Maya for you

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[aquilacalvitium]

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

[aquilacalvitium]

Please keep interacting with this post because when I come to tumblr to procrastinate, this shows up again in my notifications and guilts me into writing again

[dearlizzies-rip]

when reading smut and y/n says “daddy”

[mayaforyouu]

Politician’s Muse

Chapter 1: A Marriage of Optics

The Mumbai penthouse was a monument to ambition, its glass walls reflecting the Arabian Sea’s moonlit shimmer, its marble floors cool underfoot. Modern art—bold abstracts in crimson and gold—adorned the walls, and a sleek bar glowed with amber bottles. The air carried the city’s humid pulse, laced with salt from the sea below. Karan Malhotra stood on the balcony, a glass of single malt in his hand, his broad shoulders taut beneath a tailored navy kurta that hugged his 6’1” frame. At 39, he was a paradox—too handsome for the gritty world of politics, with a chiseled jaw softened by a salt-and-pepper beard, dark eyes that could silence a room, and a presence that felt more Bollywood star than backroom strategist. His broad chest and strong arms, honed by early morning workouts, strained subtly against the fabric, drawing eyes even in private. As a rising politician, he commanded Mumbai’s cutthroat scene with eloquence and integrity, but tonight, his mind wasn’t on power. It was on her.

Nia. His wife of six months. The 27-year-old beauty who’d been thrust into his life through an arranged marriage neither had wanted but both had accepted. She was downstairs now, in her room—a guest suite separate from his, as per their unspoken pact. He could still picture their wedding night, six months ago, under a canopy of jasmine and fairy lights. Nia had stood poised in a crimson lehenga, her black wavy hair cascading over one shoulder, her gold waist chain glinting against her golden skin. Her brown doe eyes had met his, unreadable but steady, and when he’d suggested separate bedrooms, relief had flickered across her face. She hadn’t questioned it, hadn’t argued. She’d nodded and moved her things, her saree swishing softly as she left him standing alone.

Karan swirled the whiskey, the ice clinking faintly. Nia was a paradox—a dutiful Indian wife who played her role flawlessly in public, yet at home, she was a ghost, slipping through their shared space with a detachment that unnerved him. Not unkind, never that. Just… distant. She cooked his favorite aloo paratha, the dough rolled to perfection, served with a fiery chutney that burned his tongue just right. She ensured his shirts were pressed, his schedule aligned, and at campaign events, she dazzled, her smile radiant under camera flashes, her hourglass figure draped in sarees that made headlines. But when the penthouse doors closed, she shed the role, trading silk for loose shorts and tank tops, her braless curves moving with a careless grace that set his pulse racing. He gripped the balcony railing, his jaw tightening. She was too good for him—too young, too vibrant, too alive for a man hardened by years of political maneuvering.

He’d married her for optics. Every politician needed a wife to soften their edges, to silence whispers about their personal life. Nia, with her flawless skin, full lips, and traditional-yet-sexy allure, was the perfect accessory. But she was more—sharp-witted, poised, a woman who could hold her own in a room of sharks. It unsettled him, how much he noticed her. Her body haunted him—the way her sarees clung to her small waist, the curve of her hips, the fullness of her breasts. He’d never seen them bare, of course. They’d never touched beyond a chaste hand on her waist for photos. But he imagined them—golden skin, brown nipples, soft and heavy in his hands. His knuckles whitened around the glass. Stop it, Karan. She’s not yours to want. She was a young woman trapped in a marriage with an older man, and he refused to be the husband who demanded what she didn’t offer.

Yet, why was she so dutiful? Even alone, she played the part—folding his kurtas with precision, asking about his day with that resting bitch face that made her impossibly alluring. Did she pity him? Resent him? Or was it something else? He remembered his mother’s visit last month, her eyes gleaming as she praised Nia’s beauty: “She’s a jewel, Karan. Don’t let her slip away.” The words had twisted in his gut, making him feel like a predator, despite Nia’s quiet acceptance of their arrangement.

Downstairs, Nia sat cross-legged on her bed, a book open but unread. The guest suite was her sanctuary—soft whites, a teak bookshelf, a window framing Mumbai’s skyline. She wore a loose tank top and shorts, her hair loose, her face bare of makeup. From her window, she could see Karan on the balcony, his tall silhouette against the city lights. His 6’1” frame was unmistakable, his broad shoulders and strong arms filling out his kurta. He was too handsome for politics, she thought, his dark eyes and sculpted features better suited to a film set. She’d seen women at events stare, their whispers trailing him. Yet he never seemed to notice, his focus always on the next speech, the next vote.

She closed her book, her fingers tracing the spine. Folding his shirts earlier, she’d paused, the fabric still warm from his body. It was a small act, one of many she performed without question. But why? Duty? Habit? Or something deeper, something she wasn’t ready to name? She’d married him because she had little choice—her parents had seen Karan as a catch, a stable man with a soaring career. But stability felt like a cage, and his kindness only made it harder to resent him.

Karan’s phone buzzed, pulling him from his thoughts. A message from his aide: Gala tomorrow, 7 PM. Press confirmed. Mrs. Malhotra’s presence requested. He pictured Nia in a saree, the fabric molding to her curves, her gold waist chain catching the light. His throat went dry. He needed to stop this obsession. She deserved better than his lustful thoughts.

Inside, he crossed to his study, the room lined with books and campaign posters. He skimmed a speech draft, his eloquence evident in every line, but his mind wandered. The pressure to maintain a flawless image was suffocating—every move scrutinized, every rumor a threat. Nia was his shield, her beauty and grace silencing doubters. But at what cost to her? He sank into his chair, the whiskey glass cold against his palm, and wondered if she’d ever look at him the way he looked at her.

