart

He already wants you as a wife, but seeing you in clothing he’s used to seeing on the women back home is probably the final curtain

You own his heart, everything that is his is yours

(politely ask him to wait a couple years before popping the question)

“Would you prefer an evening wedding or a morning one?”

Vil

For once in his life, he genuinely can't find anything to complain about

Vil is so giddy at the thought of doing your makeup, or draping your dupatta, but you will never see that on his face

You will look so good with this man istg

Makeup? Matching the clothes. The clothes? Impeccable.

You will catch him reaching for more traditional clothing if you ever ask him for fashion suggestions

“The lipstick needs to be berry toned to match the rest of your clothing, and perhaps, to match mine.”

Idia

Man is resetting

He’s doing the people equivalent of blue screening

THIS MAN CANNOT LOOK YOU IN THE EYES (because of how pretty you look!!)

He’s highkey questioning how tf you wanted him in the first place, you have to remind him he’s a cutie too!

He’s definitely not going to whatever event you've gotten all dolled up for, but he’s hyped in your behalf

He's like super rich, so he’s definitely getting you more clothes, tailor made and all

“You, you look, uh, really nice..”  

Malleus

Oh he’s def thinking about locking you up in a tower somewhere as we speak

JK!!!! (probably)

My boy is so obsessed with you, he’s tailing behind you at whatever event you're at (assuming for once he's invited) just staring at how pretty you look

This is the dramatic boy who would carry you if you got tired dragging along all that heavy clothing

Also holding on to you, making sure you don’t trip by accident

“Please wear this again, you look radiant.”

[livesinfantasyland]

The one where ** The Wife is a Serial Killer **

Inspired by a song from the movie "7 Khoon Maaf" which is based on the book "Susanna's Seven Husbands" by Ruskin Bond.

We are 4 husbands short of 7 but the idea came from this song👇

Poisoned Wine for Charles Brandon

Kryptonite Knife for Clark Kent

Loaded Gun for August Walker

Ps- I made this one a long-long time ago but never bothered to post it until now. The idea for this mood board was way too hilarious and twisted for me to just ignore it.

More Mood Boards

[milknhonies]

Sir Sherlock Holmes & The Indian Princess

शर्लक बाबू और भारतीय राजकुमारी

Chapter 1 || Masterlist || Chapter 2

Chapter Summary: In England, Sherlock Holmes receives an alarm letter from his dear friend Doctor John Watson. In Delhi, You don't mind being a teacher, but with new building plans, you reflect on your circumstances and opportunities.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x Desi!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Slow burn, generational trauma, colonisation, implied murder, death of a parent, classism & caste.

Word Count: 6k

Author Notes:

★ Everything written in bold is being said in Hindustani

★The Reader character goes by the last name Newalkar and is the daughter of Damodar Rao Newalkar → the adopted son of Rani Laxmibai. I must advise this story is pure fiction but based in the occupation of the British Raj that invaded and Colonised India.

★I am a White European/Australian woman, I apologise for any cultural or historical inaccuracies. I am receiving help from online sources and desi Tumblr mutual @livesinfantasyland and I heavily encourage other Indian/South Asian/Desi readers to share their thoughts, constructive criticism and help as I write this story.

Inspiring Song: "Paint it Black" by Ciara

11:35pm Thursday 26th June 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

This story begins and ends with the sound of rain.

Tink!

The roof had begun a leak. And when this leak came to play it had a habit of landing directly on the head of a disgruntled and lonely fellow.  The greatest detective in London who could not find a friend. Granted I must inform you, Mr Sherlock Holmes did in fact have some friends, but by misfortunes, none were presently in the country.

Tink!

He angrily sighed. Another drop of rain hit his head.

He launched from his arm chair and grumbling moved an empty teapot to sit on the cushion he previously sat. The drops thus made a small tinkling as they landed inside the empty pot.

Plonk!

He rubbed his eyes and checked the time on the mantle piece clock. He had lost weeks of his life. Hours squeezed down to into unknown days or months, he could not tell. It did not help how he consistently drew the curtains closed to design total darkness other than the fireplace and his candles to light up his home.

A light shiver ran up his spine. The weather was dangerously cold today. His fingertips upon inspection grew from pale white to a dark pink.

Plonk!

He wandered if perhaps it was time to have a holiday in sunny Spain.

A knock on his door broke his imagined vacation like a hammer to glass.

His pesky landlady Mrs Hudson intruded on his stuffy dust filled space. She grumbled nonsense about the filth of her apartment she’s rented out to the famous Detective before handing him a thick envelope.

Plonk!

And the moment he could see and recognised the handwriting he snatched the Letter from her wrinkly fingers and banished her with a bellowing shout. The woman fluttered out and muttered her further disgusts of his treatment.

Plonk!

But Sherlock did not care for her opinion or rather anyone’s for that matter, Sherlock only cares about the stamp he tore opened the parchment he eagerly unfolded.

John Watson. Doctor, soldier and dear friend. He was Sherlock’s greatest companion to note. He had never felt such brotherly love until he met the very man seeking a roommate here in baker street.

Doctor and detective used to comb London for clues to solve crimes and very noticeably took an interest at the sports of pleasure. The luxurious brothels of London welcomed him and his friend with open arms and spread legs. Doctor Watson was the easy victim of sex while Sherlock was one to enjoy his opium pipe and watch his friend succumb to the mouths of half-pound harlots.

And among these adventures of interesting women did the doctor find himself in a savage tussle with another jealous male patron...

Sherlock recalled the evening with mirth. His dear friend, brother in arms had been pummelled to a pulp and drunk as a daisy. So when Sherlock escorted him to a hospital, the imbecile had declared that he was doctor of the ward and did not need any stitches. It is a grand thing perhaps Doctor Watson could not fathom the memory of yelling too proudly that his medicine could be only found in the elixir of a woman’s warm cunny.

His nurse, a dirty bird at heart had giggled at this...that nurses name was Mary Mortenson. And she became the very enamoured Mrs Mary Watson.

Sherlock was not fond of his friend becoming so besotted with his bride. He tolerated the woman’s presences at best. Unspokenly, the detective saw competition to gain the doctors attention and it was becoming far too obvious that Mrs Watson would win. Every. Single. Time.

After a month of young love the married pair had decided their honey-moon should be experienced back in John’s birth land...Delhi, a city in India. Mary was to meet the senior Mr and Mrs Watson. Coincidently, the English rose was not averse to the foreign lands…she so happened to have been born in Agra. Happy and married, they boarded and sailed across the sea.

Sherlock had high hopes their ship would run scarce of supplies so they might return quickly. He missed his dear friend and even his annoying wife.

The letter in between if thumbs and fingers were the first words from them he had gotten in nearly three months. The letter read as followed...

“Dear Sherlock,

Mary and I have come to my home I grew up in as a boy. I was blessed with my parents merry welcome. However, unfortunate circumstances have designed two coffins. For merely a week into our visit my beloved parents have passed. I have yet to decide whether to bury them in the English tradition or burn them in the Hindi ritual. My predicted return back to Baker Street may appear futile and non-existent. Please. Come visit us as soon as it is convenient.

13, 25, 27, 16, 1, 18, 5, 14, 20, 19, 27, 8, 23, 5, 27, 2, 5, 5, 14, 27, 13, 21, 18, 4, 5, 18, 5, 4.

Your sincere faithful friend, Doctor John H. Watson.”

Plonk!

Sherlock’s eyes raced over the page, and cupped his mouth staring at the plethora of numbers. They were not any numbers. John was a simple man, he wasn’t the smartest being but Sherlock appreciated his humble attitudes, he liked the doctor admitting he wasn’t a world genius, just a man who knew his medicines.

So when an enigmatic set of numbers was written at random Sherlock thought of the most simplistic cypher.

For every number was a letter. 1 being A and 26 being Z, leaving 27 to be a space between a word.

His brows lifted. The message was clear and alarming.

Plonk!

“My Parents Have Been Murdered.”

He determined his dear doctor had written this cryptic message under the desire of secrecy. His eyes lit up. It meant John needed Sherlock’s help. A case. Something was amiss. John did not know the killers name. If he did, he would’ve written it or not bothered to write asking Sherlock to visit at all.

He couldn’t have run faster to his rooms to start backing as soon as possible.

