Headcanon, 'Chocolate day:
[Arjun Rampal, Major Iqbal, Krishna Rao from (housefull), Rudra Pratap from (D-day)]
Arjun Rampal is the ultimate travel companion—effortlessly stylish, cultured, and someone who knows how to turn a vacation into a cinematic experience. For this trip, he’s taken you to Lake Como, Italy. It’s private, it’s lush, and it perfectly matches his sophisticated vibe.
He’s the guy who rents a vintage wooden speedboat to take you across the lake himself. He looks like a Bond hero with the wind in his hair and his hand on the wheel.
He’ll take you to a hidden boutique and insist on buying you a dress that "matches the color of the water at sunset." He has an impeccable eye for what looks good on you.
While everyone else is at the tourist spots, he’ll find a secluded café in an alleyway just so he can sit across from you and watch you people-watch.
The air in Europe feels different—crisp, carrying the scent of blooming jasmine and old-world stone. You were standing on the private terrace of your villa, overlooking the moonlit water of the lake. Arjun had been quiet during dinner, but it was that "comfortable" quiet, the kind where his hand stays resting on yours under the table.
He stepped out onto the terrace behind you, his silhouette sharp against the Italian night. He was dressed in a simple, high-quality linen shirt, the top buttons undone. In his hand, he carried a small, artisanal box of Italian gianduja—hazelnut chocolates so smooth they melt on contact.
He didn't hand them to you immediately. Instead, he leaned against the railing next to you, looking out at the water before turning his intense gaze toward your face.
"Suna hai Europe ki raatein badi haseen hoti hain... magar mere liye ye manzar tumhare bagair adhoora hai." (I’ve heard European nights are very beautiful... but for me, this view is incomplete without you.)
He opened the box and fed you a piece, his fingers lingering on your lips for a second too long.
"Aaj Chocolate Day hai, aur hum yahan hain. Mujhe laga is se behtar jagah aur koi nahi ho sakti tumhe batane ke liye... ke tum meri zindagi ki sab se haseen haqiqat ho." (Today is Chocolate Day, and we are here. I thought there could be no better place than this to tell you... that you are the most beautiful reality of my life.)
The cool breeze from the lake couldn't compete with the heat radiating from him. Arjun pulled you away from the railing and toward the large glass doors of the bedroom. Inside, the sheets were cool silk, but the moment your back hit the mattress, the atmosphere turned electric.
He hovered over you, his knees on either side of your hips, looking down at you with a possessive, heavy-lidded stare.
"Italian chocolate mithi hai... magar mujhe kuch aur chahiye. Kuch aisa jo sirf tumhare paas hai." (Italian chocolate is sweet... but I want something else. Something that only you have.)
His hands were confident as they explored the curves he knew so well. He stripped slowly, his physique bathed in the soft moonlight filtering through the terrace doors. When he finally joined you, his skin felt like velvet and steel. Every kiss was slow and deep, echoing the unhurried pace of the vacation.
He took his time, making sure every inch of you was worshiped. His whispers were a mix of English and low, gravelly hindi, praising the way you looked under the European moon.
"Just stay mine. In this country, or anywhere else... you are only mine."
As the lake water lapped gently against the shore outside, Arjun made sure the only sound in the villa was the symphony of your shared pleasure—a memory of Europe that would stay with you long after the flight home.
Major Iqbal is a man of secrets, shadows, and high-stakes intelligence. He’s usually the one pulling the strings behind the scenes, so when it comes to Chocolate Day, he treats it like a covert operation—only the objective is your absolute indulgence. He doesn't go for cheap boxes; he goes for the dark, rich, and slightly dangerous.
He probably used an ISI asset or a contact in Switzerland to get these chocolates flown in. Only the best for the woman who knows his real name.
He likes to tease. He might hide a piece of chocolate and make you "find" it, turning the evening into a seductive game of cat and mouse.
He’s a man of luxury but also of austerity. The chocolates are the only indulgence in an otherwise disciplined life.
You were lounging on the sofa, the house quiet, when you heard the distinct, heavy click of the front door lock. Iqbal walked in, still in his charcoal-grey suit, looking every bit the formidable officer. He didn't say a word at first. He simply walked over to the coffee table and placed a sleek, velvet-lined box down.
