#*mehmed II

[celestial-fang]

I will be taking your city and your body, beloved emperor.

(Mehmed the Conqueror x Constantine XI Palaiologos in the Hagia Sophia. Don’t come at me, this is what happened according to Greek historians 🌚)

It will be the anniversary of the Fall of Constantinople soon, and I hope to draw something for that too.

[isabellaofparma]

The future Mehmed the Conqueror, Radu the Beautiful and Vlad the Impaler in Hunyadi (2025–) 1.06 - "A Hitetlenek"

[chaos-of-the-abyss]

selim only being responsible for two pregnancies and both of those by the same woman..... would not typically be a high bar but he is a sehzade in magnificent century and as a sehzade in magnificent century that is a truly impressive feat

[coffeewithcutcaffeine]

— a pursuer of knowledge stubborn of purpose, bold in all things. (MEHMED THE CONQUEROR | VOIEVOD)

Coldplay, Viva la Vida // Elisabeth Hewer, Wishing for Birds // Donna Tartt, The Secret History // Musnad Ahmad ibn Hanbal, Hadith 18189 // @madzieloss, oh darling, even rome fell

[sounds-of-arabia]

Mehmed II Conquers Constantinople, Jean-Joseph Benjamin-Constant

May 29th, 1453. On this day, Rome fell for good.

As the sun rose over Constantinople, little did they know this seemingly random day in the Roman Empire would never see its end. At the ripe age of 21, Mehmed II enters Constantinople triumphantly - a lifelong dream. This day changed the world.

Mehmed claimed one of the greatest legacies - Mehmed the Conqueror. Ruling over the Ottoman Empire twice over the span of four decades, he focused on achieving his dream during his second reign.

At the peak of the afternoon, Mehmed invades the city himself. He declares the Hagia Sophia Church (now in modern-day Istanbul) be immediately converted into a mosque. Once a bastion of Christianity, for the first time in twelve centuries, Constantinople was no longer Christian.

Constantinople was made the new Ottoman capital. Whatever was left of the old Byzantine empire was absorbed into Ottoman territory. While Byzantine culture would survive under Ottoman rule, the destruction of the Roman Empire was a monumental episode of history. The last surviving link between the medieval and ancient worlds was now destroyed.

As the sun set, Constantinople was no longer Greek.

[oracleoftheveil]

‎✧ Masterlist ✧

────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

‎✧ Mehmed The Conqueror ✧

✧ Headcanons ✧

⊹ Yandere Mehmed II x Favorite Concubine

✧ Imagines ✧

⊹ Yandere Mehmed x Hypersomia reader

✧ Series ✧ ⟡ The Reunion of the Two Lost Souls ⟡

⊹ Prologue

⊹ Chapter 1

⊹ Chapter 2

⊹ Chapter 3

⊹ Chapter 4

⊹ Chapter 5

⊹ Chapter 6

⊹ Chapter 7

⟡ Lost Through Time ⟡

⊹ Chapter 1

⊹ Chapter 2

‎✧ Magnificent Century ‎✧

✧ Headcanons ✧

⊹ Sultan Süleyman X Favorite Concubine 

⊹ Yandere Sultan Selim I x Favorite Concubine

⊹ Yandere Ibrahim Pasha x Favorite Concubine

⊹ Yandere Shehzade Mustafa x Favorite Concubine

⊹ Yandere Shehzade Mehmed x Favorite Concubine

⊹ Yandere Selim II x Favorite Concubine

⊹ Yandere Bayezid x Favorite Concubine

⊹ Yandere Cihangir x Favorite Concubine

✧ Imagines ✧

✧ Series ✧

‎✧ Magnificent Century Kosem‎ ✧

✧ Headcanons ✧

⊹ Yandere Sultan Ahmed I x Favorite Concubine

⊹ Yandere Sultan Murad IV x Favorite Concubine

⊹ Yandere Mehmed IV x Favorite Concubine

⊹ Yandere Sultan Osman II x Favorite Concubine

⊹ Yandere Shehzade Mehmed x Favorite Concubine

⊹ Yandere Mustafa I x Favorite Concubine

✧ Imagines ✧

✧ Series ✧

[gulnarsultan]

Yandere Fatih Sultan Mehmet with the reader who runs away from him?