Plonk!

Sherlock Holmes had know idea what he was going to find in a land he had only heard stories from Watson’s childhood. He was eager to see his friend, to help him and to finally have an adventure.

01:35pm Friday 11th July 1890, Anglo Arabic Secondary School, Desh Bandhu Gupta Rd, Ajmeri Gate, Delhi.

You dragged the piece of white chalk across a black board and sketched a simple phrase in the English language. You smiled to the young faces that filled the room, sitting in long benches and desks. Their eyes wide and curious, eager to learn.

You waved your hands, “Now, clean your chalk slates students, you are going to learn how to spell good afternoon in English.”

They wipe them down with their small damp clothes and tucked them away in the groove at the top of their slanted desk. You waited patiently until they all sat with their hands resting flat on the wooden desks, mouths shut, eyes seeking knowledge.

You underlined each letter of the first word, “Gee, ouw, ouw, dee, this spells ‘Good’ and now ‘Afternoon’ is Aya, eff, tee, Ee, Ara, eynnn, ouw, ouw, eynn.”

The young boys sounded it out with you. Their sweet pubescent voices unionised. You smiled. They were so advanced at such a young age, most of the boys had come from average and wealthy families that could afford them to come to such a fine school. Many were Muslim, others Hindu, it was a good sign of peace. The youth coming together despite their differences. And on odd days you would teach the white children, boys and girls of British and French families who wanted their children to learn Hindi, Arabic and Urdu.

You didn’t mind teaching white children, some of the boys could be very disrespectful but you gathered it was behaviour picked up from their arrogant fathers. It wasn’t the young boys who had pillaged these lands, it was their fathers and grandfathers.

“The gee,” you circled the G, “Remember in English is also pronounced like Guh and,” you tapped the double o’s, “Ouw ouw in english together when two is said ‘oooowa’. Followed by dee being said as Dah. So, let’s say it together?”

You dragged a white line under the word and sounded it out with your students.

“Guh-oooow-dah.”

You smiled.

You repeated, “Good.”

“Now let’s look at the word ‘afternoon’,” you announced.

You cleaned the board and looked back at your students. One of the little boys who sat in the front was rubbing his eyes. You smiled softly. He was only six years old. His older brother, a young man now would most likely be the one to collect his brother from school and carry him sleeping back home. You looked at the bell tower just outside the window. It was nearly time for your students to go home and you to return back to your lodgings.

“Aye and eff is said as AAaff, then tee is a quick Tuh! And what is Ee and Arrra sound together children?”

“Errr,” they all purred.

You sounded out half of the word with them, “Aafftuherrr.”

You rubbed your chalk dust covered fingers together and further explained as you pointed to each important letter, “eynnn makes a Na, sound. And we just practiced double ouw, so sound it out.”

Like a symphony of speech, you all said together, “Guh-oooow-dah Aafftuherrr, Na-ooow-na. Good Afternoon.”

The deep bowing clang of the bells outside rang through the yard and open window shutters. The children looked eager to leave. Their hands were readily holding their slates, ready to put them inside the empty wooden box in the corner of the classroom where they kept all their slates and dusters and the bucket for where they kept their chalk.

“Good afternoon students,” You bided.

“Good afternoon Teacher Madam,” They called back.

“You may go back home now. Practise your English alphabet song.”

The boys were fast as rabbits, leaping from their desks and fleeing the classroom out the hall and down the stairs. But some at least saluted you as they left. It was a habit they’d picked up from the white boys who saluted their male teachers. You smiled to yourself as you waved them out. Each left with beaming smiles and playful chatter among themselves.

As you went about sweeping the floor after wiping the chalk from the board, you wondered if you should go to the temple and pray for your students successful education or if you should consider washing your clothing today. It had been very dry today, any moment and you knew the wet season and humid rain would arrive to flood the streets clean of dust and fill the forests with life of green goodness.

As you put away the English education books on the small shelves by the door, a familiar face came rushing in, flushed and excited

If it wasn’t her jingling anklet and bangle that announced her To your classroom, it was her shrill cry of your name that did.  

“Y/N! Quick!” Miss Anjuli Paraiyars exclaimed, “You need to come with me.”

Her dark ink hair was peaking out from her sun patterned veil. The wispy curls stuck to her sweaty forehead and framed her dazzling walnut eyes. They were flooded with mischief that matched her biting lip. Her brows wriggled lightly.

Placing the last book onto the shelf you turned to acknowledge your dear friend.

“Anjuli,” you happily sighed, “Whatever is the matter?”

She waved her hands about, hoping to quicken you along and out the door, “It is the Watson son, Doctor Watson, he wants to speak with you with important news.”

Your eyes widened. ‘What on earth does that poor soul wish to say to me? After the death of the good Mr and Mrs Watson, I would assume he was still in mourning, why would he call upon me?’

Following your friend outside into the scorching sun, you lifted your saree over your head. She had her family Ox and cart waiting outside the school gates.

“What important news Anjuli?” You said a little standoffishly.

“He’s offering you a job,” She said giddily. She climbed up into the cart and leant down offering her hand to you.  Once in the cart side by side she sighed, “That’s all he would tell me,” She grabbed the reigns and cane and tapped the Ox to start moving out onto the dirt road, “But we all know how very generous he can be like his dear parents.”

Anjuli was right. The late Victoria and Hamish Watson’s were angelic to the local community. Victoria had been the very soul to teach your late mother English and she was the one to encourage you to attain education enough to become one of the very few first female Indian teachers. She was a well known philanthropist, often aiding the sick and homeless and funding the Indian hospitals. Hamish was a local accountant, financial advisor and lawyer. He was known to be good to the children particularly. He would often hand out sweets as he walked down the street with his briefcase bag. He often aided the locals find new homes when the British planned to evict them and replace white families in their place. The English couple had lived in the country for many decades, long before you were even born. They spoke fluently enough and mimicked the culture so well that you could’ve believed they were born here themselves.

You sat back and nodded, “May their souls attain moksha.”

02:45pm Friday 11th July 1890, Willingdon Crescent, Central Ridge Forest, Delhi, India.

The sun baked down on the streets of Dehli. The Ox cart rolled along, it’s tail flicking the flies circling it’s flank every so often.

You pinches your saree scarf and covered your face before a bug could fly into your mouth.

Anjuli had to hold the reigns and cane, she leant closer to you and giggled as she nodded to the khaki covered soldiers. Walking by in many small groups.

Anjuli had a terrible habit, she fell in love too easily. For some ungodly reason Anjuli admired the foreigners that had come so long ago and invaded your beautiful country. Maybe she liked how different they looked. The flaxen hair and ice blue gazes in the faces of pale freaks were so opposite to the raven manes and hairy russet warmth of Indian men. It was erotic for her. You just didn't understand how she could so easily find infatuation with the people you considered an enemy, and so should she.

“Oh look at them,” she giggled girlishly.

You rolled your eyes, “I’m looking.” There was a timid strain in your voice. You had no real interest to entertain Anjuli’s fascination.

When Anjuli noticed how you in fact we’re not looking but rather looking ahead on the road path she playfully smacked your arm.

“Look!” She sucked her teeth and teasingly scolded, “Do you not know delight at the sight of men?” She reached forward and abruptly touched the front of your blouse, squeezing around for the softness of your breasts, “Are you sure you’re a full grown woman?” she smiled wickedly and prodded her finger in between your legs covered by your top petticoat.

You squeaked loudly and batted her hand. She howled with laughter and kept giggling even as you scowled at her beneath your veil.

You turned your head away from her and scoffed, “I am not as easily swayed by British soldiers. They look so sickly as pale as they are,” your nose wrinkled, “How could I righteously take a husband in front of beloved Lakshmi and her Vishnu when they look like they tempt Yama too take them at any moment?”

Your friend rolled her eyes, “Oh nonsense,” she tapped your hand and waved her fingers into a crowd of soldiers, “See there that one, his hair the colour of wheat, he is a handsome man. He would make a fine husband.”

And as the cart rolled passed, you couldn’t help gag at the smell of the same man Anjuli proclaimed would make a fine husband.

‘A fine swine perhaps. Many sow in heat could come trotting to him from miles with such a putrid scent.’

