Chapter Text
Shah Jahan smirked deviously as his favorite begum, Mumtaz Mahal, arrived in his personal chambers. "May I say you look radiant tonight, my queen?" He purred, throwing off her veil so her inky tresses fell across her face like the gentle waves of the Indian oceans.
Mumtaz Mahal looked away, embarrassed by the display of affection by her sultan (idk what mughal emperors were called so lets call him sultan, okay?!??!?!?) and softly lowered her gaze. "It's afternoon, my lord." She demurred, glancing at him with a glint of playful mischief in her hazel eyes.
Shah Jahan instructed a nearby guard, who was trying to pretend like he wasn't staring at Mumtaz Mahal's gorgeous, silky hair, to shut the windows, draw the curtains, and put out the fires in those fire cone thingies. "Now it's dark." He smirked, inviting her to sit beside him. "Tell me, my rose, are you pregnant?"
Mumtaz Mahal rolled her eyes. "Shah, the doctor said that maybe... maybe fifteen is enough, you know? There's fourteen, maybe ten,-- I don't know, some night have died of malaria or smallpox-- spare boys who are never going to rule. I'm not a fucking cloning machine."
"That you are not." Shah Jahan agreed, his smouldering gaze travelling down Mumtaz Mahal's beautiful face to trail his gaze across the creamy expanse of her neck, her collarbones that peaked out beneath her silken embroidered blouse, and he licked his lips lascivously. "Come. Let us make love, Mumtaz!"
She pursed her lips, staring him down with an expression that shouldn't have made the 'sceptre' in his baggy pant thingies activate but it did. That lookk was very hot. "You called me just so we could fuck?"
Shah Jahan looked flummoxed at her sudden change in attitude. "Why, yes, my dear! Isn't being bestowed with the sultan's 'gift' the greatest honor any woman in this land could recieve?" He wiggled his eyebrows mischieviously at his favorite begum. Or wife. I don't remember if she was sultaness or whatever but that's not plot important so she's just a standard concubine but Mughal, so begum it is and fuck you too. "You have carried fifteen of my sons already, my dearest rose. What's one more? I shall make that one, that sixteenth son the heir to my throne."
Mumtaz Mahal raised one elegant brow. "Not that cunt Noor's son? He's been eyeing that peacock throne, Shah."
The sultan stepped forward, enveloping his favorite begum in his arms. "You know I love only you, Mumtaz. That wench and her son can rot in hell. Infact, I shall kill them right now for your favor! What use to me is an empress when I have you before me? But first," he paused, his hands resting on her slim and delicate waist which was miraculously slim and delicate despite fifteen babies popping out of her vagina, "girl, you be lookin' so fine, I wanna take you down."
A smile bloomed across her face even as she fought it. "No, wait, Shah! I'm trying to be serious here!" She exclaimed, even as her husband(?) gathered her up in his big, strong, muscular arms and heaved her petite body onto their gorgeous bed. The bed was huge, huge enough for fifteen children to sleep comfortably on it, but because Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal were such good parents, they never let their children in to sleep on the big comofrtable mattress stuffed with exotic ostrich feathers because a. it was expensive, and b. they needed to fuck. A lot. How else was Mumtaz Mahal pregnant fifteen times in fifteen years? Shah Jahan was such a nice lover, he let his favorite begum rest for three months before bestowing another bouncing bumbling baby boy inside her that they wouldn;t care about after his birth.
Mumtaz Mahal softly 'oompf'd' as she landed on the soft ostrich-stuffed mattress, her skirts spreading around her legs like the multicolored wings of a peacock. Oh, that's right, she was wearing her favorite outfit tonight, and it just so happened that it was Shah Jahan's favorite outfit on her too.
Her veil, which had been carelessly pushed aside by Shah Jahan's calloused palms, was the deepest shades of blue, made with the finest dyes imported straight from the islands of Greeze. It was a lovely deep-blue shade, much like the plumage of a majestic peacock. Her blouse thingy (i don't know what it's actually called, sorry) was also a deep shade of blue, but not as deep as her veil which was dark enough to be black. It was more of a Prussian Blue, like one of those dark but not so dark blues you get in a 25 pack of Camel's oil pastels.