[mayaforyouu]

Politician’s Muse

Chapter 1: A Marriage of Optics

The Mumbai penthouse was a monument to ambition, its glass walls reflecting the Arabian Sea’s moonlit shimmer, its marble floors cool underfoot. Modern art—bold abstracts in crimson and gold—adorned the walls, and a sleek bar glowed with amber bottles. The air carried the city’s humid pulse, laced with salt from the sea below. Karan Malhotra stood on the balcony, a glass of single malt in his hand, his broad shoulders taut beneath a tailored navy kurta that hugged his 6’1” frame. At 39, he was a paradox—too handsome for the gritty world of politics, with a chiseled jaw softened by a salt-and-pepper beard, dark eyes that could silence a room, and a presence that felt more Bollywood star than backroom strategist. His broad chest and strong arms, honed by early morning workouts, strained subtly against the fabric, drawing eyes even in private. As a rising politician, he commanded Mumbai’s cutthroat scene with eloquence and integrity, but tonight, his mind wasn’t on power. It was on her.

Nia. His wife of six months. The 27-year-old beauty who’d been thrust into his life through an arranged marriage neither had wanted but both had accepted. She was downstairs now, in her room—a guest suite separate from his, as per their unspoken pact. He could still picture their wedding night, six months ago, under a canopy of jasmine and fairy lights. Nia had stood poised in a crimson lehenga, her black wavy hair cascading over one shoulder, her gold waist chain glinting against her golden skin. Her brown doe eyes had met his, unreadable but steady, and when he’d suggested separate bedrooms, relief had flickered across her face. She hadn’t questioned it, hadn’t argued. She’d nodded and moved her things, her saree swishing softly as she left him standing alone.

Karan swirled the whiskey, the ice clinking faintly. Nia was a paradox—a dutiful Indian wife who played her role flawlessly in public, yet at home, she was a ghost, slipping through their shared space with a detachment that unnerved him. Not unkind, never that. Just… distant. She cooked his favorite aloo paratha, the dough rolled to perfection, served with a fiery chutney that burned his tongue just right. She ensured his shirts were pressed, his schedule aligned, and at campaign events, she dazzled, her smile radiant under camera flashes, her hourglass figure draped in sarees that made headlines. But when the penthouse doors closed, she shed the role, trading silk for loose shorts and tank tops, her braless curves moving with a careless grace that set his pulse racing. He gripped the balcony railing, his jaw tightening. She was too good for him—too young, too vibrant, too alive for a man hardened by years of political maneuvering.

He’d married her for optics. Every politician needed a wife to soften their edges, to silence whispers about their personal life. Nia, with her flawless skin, full lips, and traditional-yet-sexy allure, was the perfect accessory. But she was more—sharp-witted, poised, a woman who could hold her own in a room of sharks. It unsettled him, how much he noticed her. Her body haunted him—the way her sarees clung to her small waist, the curve of her hips, the fullness of her breasts. He’d never seen them bare, of course. They’d never touched beyond a chaste hand on her waist for photos. But he imagined them—golden skin, brown nipples, soft and heavy in his hands. His knuckles whitened around the glass. Stop it, Karan. She’s not yours to want. She was a young woman trapped in a marriage with an older man, and he refused to be the husband who demanded what she didn’t offer.

Yet, why was she so dutiful? Even alone, she played the part—folding his kurtas with precision, asking about his day with that resting bitch face that made her impossibly alluring. Did she pity him? Resent him? Or was it something else? He remembered his mother’s visit last month, her eyes gleaming as she praised Nia’s beauty: “She’s a jewel, Karan. Don’t let her slip away.” The words had twisted in his gut, making him feel like a predator, despite Nia’s quiet acceptance of their arrangement.

Downstairs, Nia sat cross-legged on her bed, a book open but unread. The guest suite was her sanctuary—soft whites, a teak bookshelf, a window framing Mumbai’s skyline. She wore a loose tank top and shorts, her hair loose, her face bare of makeup. From her window, she could see Karan on the balcony, his tall silhouette against the city lights. His 6’1” frame was unmistakable, his broad shoulders and strong arms filling out his kurta. He was too handsome for politics, she thought, his dark eyes and sculpted features better suited to a film set. She’d seen women at events stare, their whispers trailing him. Yet he never seemed to notice, his focus always on the next speech, the next vote.

She closed her book, her fingers tracing the spine. Folding his shirts earlier, she’d paused, the fabric still warm from his body. It was a small act, one of many she performed without question. But why? Duty? Habit? Or something deeper, something she wasn’t ready to name? She’d married him because she had little choice—her parents had seen Karan as a catch, a stable man with a soaring career. But stability felt like a cage, and his kindness only made it harder to resent him.

Karan’s phone buzzed, pulling him from his thoughts. A message from his aide: Gala tomorrow, 7 PM. Press confirmed. Mrs. Malhotra’s presence requested. He pictured Nia in a saree, the fabric molding to her curves, her gold waist chain catching the light. His throat went dry. He needed to stop this obsession. She deserved better than his lustful thoughts.

Inside, he crossed to his study, the room lined with books and campaign posters. He skimmed a speech draft, his eloquence evident in every line, but his mind wandered. The pressure to maintain a flawless image was suffocating—every move scrutinized, every rumor a threat. Nia was his shield, her beauty and grace silencing doubters. But at what cost to her? He sank into his chair, the whiskey glass cold against his palm, and wondered if she’d ever look at him the way he looked at her.