Your head wobbled and your flat palm waved at her, “A husbands good qualities are not to stand on his appearance alone. One day he will grow old, fat, bald and ugly.”

A long dragging sigh came out from the woman beside you. She managed to move both reigns into one hand and playfully tugged your saree away from your face

“You’re no fun, come on,” she jerked her chin out to the same street as the ox was about to pass another group, “Tell me you don’t find any of them a little attractive?”

You stared at the oncoming group and now sucked your teeth. You crudely stated, “They’d be far more attractive if they left. Went back to their lands, leave our villages and the people of Bharat in peace.”

Anjuli stared blankly at you. Before she could pinch and prod you again you relented and noticed one of the men in the crowd so different from the others.

He was tall, his hair a dark chestnut that matched the shade of his suit. His face was bare and clean in comparison to the soldiers who all adorned moustaches and muttonchop beards on their faces. He was carrying a rather large brief case and walking stick.

“Fine...that one,” you nodded, “In the brown English clothes.”

“The one wearing a suit?” Anjuli snickered, “He’s not a soldier though?”

You giggled,“And it is for such a reason I find he is most handsome among them.”

You both gazed at him as the ox fully passed by. Anjuli smiled at you.

“He is rather tall. Strong. What do you think he does?” She asked, “Maybe he is a farmer, or a bricklayer?”

You shook your head. ‘No. He couldn’t be.’

“He dresses too finely. It is not their Christian Sunday Sabbath today. He probably is a rich businessman, with a wife and children.”

You looked back to the path as the dusty road became thicker in trees and travel further away from the street. You thought about that strangers wife, what she might look like, probably some English rose with a house full of servants at her command, surrounded by maids and wet nurses for her children. She would live in a grand house and hold soiree’s, welcoming guests from all around to celebrate life. She would have a massive library and a place of worship. It was the life you should’ve had, the life you were owed and denied merely by the changing events of history and the extinguish of your father’s birthright.

Your soft smile faded; you felt a twinge of repulsion mixed with a hint of anger. You’d think after all these years you would’ve chosen to forget this, ignore this, let go and accept your circumstances in this life.... You didn’t live with your father anymore who would remind you practically daily why not to trust the English or any white man, as if you didn’t witness their subjecting abuse and consistent disrespect.

Your eyes fluttered shut, you reached to your side and touched Anjuli’s wrist. She was your truest friend despite her differences and low status. Anjuli came from a Shudra family, and you? You were the daughter, the descendant of Brahims and Kshatriyas...now lowered to the Shudra caste class…You never knew the lavish life of the Jhansi palace, nor tasted the rich foods served on golden plates and surrounded by pretty creatures of the palace menagerie. You would never know the joys of running through the gardens with other children in the royal family.

Everyone was gone, everything was gone. All that was left was your father who scarcely remembered that life but shared all he remembered so his memories would live on through you and bring you hope that one day it would be yours. It was a cruel false hope…

Eighteen years ago, you had been born inside of a nice house in Indore to the daughter of a prestige painter Vasudeoraobhau Bhatavdekar. As far as you knew, your father loved your mother very much for the incredibly brief time that they were married. A rare jewel in beauty is how he described her often. A marriage of love and choice. Your father said she was softly spoken and obedient, but it was her unconditional love for him and his dreams that held his heart in appreciation.

It was by unfortunate command that she would fall ill to childbed fevers after you were born. After you…a girl...not a son. You were nothing in the eyes of the British raj and had no chance of being installed as an heir for any restoration…you were the last hope and failed before your first breath. And that was something you’d never forget.

For a small time, you were raised in that home and then it was decided by your father that you would learn English. His tutors were not available, so he cut your hair short and shipped you off to Delhi with your young uncle Save to the Anglo Arabic Secondary School…It did not take the teachers and headmaster long to discover you were a girl. Before you were to receive the beating of a lifetime it was Mr Hamish Watson who so happened to be accounting the school costs to save you. He took you to his wife who taught you English and then set you to live with his maid servants, Anjuli’s mother.

Your friend spoke after some time of silence, “Oh, I’m meant to tell you- My cousin Vijay sent word this morning, he’s seeking a wife. My mother wants me to ask if you’d like to meet him, a prospective match.”

Your lips curled into a sneer, “Isn’t he the one that use to tie our braids together in a knot during Diwali and chase us around the street making animal noises?”

You recalled a young teenage boy about five years your senior with a tooth gap and ruffled hair. He was so annoying, calling you names and bullying you by calling you fat and ugly. He was spoilt and rude. He mocked you when you told him you were a princess. He said you were a princess of pimple pox and nothing more. Oh how you remembered the way your blood boiled.

“We were children, he was playing, only a boy,” she smiled, “He’s a man now, studying to be a barrister in Bombay but he will be visiting in a few weeks to help us move.”

Ah yes, the dilemma you needed to find a solution too soon. It was a month ago that a letter had been nailed to the house door, it was an eviction commandment made by the British military and government. The Paraiyars family and you had to leave the home in Raisina hill, why? Because the British do what they like…building concrete monstrosities over beautiful land and demolishing the history of your people like it was worthless dust. Rumours spread about a grand governors palace was to be built there, but they couldn’t burn the village to ash with people living inside...well....at least not on their "morally good Christian conscious."

“Vijay I believe owns a cottage near the seaside. You could be his bride and live with him instead of moving back to Indore to your father.”

Moving back was not possible...not after his most recent letter.

“Father has…felt it improper for me to move back to Indore. He believes that my existence would cause me more harm than good under his jailers’ eyes…His pension he shares I give mostly to your mother for board. I have saved my wages, I am considering…moving to a boarding workhouse in Jhansi or Agra, but tell your mother I would like to greet Vijay when he arrives…”

You smirked looking down at your fingernails, “Lakshmi forbid I run out of money and need to resort to the ‘charity’ of Christians or to prostitution.”

Anjuli made a face, shaking her head and brushed her shoulder into yours, “You wrinkle your nose at every man, white, black or bronze,” she smiled cheekily, “I doubt you’d make a good prostitute.”

“Anjuli!” You shrieked.

Both you and her erupted into a large happy shrill of giggles enough to gain head turns from passing public. You and her playfully poked your elbows into each other. Anjuli was right, there was no chance that you could make a suitable prostitute…you hadn’t had sex and didn’t know how to please a man, most men you barely liked. They could be selfish. Anjuli on the other hand, she was a frisky thing. She had kissed a hundred men and given her ‘precious flower’ to a boy back when she was thirteen. She had no shame. Anjuli had shared her sordid tales of lust to you many times. You knew her boyfriends that snuck her out at night and returned her by morning. You promised never to tell her mother or father who surely would’ve disowned her if they knew how promiscuous she was. It was best if they believed she made money with her parents in the markets selling dyed clothes and wooden jewellery boxes.

03:04pm Friday 11th July 1890, 5 Bistdari Road, Central Ridge Forest, Delhi, India.

Arriving to the Watson Bungalow was simple enough, the ox cart rolled and bumped over the rock and sandy grooves of the path. Anjuli pulled the reigns of her beast and helped you both down. She tied her ox to the outside gate posts, the precious creature lowered its head and munched on dry grass that still was hinted in green. The ox would be glad as soon the wet season would hit and all the food delight lush and green would return.

You and Anjuli stepped inside and removed your sandals, Anjuli then led you through the house. It had been some time since you had been here. Anjuli’s mother was dismissed as Mrs Victoria Watson’s maid when the new Watson bride had arrived.

Doctor Watson, their son was a short ferrety man. His face was covered in a long mutton mustache like a snake of hair slithering along his face. He was a grown man from the teenager you had met many years ago. His parents had sent him to Europe to school, as far as you were aware he had join the army and fought in some notorious war battles like The of Battle of Abu Klea.

As you entered the bureau office, you found him hunched over some paperwork, his brows scrunched. His eyes lifted up and brightened his face on seeing you both.

“Oh Miss Paraiyars, Anjuli dear,” he said clapping his hands and opening a drawer in his desk, “Thank you so much dear for bringing darling Miss Newalkar here. Here,” he handed Anjuli a small bag and slipped four rupees into her hand, “and take these sweets back to your Mataji, Mrs Paraiyars.”

Anjuli put her hands together and smiled, wobbling her head before leaving you alone to return outside back to her ox cart.