When he opened it, it wasn't just ordinary chocolate. It was a collection of artisanal, dark truffles from abroad, dusted with gold leaf and sea salt.
He sat down beside you, loosening his tie with one hand while the other reached out to trace your jawline. His eyes, usually sharp and scanning for threats, were soft and hooded as they looked at you.
"Border par ho ya dushman ke ghere mein... dhyan hamesha isi sukoon ki taraf rehta hai. Aaj socha jaan ke liye chocolate main khud le aaon." (Whether I’m at the border or surrounded by enemies... my mind is always on this peace. Today, I thought I’d bring a little sweetness myself.)
He picked up a dark, rich truffle and held it to your lips, watching with intense focus as you took a bite.
"Suna hai chocolate se sukoon milta hai... magar mera sukoon toh sirf tumhare paas hai." (I’ve heard chocolate brings peace... but my peace is only with you.)
The sweetness of the chocolate was quickly replaced by a much darker, more potent craving. Iqbal’s thumb brushed a stray bit of chocolate from the corner of your lip, his gaze dropping to your mouth. The air in the room suddenly felt thick, charged with the kind of tension only a man like him can create.
He pulled you into his lap, his strong arms acting like a fortress around you.
"Bohat mithas ho gayi... ab thoda nasha chahiye. Aur tum se bada nasha meri zindagi mein aur koi nahi." (Enough sweetness... now I need an intoxication. And there is no greater intoxication in my life than you.)
He carried you to the bedroom, his movements efficient and powerful. As he laid you down, he didn't rush. He stripped off his shirt, revealing the scars of a life lived on the edge, a stark contrast to the softness of the moment.
His touch was demanding yet reverent. He tasted like the dark chocolate and the expensive bourbon he’d had earlier. Every kiss was an anchor, pulling you deeper into his world. He moved with a disciplined passion, his body a map of strength against your softness.
"Tumhe pata hai tum mere liye kya ho? Is andheri duniya mein meri wahid roshni. Aaj raat... main tumhe mehsoos karna chahta hoon, har ek hissay ko apna banana chahta hoon." (Do you know what you are to me? My only light in this dark world. Tonight... I want to feel you, I want to make every part of you mine.)
As the night unfolded, the lingering scent of cocoa and the heat of his skin created a memory that felt more permanent than any mission. In his arms, you weren't just a lover; you were the only thing worth fighting for.
Major Krishna Rao is all about military precision, towering presence, and that deep, gravelly voice that feels like a physical touch. He’s a man of duty, but when he’s off the clock and with you, that rigid posture melts into something incredibly protective and intensely romantic.
Since it's Chocolate Day, he treats it like a mission—one where the objective is your absolute surrender to indulgence.
He didn't pick a "cute" box. He picked the most intense, high-percentage dark chocolate he could find, because he likes things that are bold and lingering—just like him.
That half-smile he gives when you realize exactly what he's asking for? It’s pure Arjun Rampal—equal parts charming and sinful.
Lunch at the upscale garden restaurant was perfect. Krishna sat across from you, looking lethal in his aviators, sipping his coffee while you talked. He seemed focused only on you, but being a Major, he’s an expert at covert operations. While you were distracted by the dessert menu, he had already signaled the waiter and tucked a small, heavy, gold-foiled box into his inner jacket pocket.
The drive back was quiet, the hum of the SUV’s engine the only sound. Krishna steered with one hand, his veins prominent on his forearm, looking effortlessly cool. As you approached a secluded stretch of the road, he slowed down and pulled the car onto the shoulder.
He reached into his pocket and handed you the box without a word. When you opened it, the scent of premium Belgian cocoa hit you—rich, dark, and decadent.
"Suna hai aaj kal ke dushman chocolate se kabu mein aa jate hain... socha tumhe bhi thoda rishwat de doon." (I’ve heard that these days, enemies are conquered with chocolate... I thought I’d give you a little bribe too.)
You laughed, popping a piece into your mouth. "And what is this bribe for, Major?"
He shifted the gear into park and turned toward you, his dark eyes trailing down your neck. He leaned over, his voice dropping to a gravelly, dangerous pitch.
"Ab ghar tak ka safar lamba hai... aur mera dil kar raha hai ke thoda araam karoon. Kyun na tum meri seat par aa jao aur... mujhe aaram do?" (The journey home is long... and my heart wishes to rest a little. Why don't you come to my seat and... ride me?)
