I Dream of Disney (One-shots)

The Jewel of Agrabah [Male! Jasmine x Reader] Part V

It was not, as normal people might describe it, a calling. The burdensome and perilous lifestyle of thievery and petty crime was not a path that she would ever have chosen for herself, but it was something that came to her as instinctively as breathing. Ever since her childhood, growing up in the blistering heat of the back alleys of Bangladesh without a parent to comfort her or soothe her to sleep, her fingers had learned instinctively to itch for pockets and her nimble build had expertly scaled walls. It wasn't particularly difficult to become a thief, she discovered, but it was something of an addiction. Once you were a thief, you were a thief for life - until you had your throat sliced. The world felt like a smaller place when everyone around you was either a potential victim or a threat, but that was the code of the shadow market. 

Kill or be killed. 

(Y/n) rested her head wearily against the velvet-lined interior of the carriage. Being away from the palace struck her chest like physical pain. It had never been a part of the plan for her to fall in love with Yasmin - was that even what love felt like? There was no time for romance or compassion in the crime syndicate. There existed only three necessities: food, money and shelter. The glitz and glamour of a princess' lifestyle were going to be difficult to get over, she thought as she watched her fingertips bleed as she chewed them to the quick. 

Still in motion, the door to the carriage swung open. It did not surprise her to see the burly mass that clamoured inside. 

The dark-faced man spoke with a snicker, "My Princess." 

"I would cut your tongue out for your disrespect," (Y/n) spat darkly. "Rajul ghaby. If it was not for the fact that I don't want to sully my knife with unworthy blood." 

The thug hardly batted an eyelid at her threat. There existed only harsh masculinity in the man named Asim Vaziri; with a robust physique and barrel-chested stance, crooked aquiline nose, a dark mocha skin tone,  sinister low-hanging eyebrows and greasy strands of peach fuzz peppered in his sunburnt scalp, the man exhibited visual intimidation that was otherwise too difficult to display in (Y/n) with her soft womanly features. He could present visible tension in the enemies that had strained so long to incarcerate and murder the leader of the most elusive of the Bangladesh gangs - the Red Shamshir. Thanks solely due to efforts of the man before her, that was why their adversaries had never been successful. 

"There have been no attempts of interference," Vaziri stated. 

The man had an ineffable intuition about this sort of thing. He clearly was not worried since he lounged across the velveteen seat with a khanjar in his fingers and scrupulously picked his teeth clean of the falafel he had eaten earlier. (Y/n) didn't share his nonchalant attitude. 

The woman grumbled, "That's how it was planned, Vaziri. We needed a wide berth - at least three good hours - before they realise that the precious Jewel of Agrabah had been stolen. The more time we get, the better." 

"You worry too much," Vaziri shrugged. 

"I have to compensate for your lack of sense," (Y/n) responded drily. "You have no idea what miracles I have to perform to compensate for the empty space between your ears." 

Vaziri paused. The khanjar hovered twixt his imperfect teeth, sneering his lips. A dark thought seemed to flicker in his steely gaze and an unimaginable level of consideration gleamed there. The arches of his suspicious eyebrows puckered. His nostrils flared. It all took place in the expanse of a millisecond, but that was all it needed to be on the face of a man who was nearly always expressionless. The thought captivated his attention. 

"You have been different," Vaziri muttered dubiously. "Has the palace life charmed you?" 

The woman rose her brows distastefully. "There were charms to palace living, of course, but I hated it there. The servants with their trained stares - watching you like beady-eyed rats, hungry for you to fail so that they could feast. The royals were even worse - they did not ask the respect of their servants, but instead demanded it like the outstretched palms of beggars. Not a single person was genuine. Not a single person showed fight."