You had your hands pressed together peacefully while the doctor hobbled over to you from around the desk. He was smiling brightly and nodded his head to you, offering you a chair in front of the desk.

“Y/N thankyou for coming on such short notice. I requested your presence in person to offer you a job position.”

Your smile fell, you sheepishly explained to the man, “I am currently employed at the Anglo school Doctor, Babu.”

The doctor nodded, “Yes…Anjuli tells me you are still teaching the children English and Hindi?”

“Yes Doctor Babu,” you confirmed.

“How much are you paid per month?” he asked quickly, touching his lips lightly in thought.

“Twenty five rupees,” you said softly, you didn’t dare try to sound prideful.

The doctor smiled and pulled out a piece paper contract, he then stated, “I will pay you a hundred per month.”

Your eyes widened, and then narrowed. It was too spectacular to be true, it sounded Impossible. Your fathers pension was only a hundred and fifty rupees a year, for the doctor to give you a hundred per month was unfathomable wealth. What on earth was he wanting from you!?

“What is the position,” you swallowed breathlessly, “Doctor Babu?”

“Housekeeper and…a carer,” he sighed, “I need you to live here, and watch over one of my friends. He is from England and I am afraid he might not understand the customs here.”

He leant against the desk cocking his head and looking down at his feet awkwardly. “Please,” he begged, “he is different to other men. He is particular and perhaps rather spoilt. I need you to make sure he doesn’t get lost, harmed or too upset. It is pressing that I should return to my wife in Agra. I would have hired Mrs Paraiyars, in fact I did offer this role to her, but I have been informed she will be moving and her English is not as it once was…and my English friend is rather…particular and impatient with broken speech...”

He wrote a signature across the bottom of the document and held it out for you to read. It was real…your mouth watered. You could save more than your regular wage and easily move back to Indore without burdening your father or mother’s family.  

“If you accept my offer, you may live here as a free lodging, you recall where the servant quarters are I am sure? You will also receive a handsome budget for food. And-” he paused looking up and pocketing the cheque, he gasped, “Sherlock! Dear god man! Did you walk here from the train station?!”

You turned around in the chair and took in the sight of a familiar looking soul.

He was the gentleman from the road. The supposed businessman with his briefcase. He was taller standing here with you then when you sat above in the ox cart. He was standing in the doorway to the office. He stepped inside and lowered his walking stick and briefcase.

“My friend,” the handsome stranger gleefully called, “My dear John Watson, I came the moment I read your message. One of the khaki coated lads pointed me here.”

Up close now you could observe his features on a better judgement. Sherlock Holmes was well known in the British gazette for his distinct physical appearance. With his broad angular frame, sharp hard features, and mighty frame, he exuded a striking and intimidating aura that commanded respect. He reminded you of warriors you imagined before bed in story's of battles your father described at Jhansi Fort.

His face was marked by a strong, sharp pointed nose and intense, deep-set sapphire eyes. His hair was kept combed and short below his ears short and slicked back, revealing his angular eyebrows, and his pink lips that were tightly pursed. He wore a grand brown suit coat with a crisp white shirt, and woolen sweater vest beneath it. And at the base of his throat was a dark burgundy tie. Something about the time reminded you of blood. A cut throat. You felt cold.

His eyes smoothly shifted to you and your presence, his lips parted softly, he glanced back at John, “A patient of yours Doctor?”

The moustached man bristled and shook his head, he stuttered and leant his hand out to you. you carefully chose to take it and rise from the chair as he introduced you.

“Oh- I- Sherlock…um, Sherlock Holmes, I would like you to meet Miss Y/N Newalkar.”

“Miss Newalkar,” the doctor waved his hand over the figure of the giant stock of a man, “This is the very gentleman I was informing you about. This is my friend Detective Sherlock Holmes.”

You pressed your hands together and nodded in greeting. One of Sherlock’s brows raised and his lips hardened in a straight line.

Doctor Watson explained back to the detective, “I was in the middle of discussing whether this dear lady would like to accept a role of housekeeping during your stay here.”

“Whatever for?” Sherlock snickered, “Is your lady wife not up to par with her duties?” he shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked on his leather shoes while his eyes scanned all the way down to your bare feet. It was a crude look of judgement. The westerner seemed to forget not everyone shared the same styles and habits here. You tried not to roll your eyes at him as he scanned your arms and the parts of your belly that the saree did not cover.  Those dark blue orbs crawled up and settled over your faux sweetened smiling face.

“Some…plans have come up unexpectedly. Mary is back in Agra, staying safe with her family,” John stated, his fingers rubbed together, “I need to be with her. And the hospitals are in desire of my services as a surgeon. I ask that you will look around, see if you can find anything here…” he leant in closer and whispered to the man, “I will visit every couple of days, to check up on you and see if there is truth to be founded in my suspicions.”

'Suspicions?'

“John…” the detective pat his friends shoulder, “I am happy to see you. I promise I will do my very best.”

“Thankyou,” said the doctor.

Sherlock jerked his chin to your direction, “How much does the dear girl here know?”

“Well, I…not much,” the doctor blushed and looked back to you, “Miss Newalkar, your thoughts on the job position role?”

You swallowed and nodded slowly, “I accept the conditions, thankyou for your most gracious offering, Doctor Babu.”

The doctor smiled and carefully touched your back, leading you to the exist of his office as he happily stated.

“Splendid! Please, this is the contract. Sign it and return with your belongings later on a few hours while I converse with my friend and guest.”

You looked back at the mysterious Sherlock Holmes and back to the contract. You wobbled your head in goodbye and went on your way. The way you could feel his eyes over your body walking away made you shiver. He was a intimidateding looking man. You left the home and slipped your sandals on.

You thought about how you would now be the housekeeper of a prestigious British family in the community. A wave of relief to your stability washed over you. You didn’t need to crawl to your father and your mother’s family. You started smiling ear to ear. All you needed to do was take care of a house and baby-sit an Englishman who was vulnerable to these new lands.

“Did you see him go in?” Anjuli smirked from the ox cart, waving you over, “The British man you fancied?”

You jerked your chin up proudly exclaiming, “I met him.”

Your friend gasped with a wide smile, “What is he like?”

“I don’t really know,” you shrugged before waving the contract in front of your friends face, “but I am going to be his housekeeper, I need to inform the school of my resignation.”

Anjuli looked at the contract, she couldn't read english but made a light sad sound and sucked her teeth before sighing, “Oh, those children will miss you dearly.”

And that you could both agree. You grabbed the ox reigns and tapped its flank with the cane rolling back to the school again quickly to collect your last wage.

Helplines:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

[never-enough-novels]

Grayon hawthorne x desi!reader dating headcanons

A/N: idk what I was high on when I wrote this but here it is. This is also the first time I'm writing anything like this so if you guys have any suggestions or otherwise pls do say so. Lemme know if I should make a part 2 cause I had many ideas for it.

1. Ok so we already know that grayon is a curious person by nature so he'll try to learn about your culture and much as he can.

2. He'll absolutely loveeee when you dress in your traditional clothing.

3. Imagine full photo shoot and stuff.

4.Lovesss to see you get ready. Imagine him gifting jhumkas🥹

5.FUSION DATE NIGHTS

6.I imagine my guy doesn't have a good spice tolerance and the first time he tried your food his face becomes all red and he drinks all the milk in the house to calm down.