Under Shah Jahan's ministrations, the veil fluttered to the ground, forgotten. His nimble fingers quickly unbuttoned the front of her blouse, while also untying it from the behind because it was quite tight on her body, and Mumtaz Mahal let out a blissful sigh as she felt her heaving bosoms freed from the confines of her blouse. Shan Jahan looked like he was going to drool once he saw the pale expanse of skin now awailable to his gaze, but his begum pushed him away with an irritated eyeroll.
"I just breastfed our youngest and second-youngest sons. No."
Shah Jahan coughed. "Don't you mean Prince Malik-eh-pandhra and Prince Khaif-ur-choudha, respectively? The most handsome young boys in all the land? Why, I often hear the other women of the Zenana praise their beauty and wit. I heard my son, Prince Haif-uhn-choudha is already speaking. Why, he's only one year of age, and he might even exceed you in intelligence some day, my rose!"
"Youngest and second youngest," Mumtaz Mahal said firmly.
"As you insist, my queen." Shah Jahan said magnanimously, bowing. He tried to keep his gaze away from her bountiful breasts and on her beautiful, shapely face instead, but it was rather hard. "My dearest begum. My rose. My life, my heart, the only woman in this entire world who owns my soul as wholly as you do."
"Yes, Shah?"
"Can we fuck now? Please?" The expression on his face right now was so much reminscent to that of a puppy Mumtaz Mahal had seen the other day while she was chatting with her ladies in waiting in the courtyard of the Zenana that she couldn't help but huff out a laugh.
"As long as you promise to behead that cunt Noor's son." She said, as Shah Jahan's hands creeped under her multi-colored heavy skirts. "I will give you another child, my lord."
Shah Jahan licked his lips. He gently unravelled her skirt. It was a rich, emerald green, adorned with inlaid silver and gold thread. It was an exquite work of art, something that Mumtaz Mahal had purchased from a travelling Dutch salesman. It rested on her creamy thighs and long legs like the plumage of a peacock, and Shah Jahan could feel his 'sceptre' ready to issue out another 'proclamation' to 'venerate' her.
Shah Jahan licked his lips. He unravelled a second skirt. It was a patterened fabric the color of sand, just like the down-feathers of the plumage of a peacock.
Shah Jahan licked his lips. He unraveled a third skirt. It was black and white, like the chess board they oftened played chess with.
Shah Jahan licked his lips, and realized his lips were rather salivary right now. "Goodness, Mumtaz! How many skirts do you have?" He exclaimed, shaking his head in bewilderment. "How can you walk around so gracefully even though these heavy, embroidered fabrics inhibit your movement? Your grace remains unparalled, my rose, just like the sweet doves that alight upon the eaves of our balconies in the morning."
"Practice," Mumtaz Mahal winked, before pulling down Shah Jahan's poofy pantaloons down in one swift motion. "Hah! Maybe you should wear some layers underneath that too, Shah." She said with a playful smirk, eyeing his very obvious ereciton with an undisguised appreciative gleam in her eyes. "Someone's eager."
"My dearest heart, my burning fire; I can no longer control my passion for you!" Shah Jahan cried. He scrambled forward on the four-postered, super-ultra-large-deluxe ostrich-feathered bed as he was overcome by love for the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes on. With an impossible gentle grasp on her soft and miraculously unflabby waist, he thrust himself into her inviting 'chambers', the two royals working very hard so that the 'proclamation' could be issued with haste.
Mumtaz Mahal made wild noises of pleasure, as if possessed by a demon, as her beloved sultan pleased her thoroughly. Every touch of his calloused palms across her skin sent shivers down her spine, and she didn't even protest as he gently carressed her boundless boobs, even if her nipples hurt. Seriously, fuck Prince Malik-eh-pandhra and Prince Khaif-ur-choudha. Someone should really invent a way to feed babies that didn't involve attatching them to your mammary glands!
"Oh, Mumtaz!" Shah Jahan groaned as he could feel his 'proclamation' ready to be 'announced' within Mumtaz Mahal's 'chambers'. Soon, the coupling was done because I cannot write 'spicy time' and therefore, we skip ahead to where they're fully clothed and sitting on the couch while some summonned dancers dance to amuse them.
Suddenly, as his arm was possessively wrapped around Mumtaz Mahal's waist, a thought popped into Shah Jahan's head. It was the first he'd had all evening. "My dearest?" He inquired, turning to his beloved begum, who was currently eating grapes dipped in the finest of Swizz dark chocolate.
"Yes, Shah?" She replied, turning her piercing gaze to look at him.
"Why do you get pregnant so often?"