The windows were tinted dark, shielding you from the world. You climbed over the center console, your skirt hiking up as you straddled his lap. Krishna groaned, his large hands immediately finding your hips, anchoring you to him. The scent of the dark chocolate was still on your breath as you leaned down to kiss him.
"Major... ye toh protocol ke khilaf hai," you whispered against his lips. (Major... this is against protocol.)
He let out a low, rough chuckle, his hands sliding under your clothes to find bare skin.
"Jab baat tumhari ho, toh main saare rules todne ko tayyar hoon. Dikhao mujhe... tum kitni achi driver ho." (When it comes to you, I’m ready to break all the rules. Show me... how good of a driver you are.)
The car was silent except for the sound of heavy breathing and the rhythmic friction of skin against the leather seats. As you moved on him, Krishna’s head fell back against the headrest, his eyes closing in pure ecstasy. He wasn't the commanding officer here; he was a man completely undone by your touch.
The heat in the small space became unbearable, the lingering sweetness of the chocolate mixing with the raw, musky scent of desire. Every time you sank down on him, he gripped your waist tighter, his voice breaking into Urdu as he praised the way you felt. By the time you both reached the finish line, gasping and tangled together, the "ride" home had become the most memorable mission of his life.
Rudra Pratap Singh is a man forged in shadows and silence. He’s the kind of man who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders and the scent of gunpowder on his skin. For Rudra, coming home isn't just a return; it’s a temporary ceasefire.
Since it's Chocolate Day, he’s brought something small but significant, tucked away in his tactical jacket like a piece of precious intel.
He doesn't need music or fancy dinners. He just wants to sit in the dark with you, feeling the heat of your body, reminding himself that he's still human.
Even while he's being romantic, his hand might rest on your hip with a possessive grip. He’s lost too much in his life; he holds onto you like you’re his last lifeline.
He loves how you smell like expensive cocoa and home, a sharp contrast to the cold, metallic world he occupies during the day.
The house was dark, save for the soft amber glow of a single lamp in the bedroom. Rudra entered silently—habitual, even at home. He shed his heavy jacket, his broad shoulders finally relaxing when he saw you. You were sitting in the middle of your shared bed, propped up against the pillows, waiting for him.
He walked to the edge of the bed, his dark eyes tracing your form with a hunger he only ever allowed himself to show behind closed doors. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a simple, elegant bar of dark, sea-salt chocolate.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, the weight of him dipping the bed, and handed it to you.
"Sari raah sirf yahi soch raha tha... ke kab ye dunya peeche chhootegi aur main tumhare paas pahunchunga. Ye lo, suna hai aaj tumhara pasandida din hai." (The whole way, I was only thinking... when will this world be left behind and I'll reach you. Here, I heard today is your favorite day.)
You unwrapped it, breaking off a piece and feeding it to him first. He took it, his lips brushing your fingers, his gaze never leaving yours.
"Mithaas ki aadat nahi hai mujhe... magar tumhare haath se zeher bhi qubool hai." (I'm not used to sweetness... but from your hand, even poison is acceptable.)
The lingering taste of salt and chocolate on his tongue turned his kiss into something fierce and desperate. Rudra didn't do "gentle" well—his love was a storm, a release of all the tension he carried. He crawled over you, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, his body a heavy, warm pressure against yours.
"Tumhe pata nahi tum mere liye kya ho. Jab sab kuch khatam hone lagta hai, toh sirf tumhara chehra yaad aata hai." (You don't know what you are to me. When everything starts to end, yours is the only face I remember.)
He stripped with a frantic efficiency, his eyes dark with a need that bordered on worship. When he moved between your legs, his skin felt like fire against yours. He moved with a slow, agonizing rhythm at first, watching the way your eyes fluttered shut, before losing himself in the friction.
Every moan you let out was like a victory for him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged.
"Sirf meri... aaj raat, aur har raat. Samajh gayi?" (Only mine... tonight, and every night. Understood?)
As the night deepened, the chocolate lay forgotten on the nightstand. In the sanctuary of your bed, Rudra Pratap Singh wasn't an agent or a soldier; he was just a man, finding his peace and his pulse in the woman who was his only home.
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