7. Tries to increase his spice tolerance so yall can enjoy the food.

8. Will try to eat with hands for you idk i feel like he'll like it too @lanterns-and-daydreams

9. Still prefers coffee to tea but will drink it with you.

10. Gives side eye whenever someone calls it cHaI TeA.

11. Evening teas together 🥹.

12. Ready to throw hands if anyone says ANYTHING to you.

13. And by that I mean anything racist or otherwise.

14. Extremely protective but makes sure not to be too much or suffocating.

15. If you're new to the country, he'll take you to all the tourist spots and the places you wanna see.

16. Will buy out the entire place or rent it out if it's too crowded lol

17. ABSOLUTELY LOVES IT WHEN YOU PUT MEHANDI (HENNA)

18. Will hold your hands and trace the designs until they go off.

19. Will try to make some designs himself.

20. IMAGINE PUTTING A RIDDLE OR SOMETHING LIKE DESIGN ON YOUR HAND AND TELLING HIM TO SOLVE IT.

21. Whenever there is a festival around the corner will always ask if you're putting mehandi again and if he can do it for you. Ok I'm obsessed with this

22. He would try to learn your language and surprise you with it.

23. IMAGINE IF HE TRIES TO MAKE POEMS FOR YOU IN YOUR LANGUAGE

24. NSFW HEADCANON

Ok imagine this

He got you a cute Payal which has small bells on it. AND THEN HE RAILS YOU WHILE YOUR LEGS ARE ON HIS SHOULDERS AND HE CAN HEAR THE BELLS EJEJJKSKSKWNDJEKEKEKEK

For reference in case you didn't understand this is what I'm referring to

Tagging: @lanterns-and-daydreams @hearthown @shuhuaspookie

[thisismeracing]

hey i love your work!!! i loved the mick with the desi reader and i was wondering if you could do something similar with lewis involving a desi wedding (can be theirs or just someone they know)

Hi, sweetheart! I'm glad you're liking my work <3 here you go!

headcanon requests are closed

LEWIS MARRYING A DESI GIRL | LH44

Warnings: mentions of food; tooth-rotting fluff; mentions of family members; not proofread.

A/n: Just a quick reminder that there are many shades, experiences, and backgrounds when it comes to desi people and their culture, what I am writing does not resume everything, but rather brings a piece of it to the table. <3

⁕ my masterlist and my taglist

For Lewis there wasn't a doubt when he proposed: you were going to have your wedding party the traditional desi way, and, if it was the case, back at home. He would fly all the guests there.

I can see this man all stunned the first time he sees you all dolled up and ready. You look like a princess, and he doesn't know where to look because the painting in your hands, the dress, the makeup, the hair, and your smile are nothing but perfection.

You feel the same, Lewis will just fit in all the colors and traditions. He looks like he belongs and that warms your heart.

Everything will be just so detailed and perfect, you'll get yourself ready to cry every time you notice something that let's say, had to be adapted (for example, the vegan dishes for him) but still held the meaning of your culture behind. And since plenty of the dishes are primarily vegetarian, it wasn't that hard to adapt them.

Everyone will have a blast and your family is just so happy you found someone who truly loves you and embraces who you are, which means, embracing your culture as his own.

I can totally see Lewis getting a crew to film everything on your wedding day, like a movie of some sort. And when you sit down to watch it you can't help but grin at how happy and smiley he seems with all the fun games and traditions pre and post-wedding.

He'll study everything. This man will buy books on desi culture and will open hundreds of tabs on his computer about how it works, the history behind the traditions, what is ok and what is not ok to do, even though he's been to desi weddings with you before as guests. That's your wedding, and Lewis will make sure it's perfect.

Overall, everything will flow naturally, he'll have a blast just like your friends and family because everyone is the happiest seeing you two finally get married.

― ⋆🪩 VOICEMAIL:  If something sounded stereotypical or even slightly offensive, please let me know, and I’ll change it immediately. I hope you guys liked it *mwah*

taglist: @sachaa-ff @mickslover @formulakay3 @crimeshowjunkie @saintslewis @mishaandthebrits @iloveyou3000morgan @fdl305 @scorpiobleue @carojasmin2204 @chaoticevilbakugo @wondergirl101ks @smiithys @shhhchriss @f1kota @lunnnix @uuuseeerrr12 @balekane_mohafe @karmabyfernando

[cassiachales]

Love You To The ִ ֶ֢࣪⋆ 𝓜𝓸𝓸𝓷 (And To *ੈ✩‧₊˚𝓢𝓪𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓷)

so i saw this post by @never-enough-novels, and aneesha was looking over my shoulder like "cass, you should totally write for that) so obviously, i did. aneesha, ye aapke lie hai (don't judge i used google translate) also, i know i have fics left. but no one said i can't write a oneshot for my best friend <33

Grayson Hawthorne x Desi!reader (but can also be read as just a reader)

"Do you really have to go?" Grayson asks you, his hands around your waist. You blow a stray lock of your hair off your face, looking at his silver-gray eyes in the mirror.

"I don't really have a choice, jaan."

He scoffs. "They advanced your meeting, love. You don't have to bow to them, or be a people pleaser."

He shifts, and while he keeps one arm on your waist, his body is next to yours instead of behind.

Your kohl-lined eyes widen as your look at him in the eyes. His hair is still ruffled from last night and you can see his (previously neatly pressed) shirt now all ruffled.

Then you raise your hand, filled with bracelets and promise rings, and lay it on his cheek.

He leans into your touch as though it is the only thing grounding him.

He has ways of making you feel special.

"As much as I would like to deny being a people pleaser, I was raised like that. To be the least comfortable person in the room. Best to make everyone happy before I'm happy, right? And Gray," you laugh, a small laugh that lasted all of two seconds, "that's my company. I can't show up late for my own meeting, can I?"

"No one will say anything if you're late for your own meeting, jaan."

Your breath catches.

It's not like it's the first time he's ever used that endearment with you. He's used countless others, too.

But every single time he calls you jaan, you melt. Oh, he loves you, and you love him.

"Only because you'd pull some strings, Gray."

"How good of a fiancé would I be if I didn't want to spend time with my future bride?"

Your lips near his ears, and you whisper, "we spent enough time together last night. Enough that my ancestors are rolling in their graves at the amount of" you gasp, a small, theatrical gasp "time we spent."

Then you pull away, and pretend to ignore his blushing face.

That man was stuck in the regency.

You adjust your scarf, and make sure your earrings are straight before you walk to the dressing table and collect your bag.

Another gift.

He walks to you, and his arms are around your waist again.

You'd noticed that physical touch was his love language. And you liked touch.

"At least give me a kiss before you leave." He says.

Years ago, this wasn't the Grayson Hawthorne you'd met. That man was cold and closed off and never seemed to care.

Then he met you, and you met him. What started as a fake arrangement led to something oh so real that you couldn't even fathom not meeting him in his office to repay that loan your father had taken from his grandfather.

His lips are now near yours, and right before they touch, he stops.

Another thing he always did was ask before he kissed you. Even after years, he asked.

He always asked.

"May I?" He whispered.

"Always." You whisper back, and your lips meet in the middle in a perfect fit.

Like you were always meant to be together.

Like the two of you were two parts of one heart. The two of you'd met with your hearts broken, but they'd broken in perfect pieces.

The broken, shattered piece of his heart fit flawlessly with your torn and splintered one.

The two of you pulled away, and a bit of your lipstick was on his lips, and smudged on yours.

"I love you, you know that, right?" He whispers when your foreheads touch. This moment was tailored just for the two of you.

"Yes. And I love you more."

"Impossible."

"I love you to the moon and back."

You can practically hear his lips quirk up. "I love you to the moon and to Saturn."

"Do you, now?"

"You dare to question the amount of love I have for you?"

You laugh, and you see how his face lights up. "Oh, I don't dare to question you. You're almost always right."

"Almost?"

"Fine, fine, jaan. You're always right."

[we-out-here-simping]

and what if I said ANOTHER ONE FOR MY DESI GIRLIES?

summary: Steve's best friends convince him to travel to a country they know almost next to nothing about for a vacation. so, with clothes in a suitcase, emotional baggage in the carry on and most of the money in their wallet from Steve's dad's earnings and Eddie's recent gig, they fly to India. it is there that Steve keeps bumping into a girl who looks like she has a personal raincloud following her at all times.

a/n: although the story is based in india reader has not been specified as indian just desi who has decided to vacation it up in india

this series doesn't even have a name yet so u can guess how much progress I've made in writing it (close to none) but it's just been rattling in my brain for far too long and I need to unleash it into the world. I have no idea when I'll write and put this out

tagging people who liked my last desi fic:

@luvsersi @bitch-biblioklept @avianawrites @lauenderhaze @kaverichauhan @hollandweather @procrastinationprincesses @eddiesguitarskills

[chronicdisasterwrites]

i keep imagining nanami in a kurta/panjabi and suddenly my heart is racing and my clothes are off- 😫🥵

[biblioklept-writes]

The Foreign Queen (Aemond Targaryen x Desi!Fem!Reader)

Summary: There is a new ship in the land, carrying riches Westeros has never seen before. The people are interesting, sharing some common and other completely different ideas. Aemond decides to deal with one claiming to be their Princess, the beautiful Y/N, and something clicks in place.