The reader is Venetian and was taken to the palace with other concubines when Mehmet conquered there. Of course, she had the privilege thanks to Mehmet, I'm not giving details, you already know. The reader who fled to the East because she could not get used to the new order and was afraid of Mehmet

" Scenario "

You were living happily with your family in Venice. However, your happiness did not last long because of the war. Ottoman Sultan Mehmet the Conqueror occupied Venice in a short time. Since your family was high-ranking, you had a lively encounter with Sultan Mehmet. Sultan Mehmet was instantly captivated by your beauty. He said he would take you to his country as his concubine. He was angry when your family objected. You were torn away from your family and your country in tears.

After traveling for a while, you finally reached the Palace. Your training started shortly after you arrived at the palace. You had to be educated as a concubine. You had your own room and a few servants. Sultan Mehmet's generous gifts made other concubines jealous. Moreover, the fact that he called you to him most at night caused the concubines to hold a grudge against you. But no matter how cherished you were, you missed your home and family. Moreover, Sultan Mehmet's obsession with you was scaring you. Moreover, his obsession with you seemed to have increased even more after he found out that you were pregnant. No matter how difficult it was, you managed to escape. You ran away without looking back. You were planning to return to your country and reunite with your family. You wanted to build a happy life with your baby. Even if you didn't love Sultan Mehmet, you loved the baby in your womb. After a few weeks of escape, Sultan Mehmet caught you. His anger scared you so much. His threats to destroy Venice and take the baby away from you the moment you gave birth had scared you so much. You fell to Sultan Mehmet's legs and started begging for mercy. Sultan Mehmet agreed that he would have mercy on one condition. A promise to never run away again. You promised that you would never have to run away again. After you returned to the palace, the surveillance on you was greater than before. Now you were no different than a nightingale in a golden cage.

[gerlionrise]

Tongues of Conquest

Pairing: Mehmed ii x servant!tutor!reader Synopsis: When the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire seeks mastery of the Italian tongue, he enlists an unlikely tutor—a young servant fluent in ten languages. Their lessons begin as mere diplomacy, but amidst the exchange of words, unspoken feelings surface. In a world where loyalty and ambition intertwine, will language become a bridge between hearts or a barrier to truth?   Tags: Slow Burn, Forbidden Romance, Jealousy, Historical Fiction, Tutor/Student? Dynamics, Mutual Pining, Ottoman Empire

The conquest of Constantinople had marked the dawn of a new empire. Sultan Mehmed II, now the conqueror of two worlds, found himself in need of a new skill—mastery of the Italian tongue. His ambitions stretched far beyond the Bosporus, and to communicate with the Italian envoys, traders, and rulers of Rome, he required someone both capable and discreet.  

That someone, improbably, was you.  

Your origins were humble, a servant captured during the siege of the city. But your gift for languages had not gone unnoticed. Within weeks, whispers of the girl who spoke in ten tongues reached the Sultan’s court, and soon after, you were brought to him.  

---

The first time you saw Mehmed, he stood with the weight of an empire on his shoulders. His presence was magnetic, his dark eyes sharp with intelligence and scrutiny.  

"You are the one they speak of," he said, his voice smooth but commanding.  

You bowed low, keeping your eyes on the marble floor. “Yes, my Sultan.”  

He studied you, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. “Italian is what I require. I trust you can teach me?”  

“Yes, my Sultan.”  

"Good," he said simply, dismissing the room with a wave of his hand. "We begin tomorrow."  

---

The lessons began in a grand library adorned with ornate carvings and shelves stacked with books in languages you could only dream of reading. Mehmed sat opposite you, his posture rigid, his gaze focused.  

Your relationship was formal. He was your Sultan, and you were his servant. You corrected his pronunciation, guided him through verb conjugations, and drilled him on vocabulary. He was a quick learner, his mind as sharp as his sword.  

“You speak Italian like a Roman,�� he remarked one day, his tone almost playful.  

You smiled faintly, uncertain of how to respond. “I’ve studied it for many years.”  

“And yet you ended up here,” he said, his voice soft but probing.  

You hesitated. “Fate has curious designs, my Sultan.”  

His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary before he nodded, the conversation ending as abruptly as it began.  

---

It was during one of these lessons that the first spark ignited. Mehmed stumbled over a particularly complex sentence, and you couldn’t suppress a quiet laugh.  

His brow arched. “You find this amusing?”  

“My Sultan, even you cannot conquer grammar as swiftly as you conquered Constantinople.”  

For a moment, there was silence, and then a soft chuckle escaped him. It was the first time you’d heard him laugh, and the sound warmed something deep within you.  

“I suppose even I must have my limits,” he said, his voice lighter than usual.  

From that day, a subtle shift occurred. He began to ask you questions—not about Italian, but about yourself. Where had you learned so many languages? Did you miss your homeland?  