Mumtaz Mahal turned to him with a grin. "You see, when a sultan loves a begum too much and can barely restrain himself with the passion he feels for her--"
"I know how," the sultan interjected with an embarrassed cough, "but why?"
"Because you're the king and I can't deny you?"
Shah Jahan rolled his eyes. "You are capable of denying me, dearest. Infact, you'll recall that last month, shortly after I welcomed our youngest, Prince Malik-er-pandhra into our life, you seemed to have an aversion for carnal pleasures."
"You can say 'sex'," Mumtaz Mahal said as she popped another chocolate-coated grape into her mouth. "And I doubt you'd want sex when my vagina is cosplaying the first plague of Egypt."
"The first what now?" Shah Jahan turned to his well-educated love as his eyes widened in panic. "Do you mean your... 'chambers' were struck by some sort of illness post Prince Malif-eh-pandhra's exit?"
Mumtaz Mahal sighed and shoved a grape into his open mouth. "I was on my periods, Shah. Bleeding. Menstruation."
The sultan's eyebrows furrowed, and he swallowed the fruit before continuing. "Prince Janab-uf-pehla's arithmetic tutor teaches him the skill of bleeding?"
"No, that's mensuration." Mumtaz Mahal sighed. "Sometimes I wonder if our kids have a braincell."
"Oh? What words escaped your lips and my hearing, dear rose?"
"Sometimes I wonder if our kids might like a different wing of the palace to dwell," she lied smoothly. She gestured for a nearby attendant to bring over something to eat that wasn't grapes, and surely, a few minutes later two plates piled with steaming mutton biriyani arrived, along with chicken 65, chicken tikka masala (dry), and a lovely raita to wash it off. "Assisstant, where is my rooh-afza?" Mumtaz called out, disappointed to see no drink in a solver goblet on the table before her.
"They didn't get you your rooh-afza?!" Shah Jahan thundered, unsheathing his sword (no, this is not a auphemism) and penetrating it into the attendant's chest cavity. The attendant's red kurta was even redder now due to all the blood, while only a speck of ruby red liquid had made its way onto the sultan's attire. He was pretty experience in the whole murder thing, so he knew how to keep fluids off his body. Immediately, the rest of the attendants fled, presumably to fetch the beautiful begum her drink.
Mumtaz Mahal sighed, exasperated, as he put his sword away and possessively placed a kiss upon her rosy cheeks. "Who's going to clean up this mess now?" She glances distatstefully at the cooling corpse, and the red spreading out around it. "Oh, well." She shrugged, returning back to devouring her biriyani.
Later that night, when it was actually night and not just darkened rooms, Shah Jahan's fingers skimmed across mehendi-decorated wrists. "Stay with me tonight, Mumtaz." He whispered, nothing but sincere devotion in his eyes.
"As you wish, my lord," she said, and rejoiced for she wouldn't have to calm down crying babies tonight.
"You still didn't tell me why you willingly undergo these pregnancies, my dear rose." Shah Jahan asked, as he and Mumtaz Mahal sat upon a silver swing made of the finest silver engraving by the most talented artisans off the land. "And don't say it's to secure the bloodline, because I have fourteen sons to spare."
Mumtaz Mahal bit her lip, unsure of how to phrase it. "So, you know how I said I didn't want to fuck you because I was on my periods, right?"
"A shame, but your health comes first, my heart." Shah Jahan said, gazing at the love of his life with such a sappy, simpy look that you could almost see the hearts in his eyes and baby cherubs running above his head.
She smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she shyly glanced at her sultan. "Well, I did the math, and I figured out that a few hours of labour pains are better than three days of period cramps."
Shah Jahan winced. "That bad?"
Mumtaz Mahal nodded. "That bad."
They sat in companiable silence for several minutes, gazing at the stars together. She pointed out some or the other star, narrating the stories and myths attatched to them, while he was content to just listen to her speak. Ah, she had the voice of nightingales! Even the apsaras of heaven held not a candle to her graceful and witty tongue. Every syllable flowed like the gentle monsoon showers, and he thought that even if they turned into a torrent, he'd be content with drowning in their depths.
The begum grew silent eventually, her head gently lolling against the sultan's. He glanced down at her, seeing her peaceful, content expression.
"Mumtaz?"
She cracked an eye open. "Yes, Shah?"
"I'm going to make sure you're pregnant by the end of this week."
"Fuck, I love you."