Content Warning: canon divergence (duh), i have only watched the show, might contain some spoilers, reader has black hair and brown eyes (typical of most desis) and wear kajal (kohl), reader will be good at maths and physics (i had too i need the representation), reader is hindu and will talk of hinduism, there will be “strong” jokes, I invented a whole new continent in the hotd universe, okay? Explicit language to be expected, other than that we are good i guess? No other physical description of the reader is involved

Ps: will use hindi, sanskrit and odia (translations in parentheses). Currently this is just an idea, i will write further if the motivation and plot strikes. 

Series Masterlist

It had been a rather dull autumn afternoon, the only highlight yet being the morning flight Aemond had gotten with Vhagar. Business in the council was proceeding as usual, with Aegon missing and their grandsire, Otto Hightower acting as the King Reagent in his stead while their mother, Dowager Queen Alicent Targaryen sat at the head. The lords had been discussing an upcoming tourney when a messenger came in with a flushed face, looking as though he ran from port to the Red Keep. He barely caught his breath before he started speaking.

“There is a large ship being docked in the port, Your Grace, My Lord Hand,” He breathlessly said. “Their messengers speak mostly in a foreign tongue, but they claim to be here for trade. They say their princess is with them, those strange people. They are asking for permission to enter King’s Landing.”

“Where are these people from?” Otto Hightower asked. “Did they say?”

“They said… Bharat.” The messenger added, still struggling to catch his breath. “Your Grace, My Lord Hand, you must send your word with me back, the matter requires your urgent attention. They wish to speak with His Majesty in his court.”

“I don’t think a message would be apt for this situation,” Alicent calmly said. “It is better if we send a representative of ours with you, Ser.” Her big brown eyes scanned the room once, and said, “Ser Cole, I would like you to go to the docks as Aegon’s representative, make sure that these people are not of ill intentions.”

“It would be better to send a royal to accompany Ser Cole, Your Grace.” Ser Willis Fell said, earning agreeing nods from the other lords in the council. “For if this Princess' claim is true, it wouldn't be… appropriate for a Knight to meet a lady of such stature. If My Lord Hand could go-”

“I will accompany Ser Cole,” Aemond said. He agreed, if it were indeed a princess of a foreign land, sending a non-royal to speak with her would reflect poorly on them. A foreign land meant more resources and soldiers, and they needed both of them in abundance as the war threatened to bloom in Westeros and Essos. A strong alliance for them meant a weakness for their opponent.

“Aemond-” Alicent started, but he interrupted her.

“I’ll be fine, Mother.” He said. “I really wish to see these strange people claiming to be traders.” Aemond’s gaze fixed on the messenger, who seemed to cower under his calculating stare. Of course, the eyepatch must have been a contributing factor with the reputation that he had built for himself.

Vhagar was simply too big to fly to the dock, so Aemond had to take a horse along with Ser Cole, unfortunately. It took them a bit over an hour but they managed to make it to the dock before sunset, and there he saw it: a ship in the horizon, larger than anything he had ever seen before, gleaming like liquid gold in the late afternoon sun. A red and white striped flag with a yellow swastik flew high in the oceanic winds.

Two men adorning mustard colored tunics and some white pants with black hair, white turbans and twining moustaches signalled at the ship upon his arrival, and a small boat moved toward the coastline. They were still too far away to make out clearly, but once the boat got closer, he noticed the woman sitting in the front, majestic on the waves. The man and the woman behind her rowed her quickly to the shore.

He thought her claim must be true then, for she was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes on with her hair blacker than midnight and her brown eyes stern yet deep. Her presence commanded attention, and she carried herself with the poise of a queen.

She was dressed in a lavender and white garment he had never seen before, her dark mane complimenting her brown, kohl-lined eyes. Her body held a certain feline grace - her steps quiet and calculated, her gaze confident and conniving. 

Aemond got off his horse as she stepped off the dock and towards the port, the messenger escorting her to him and Ser Criston, who stood behind him with his hand ready to raise his sword. “This is Princess Y/N of the Bharat,” the messenger said, unable to take his eyes off you. Everyone present on the dock stared eagerly, trying to soak up the gossip.

“And I assume you must be Prince Aemond,” She said, her voice firm but sweet. Her pronunciation held an accent, but it was fairly accurate. He was more surprised to find that she actually knew him by name and recognised him this quickly. “I hear you have a reputation for brutality,”

“Only to the people that pester my family and my brother’s kingdom.” He replied in his usual monotone voice. “I hope you aren’t here to threaten my brother’s kingdom, for I’d hate to put a blade through you.”

“Bharat reaches to you in good hopes, Prince,” She said. “We are merely here to offer trade: we have skilled workers manufacturing weapons, chariots, even defences of all sorts. We have great food and spices. You ought to give us a chance to present our goods before disregarding us.”

“Would these weapons fight against dragons, Princess?” Aemond asked.

“There’s only one way to find that out,” she said. “I hope to be able to get an audience with the King, we will do as he sees fit -  we shall leave in peace if he demands that, my Prince.”

“Mhm,” Aemond glanced over at her and her people once more. They all had a curved knife strapped to their hips, and the princess carried a two-foot long blade in a bejewelled holster, the hilt seemingly made of gold with a leather grip. He noted the big gold hoops that gleamed in her ears and the three large rings that occupied her right hands’ fingers. “Only you and one more person will be granted permission to meet the King,” He carefully said. “And… you must leave your weapons behind.”

“Going into a foriegn land with no people and no weapons seems like a fools’ errand, my Prince,” She countered. “Are your swordsmen and fighters so incapable that you are afraid of being attacked in your own palace by two foreigners?”

Aemond slowly blinked, a devious grin forming at her words. “Very well then,” he said, voice decisive. “You and your companion must be accompanied by a knight or me at all times, for we have no intent of trusting someone… unfamiliar with our home. Times like these demand such action,”

“I hope we wouldn’t bore you with our dull company,” She said, brown eyes glinting with amusement, and something dark, something he pictured in his own gaze.

“I can tell that your company will be anything but dull, Princess.” He said. “Ser Criston, please get two mighty steeds for our companions from Bharat.”

Presently, they stand in the King’s Court, the drunkard King sober for a change. Aemond supposed the foreign Princess’ commanding presence was a contributing factor to his brother’s sobriety, but he knew it was her enticing allure, her charming voice and her regal poise that appealed to him. The princess reminded him of wildflowers - magnificent, all consuming in their scent and most of the time, deadly. 

His keen eye had not missed the way the knights of the Kingsguard and the lords at the court had eyed the bejewelled sheath of her blade up and down, as if trying to see through the sheath and capture the blade.

“You talk of trade, yet you carry weapons deadly enough to cut a man,” Aegon noted, gaze eagerly fixed on the woman in front of him. The whole court was silent save for his words, all eyes and ears focused on the stunning princess. “What sort of trade requires that, pray tell me,”

“Your Majesty, the blades are to defend the supplies,” She said, voice neutral. “And to hunt animals for meat. The blades only cut through those who threaten our peace, honour and survival.”

Aegon scratched his chin, leaning forward. “What did you say your trade in?”

“Spices, fabrics, weapons, gold, skilled labourers,” She said, seemingly holding everyone’s gaze at once. “Silver, bronze, blacksmiths who can build chariots, soldiers who would kill for your cause.”

The silence that followed was ringing, one could hear everyone’s breath.

“Why do you need this trade?” Otto Hightower asked.

“My Lord Hand,” Princess Y/N started with a respectful bow. “Why do merchants sell? Why does a servant work? All of the work that we do comes down to one thing - money and power. We have skilled labourers, we have gold, we have silver, we have copper. But even gold becomes worthless when it is in excess, and the flow of trade would make both of us more powerful.”

“What would we get in exchange for our money?” Dowager Queen Alicent asked. Aemond knew from the gleam in her big brown eyes that she was curious, at least, about the goods the princess promised.