You answered carefully, always aware of the line between servant and sovereign. But with each conversation, the line seemed to blur.  

---

It was a quiet afternoon in the grand library. The sunlight filtered through the tall windows, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air. You sat across from Mehmed, a thick tome of Italian grammar open between you. He was focused on his writing, his brows furrowed as he attempted to conjugate verbs in a letter he was drafting.  

Out of nowhere, he looked up and asked, “How would one say ‘beautiful’ in Italian?”  

You blinked, caught off guard. “Bello or bella, my Sultan.”  

“And... ‘love’?”  

You hesitated, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “Amore.”  

He nodded slowly, repeating the words under his breath, as if tasting them. “Bella. Amore.”  

“What do you need these words for, my Sultan?” you asked, your voice quieter than usual.  

He smirked faintly, leaning back in his chair. “Perhaps I will use them one day for some beautiful Italian lady.”  

Your heart tightened at his words, though you masked it behind a polite smile. “I see,” you said simply, turning your focus back to the book.  

But the thought lingered, gnawing at the edges of your mind. You knew it was foolish, but the idea of him using those words for someone else stirred a flicker of jealousy you could not quite suppress.   ---

The court buzzed with whispers of your lessons. Though your position was strictly professional, not everyone saw it that way.  

One day, a Venetian envoy arrived at the palace. Handsome and confident, he spoke fluent Italian and attended one of your lessons with Mehmed, a beautiful act from Sultan. The Venetian greeted you warmly, his gaze lingering a moment too long.  

Mehmed noticed.  

When the envoy complimented your teaching skills, Mehmed’s jaw tightened. And when the Venetian suggested you might be better suited as a translator for his own court, Mehmed’s voice was cold as steel.  

“She belongs here,” he said, his words final.  

Later that evening, after the Venetian left your study room, the lesson was tense. Mehmed was curt, his usual curiosity replaced by a brooding silence.  

“Have I done something to displease you, my Sultan?” you asked cautiously.  

His gaze flicked to you, dark and unreadable. “No. But I do not appreciate others thinking they can claim what is mine.” The words sent a shiver through you, though you weren’t sure if it was fear or something else entirely.  

---

As the weeks passed, the formality between you continued to erode. Mehmed began to linger after lessons, speaking to you of things far beyond Italian—his dreams for the empire, his love of history, his fascination with languages.  

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, he asked, “Do you think of me as a monster?”  

The question caught you off guard. “Why would you ask that, my Sultan?”  

“Many romans here do,” he said, his voice quiet. “For what I’ve done. For what I must do.”  

You hesitated, then spoke carefully. “A ruler must make difficult choices. There is always a side that will judge you, but those who follow you will remember the strength you showed.”  

For the first time, his gaze softened, and he said, “You see more than most.”  

---

The turning point came one night during a lesson on poetry. You’d selected a sonnet in Italian, its words rich with longing and beauty.  

As you read aloud, Mehmed’s eyes never left you. When you finished, the silence hung heavy between you.  

“You speak of love as if you’ve known it,” he said, his voice low.  

You met his gaze, your heart pounding. “The words are not mine, my Sultan.”  

“Perhaps,” he said, leaning closer, “but they stir something in you, do they not?”  

Before you could respond, the door opened, breaking the moment. But the tension lingered, unspoken and undeniable.  

---

From time to time, Mehmed would slip into Arabic during your lessons. At first, he was just talking to himself. But then it became more deliberate, the words directed at you.  

One day, as you handed him a fresh quill, he murmured, “Jamila.”  

You froze for a moment before recovering, pretending you didn’t understand.  

Another time, when you struggled to reach a book on a high shelf, he said, “Habibti,” the word rolling off his tongue like silk.  

You knew exactly what it meant—“my love.” And “Jamila,” beautiful. Arabic was one of the ten languages you spoke. But you chose to stay silent, curious to see how far he would go.  

His voice softened when he used those words, the usually commanding tone replaced by something gentler, almost intimate. Each time, your heart raced, though you told yourself it was nothing. He didn’t mean it. Or did he?  

---

One evening, long after the court had gone to sleep, Mehmed found you in the library. You were bent over a stack of books, your hair falling in soft waves over your shoulders. He paused in the doorway, watching you for a moment before stepping inside.  

“I need to ask you something,” he said, his voice softer than usual.  

You looked up, surprised to see him at such a late hour.

“Of course, my Sultan.”  

He sat down across from you, his gaze unusually intense. “Do you think it is better to show love with words or actions?”  