“Allow me to present to you a small gift, Your Grace,” The Princess bowed again. From the bags, her moustached companion fetched the finest of the silk Aemond had ever seen - his fingers involuntarily twitched at the sight of the sage-green fabric. A servant brought the fabric from the foreign man to his mother, who was visibly impressed by the silk. “It is the finest silk in the known land, Your Grace,”

Another sample was a thick gold chain with a tiny hourglass pendant, given to his Grandsire Otto Hightower. “My Lord Hand, this hour glass turns over itself in a period of five and forty minutes,” She said. “It is made of the most intricate designs and is sturdy enough to be worn daily.”

“For His Majesty,” The Princess said as her companion fetched a foot long box wrapped in a silver-grey cloth. “We present the blade forged by our best swordsmiths, we present a gauntlet sword - Dandpatta - made in silver reinforced with the best steel we make.”

Aegon eagerly opened his present, the silver blade almost blinding in its shine. He stood up and tested the blade, and commented, “It has great balance, Princess.”

“I am glad to impress Your Majesty,” She said. Her companion fetched another box wrapped in silver-grey cloth, this time the servant handing the box to Aemond. He opened the box, normally, as the Princess’ sweet voice said, “For those who prefer sleath over pomp, for the one known to be quiet, I present to you, Ratri, the blade of the night. It is made of the highest quality of wootz steel, and can cut silently even through the toughest of barks and scales.”

It was a wicked blade, curved slightly like a scythe, but much smaller and easily concealable. When did the princess get to study each of them? Has someone been ratting them out to people they didn’t even know existed? For such precision in giving gifts was impossible without proper prior knowledge of the receiver.

The Princess turned to Haelena and curtseyed for the first time. “For Her Majesty, I present a jewellery set fit for a Queen of her stature, it is all in steel reinforced gold - can be used as a weapon lest someone corner the beautiful Queen.” 

“Quite thoughtful of you, presenting these gifts,” Aegon said, clearly impressed by the sword he received. “I will let you trade with us, Princess.” 

Perhaps you had impressed his brother with the presents you had so thoughtfully brought, but you had imprinted yourself in his head with all the inside information you must have known to think of such gifts. Either that or you and your companions were quick judges of character, but that seemed a bit of a stretch. Your face was one he could never forget, with the intense kohl and the gleaming brown eyes and hair darker than the night, you were a sight meant to be remembered.

The only logical explanation seemed that you had spies in the Red Keep, getting updates about everyone from that source. He had to find that source, pull it off the roots, for you knew the royal family a little too well.

The court was dismissed and you were sent back to let your ship dock at the port and your people had been granted an empty warehouse to store the goods along with a clear plot of land to build the temporary housing facilities your people would need.

Alicent had generously offered you to stay in the castle walls, but you had politely declined, saying that your heart and duty lies with your people and travelling companions. Aemond respected that, his respect for you growing tenfold on learning that you spoke in four tongues and were learning a fifth. But he had so much to learn from you, and from your manners in court today, he knew it would be a big challenge for him - you had earned his respect, but he had to know how you spied on his family without them being aware of you and your peoples’ existence.

How was it that the mighty Targaryens with their dragons had never explored the unknown? How was it that a fleet of ships managed to survive the unresting sea from lands so far away that the dragonriders didn’t spot it? It was this primal hunger for answers that urged him to get closer to you, to dig out the answers he needed to sate his curiosity. Why were you promising them your soldiers? Were you one of his half-sister’s ploys to usurp the throne that was rightfully Aegon’s? Were you sent on a mission, falsely pretending to be a princess sent by Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen to wipe his family clean and leave the Iron Throne vulnerable and up for them to do as they please?

There were so many questions, but no answers in sight. Aemond doubted you were from Driftmark - you and your people were too different, with skin that glowed like gold under the sunlight and new languages he hadn’t even heard of before. Self-appointing himself as your contact person to the King’s council, he frequented your camp, not seeing any ill intent - at least for now.

But he didn’t know what to make of the Bharatiyas either. The people were welcoming and nice enough, even treated him to delicacies he never could have imagined. There were some names he was struggling to speak, but Aemond was nothing if not determined. With the eyes of a hawk and the hearing of a wolf, the dragon carefully observed the foreigners and slowly picked on your languages. 

One of them - Hindi - was simpler than the other tongues that people used. It seemed there were as many dialects as there were people, and Aemond found himself terribly lost as he tried to keep up with them. But he had vowed to himself that he would learn to understand your languages, at least. Yet, he was drawn in by the complexities and fun of their culture, how they worshipped their Gods and Goddesses; how each member of the camp contributed to the working; how the few kids there were allowed to be exposed to the Westeros languages and culture (lack thereof, he thought later).

Aemond had never expected to enjoy someone else’s customs this much. He had appointed himself on a mission, and he wouldn’t let himself be distracted. He swore that he will abstain from gazing at your intense eyes and glowing skin, from the confidence you exude and the power you command.

But each second he spent in your presence, he found himself more enraptured by you - your kohl lined eyes, your pretty mouth, your heavy gold jewellery and the delight with which you spoke. He would be damned to the seven hells and beyond with all the teasing he would get if Aegon or Daeron ever read his mind, full of thought with admiration for you.

Here it is! for all the desi!readers out there like me, I hope you enjoy this. This part mainly describes their entrance and welcome, and I will try to include more political intrigue as I write further. Do drop by some scene ideas that i can include so all the desis feel represented. It is currently 2 am for me but today is Halloween and my birthday so I am posting this as a treat for myself (yes this is another treat for me hehe) Lets hope that i can get around to finish this one. Also, if you are a team black stan who would rather stay off some anti-sort remarks, i am sorry loves but this one is not for you. Better if you scroll past than start an argument.

[the-whispers-of-death]

Fallen God!Ghost

This is a masterlist of all of the Fallen God!Ghost Drabbles. This reader is gender neutral.

Ghost's Fall and Meeting You

Putting Ghost in His Place

Ghost Slowly Getting Feelings for You

Lesson Learned

Home Again

This is a complete list and will most likely not be expanded upon!

[winterrrnight]

since I’m fantasizing so much about rafe with desi!reader, I can’t stop thinking about them at holi together 🥹🥹

soft!rafe x desi!reader <3 celebrating holi together blurb <3

“So, it’s the festival of… colors?” he asks you, as you adjust the collar of his white kurta, which he undeniably is looking so good in.

“Yes,” you smile, taking a step back to admire your boyfriend. “It’s fun, you’ll really like it,”

“Okay,” he chuckles, as you take his hand and leave his place. Your entire family is meeting up to celebrate the beautiful festival together. You both are already a little late, so you’re hurrying back to your place.

Just as you reach the entrance of your home, you both are suddenly showered in soft powdered colors, both of you gasping at the suddenness of the situation. Rafe has clutched you close to him, not to expect something this quick.

You slowly open your eyes to see all your beautiful family members; your aunts, uncles and cousins, who are smiling and laughing at your reactions. They all are covered in the powdered colors, along with the water colors.

“Happy holi!” They all greet out loud, and you laugh at them. You look at Rafe, who looks just a little anxious, but mostly happy. Everyone is smiling, as bright colors adorn their clothes and faces.

“Happy holi!” You greet, walking inside with Rafe’s hand still in yours. His white kurta is now covered in beautiful pinks, greens, and blues, his face adorned with the same colors.

You pick up the closest plate of color and take a small handful of it. You move your hand to his cheek and gently apply it. “Happy holi my love,” you whisper, smiling. “I hope this festival brings you so much peace and happiness,”

He smiles at you, deeply enjoying your hand slowly moving down on his cheek, one side of his covered well with a light pink. He takes some color in his own hand, and applies it on your cheek the same way you did to him.

“Happy holi to you too bubs,” he says softly, a big grin gracing his face. “Thank you for all these beautiful memories these past months…” he smiles.

You can’t help but smile widely at him, so happy to see him so wonderfully involved in your culture, wanting to learn everything with you. You gently press your lips against his, not being able to resist him anymore.

“Ew this is not the place!” You hear one of your cousins yelling at you in utter disgust. You pull back, giggling, and you look at Rafe laughing too. You move your arms around his neck and pull him close to you, his arms snaking around your waist, and you hug him tightly.

“We’ll have so much fun today…” you smile at him. And he can’t wait for it. He loves knowing more and more about your beautiful background each day, wanting to celebrate each festival with you with the same enthusiasm as you.

“I can’t wait,” he mumbles, and presses a kiss to your cheek.

God you really have the perfect boyfriend.

↶ೃ✧˚. ❃ ↷ ˊˎ-

some blogs who I thought might be interested: @runningfrom2am @valeskafics @luversgirl @firecrackersstuff @cameronspecial @etfrin (please ignore if you feel like! <3)

[jester-lover]

Hobie with a Desi! S/O

cw/ fem! Reader, horrible attempt at writing British people, including multiple desi cultures bc my girlies need all the representation we can get (it’s slim pickings out here) all fluff, some cultural struggles, but everything is resolved, mentions of insecurities

(LONG POST- headcanons and a drabble)

I'm goth and I had a literary awakening when Hobie showed up

There are literally only two ways I see the two of you meeting

The first involves you being a friend/relative of Pavitir’s, who is exceptionally happy his two homies are getting along

In this situation, Hobie would know a little more about you from the get go, and you most likely would know about him (Pav thinks he’s so cool, he’ll talk about his friends to anyone who’ll listen)

Another; in my opinion, funnier, way for the two of you to meet is him accidentally crashing a desi wedding when he’s on Spidey business

You would be mildly peeved with him for disturbing the wedding, but his spunk and generally opinionated personality make you fall for him

Either way, congratulations! You have the world’s loveliest punk boyfriend

As a boyfriend, Hobie loves helping out in any activity you need help with

He’s the type of boy who tries his absolute hardest to be there for any event that is important to you

No matter if its a massive grad party or a late night pizza run, Hobie is there and having the time of his life

Now, moving onto the cultural aspect, Hobie adores learning about other cultures

Your family is weary of him at first, because of the way he dresses primarily

He manages to find a place in their hearts after they see the way he treats you (with respect and dignity!!!!)

Also the fact that he eats whatever your mom makes, entire plate, man will lick it clean

(I mean, have you seen how much British people love takeaway?)

“Is your mum home yet?” “She’s making something good I bet, she always is.”

He can HANDLE spice, and he’s good with kids (his interaction with Mayday proved that to me)

Your parents may end up, in a shocking event, liking him!

Hobie is your biggest hype man whenever you wear cultural clothes, especially if they’re a little on the edgy side, dark colors and all that

Lehengas, shalwar kameez, sarees, etc, he loves them all

“You're dressed up, aren’t you?”

He’ll explain it to you in this mysticised ‘stepping on eurocentric beauty standards’ type of way, but you know deep down he just thinks you're super pretty

He’s obsessed with your features, no matter what you look like, he thinks you have the most perfect face in the world

If you ever make Hobie Desi food, he’ll be in love with you forever

He loves pani puri, especially if the pani is a lil spicier

His love language is acts of service, and you making him something to eat is like, you are nourishing him?? With bomb Desi food?? he’s is seeing heaven rn

He most DEF asks Pav (who then asks Gayatri) for advice on how to impress you

This leads to him, hanging onto your windowsill, with a Mendhi tube in his hand, and a calm smile on his face

As Hobie slid off his mask, his gorgeous hair fell to the sides of his sharp face. Placing the spiky mask on your side table, he sauntered towards your bed, abruptly sitting down and motioning for you to follow him. 

You sighed, and smiled as you took your spot in front of him. He was alway so considerate, taking your interests into mind whenever he swung by.

“You know, I’m not a pro at this or anything.”

He grinned, almost wolfishly, and placed the small sharp tipped tube into your lap.

“I could care less, do anything on my hands.”

You gently took one of his hands into both of yours, spreading it out to see the flesh of his palm, his nails were painted red this week, courtesy of you, of course.

His long bony hand flexed as you gently took off each of his silverish rings, one by one. 

You were completely focused on this simple act, treating him with a gentleness only you could offer him, a complete contrast from his usual existence. 

“I don’t have a lot of time today, my cousin’s getting married, we have to go to some pre wedding events.”

Hobie perked up in interest, sliding his free hand to smooth out your gingham sheets.

“And what do you plan to wear?”

His mind flashed through all the traditional clothes he’s seen you in, each more ornate and beautiful than the last.

“The lehenga most likely, the peach-ish one, with the sparkles.”

You undid the little plastic pin at the top of the Mehendi tube, applying a slight pressure and making a small line on his palm to start out with.

Hobie looked at you closely, remembering the last time he saw that specific lehenga.

“That one’s cute.”

You laughed a little, looking down at your messy drawing.

“I was going for a flower but it sorta looks like a palm tree.”

He looked down at his hand, a messy smudgy, and less than finished flower was on his palm.

“Maybe, a couple more petals on the top, yeah?”

You squeezed the Mendhi tube again, carefully drawing three extra petals on the top.

“There! I think that's good.”

Hobie looked down at his palm and kept a laugh back, poorly albeit.

The flower wasn’t necessarily bad, just a little wonky.

“It's absolutely beautiful.”

You smiled.

“Hold your hand still until it dries, then peel off the crumbly bits, okay?”

Hobie mockingly saluted with his other hand, matching your smile.

“Anything you say.”

You giggled, taking his face in your hands gently, careful to avoid snagging one of his piercings.

“What am I ever gonna do without you?”

His expression turned a little soft, keeping his smile steady.

“Let's hope it never has to come to that.”

[livesinfantasyland]

Moodboards Masterlist

Henry Cavill

Date night

Argylle premier

Date in Italy

The one where you meet Henry Cavill and Chris Evans

Henry in his sluty era

Tea date

Geralt of Rivia

Geralt encounters a mysterious creature

Aretuza ball

Cozy day

Bathing with the Witcher

King Geralt x Queen Reader

Sherlock Holmes

Colonial era lovers (1)

Colonial era lovers (2)

Peacock encounter

Veena and violin

Beauty and the beast

Napoleon Solo

Two skillful thieves

August Walker

The one where he falls for someone he can't have

Part-2 of "The one where he falls for someone he can't have"

Captain Syverson

Dating Sy

Charles Brandon

King Charles x Queen Reader

Walter Marshall

Journalist reader

Robert Pattinson

Batman x Reader

Clark Kent/ August Walker/ Charles Brandon

The one where the wife is a serial killer

Gus March Phillips

Gus March Phillips x Spy Reader

Dividers by @saradika

[milknhonies]

Sir Sherlock Holmes & The Indian Princess MasterList

शर्लक बाबू और भारतीय राजकुमारी

Story Summary: It's 1890 in the height of the British Raj occupation of India you are unexpectedly hired as the housekeeping attendant of Detective Sherlock Holmes. The mystery he must solve is the death of his best friend's parents. Cultural differences might bring you closer than ever before.

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x Newalkar!reader

Story Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Dark!Content, Kama Sutra, Religion, Religious Icons, Murder, Poison, Death, implied Genocide, Racial Discrimination, Loss of Virginity, Loss of Innocence, Rough Sex, Humiliation, Kink, Sword fights, Outdoor Sex, Age Gap, Royalty, Generational Trauma, Daddy Issues, Internalised Misogyny, Sexism, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex, Spanking.

Author Notes:

★The Reader character goes by the last name Newalkar and is the daughter of Damodar Rao Newalkar → the adopted son of Rani Laxmibai. I must advise this story is pure fiction but based in the occupation of the British Raj that invaded and Colonised India.

★This story may contain scenes that provide a "White Saviour" theme. The reader is a strong character but Sherlock does have white privilege.

★I am a White European/Australian woman, I apologise for any cultural or historical inaccuracies. I am receiving help from online sources and desi Tumblr mutual @livesinfantasyland and I heavily encourage other Indian/South Asian/Desi readers to share their thoughts, constructive criticism and help as I write this story.

★I would like to express the knowledge that I do not approve or perform of any of the actions the characters of this fanficition demonstrate.

★This story is not fit for every viewers eyes and it will be glorifying acts of trauma and of characters that shouldn't be in reality.

★If you do not wish to see this content please block #SHTIP (scroll and you'll find it is the first tag.)

★This story might be alarming and severely upsetting for people who have had experiences with racial discrimination, misgonistic sexism, religious trauma and sexual coercion.

★If you'd like to be included in or removed from the Taglist, please comment below

★Chapter List★

Chapter 1 - Word Count: 6k

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★Helplines★:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.