The question caught you off guard. “Both, I suppose,” you said cautiously. “Words can inspire, but actions prove their truth.”  

He nodded slowly, as if weighing your words. “And if someone could not find the courage to say the words?”  

You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest. “Then... perhaps their actions would speak loud enough.”  

For a long moment, the two of you sat in silence, the air thick with unspoken tension. Then, quietly, he said, “Thank you, for your wisdom.”  

He rose to leave, but before he could reach the door, you called after him. “Sultan?”  

“Yes?”  

You hesitated, then shook your head. “Nothing. Goodnight.”  

He lingered for a moment before nodding. “Goodnight, Jamila.”  

And with that, he was gone, leaving you alone with the sound of your racing heart.  

[magnificentlyreused]

This blue, black and golden kaftan was first worn by Malkoçoğlu Bali Bey in the twenty-sixth episode of the third season of Magnificent Century. It appeared again on Şehzade Selim (later Sultan Selim II) in promotional material as well as the first episode of the fourth season.

The kaftan was used once again on Mehmed III Giray in promotional material and the first episode of the first season of Magnificent Century: Kösem.

[celestial-fang]

Doodles of Mehmed II my favorite silly little guy

[isabellaofparma]

Allah… Fogadd őt magadhoz. Hősként tért meg hozzád.

[queerquaintrelle]

Vamptember: the certain romance of old clothes (2/4)

Armand + 15th century historical figures I think he shares commonalities with.

In order:

Joan of Arc - the 'maid of Orleans' or as I like to say, the androgynous 'holy heretic' (simultaneously) or just if you believe her enemies, a terrifying symbol and not nearly seventeen she scared the English out of France.

Mehmed II the Conqueror - boy Sultan (king) who shocked the entire ottoman empire with his competence and his (although not called that at the time) bisexuality.

Catherine of Aragon - her father's child moreso than her mother's (Isabella I of Castille), persistent to a fault, loyal like a dog (affectionate), and faithful to her faith to the point where it causes problems. Also, wildly misunderstood and deserved better.

@vamptember

[coffeewithcutcaffeine]

You're a defiant act of creation. You're a whole solar system pretending to be a person. — Elisabeth Hewer, from World Inside Expanding

SULTAN MEHMED II CONQUEROR | VOIEVOD

[baebeylik]

[oracleoftheveil]

⟡The Reunion of Two Souls - Chapter 6

✧Masterlist✧

✧ Taglist: @delightful-light

Pairing: yandere!Mehmed ii x Female Wallachian reader

Genre: Yandere/Dark!au, Historical Fiction , Romance, Drama

Setting: 15th-century Ottoman Empire & Wallachia

Warnings: obsessive and possessive behavior, murder, mention of torture, kidnapping, dub-con, Pregnancy, eventual smut.

Summary: She was the youngest Drăculești — dark like Vlad, gentle like Radu, cunning beyond them both. Raised beside Mehmed in the Ottoman court, she hated him, loved him, and whispered the idea of cannons into his ear. Then she left with Vlad… and Mehmed was told she died.

Years later, after the fall of Constantinople, she’s captured while helping a burning village. Disguised among the slaves of his harem, everyone around him sees her — except Mehmed.

He thinks she’s gone.

She’s closer than ever.

────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

Mehmed’s POV

The council chamber was thick with smoke and urgency. I stood before the divan, the scent of burning sandalwood curling around my shoulders like a serpent. My armor lay folded on the marble bench nearby, forgotten in favor of maps, letters, and gold-stamped reports piling before me. I hadn’t slept—not truly—in days. My mind was far too full for rest.

“Zaganos,” I muttered, dragging my finger along the edge of the Anatolian map, “you’re certain it’s not just a border raid?”

He crossed his arms, brow furrowed. “Not this time, Hünkârım. They’ve struck supply caravans. Twice. They’ve taken arms. Horses. This is no skirmish—it’s planned, organized. And their messengers are speaking in your name.”

A treasonous grin tugged at my mouth, but it wasn’t amusement. It was restraint. Fury behind the teeth.

“Pretending to serve me as they rob my coffers and murder my men?” I straightened and looked toward Ishak Pasha, who stood beside the treasury scrolls. “And what is the state of the funds?”

He bowed slightly. “Your campaigns drained the war treasury, my Sultan. But the silk trade in Bursa and the new tariffs from the Genoese ships have replenished enough. We can raise a force—two thousand sipahis and five thousand foot soldiers, and still have coin left to calm the provinces.”

“Calm them?” I echoed, voice rising like iron drawn from its scabbard. “They’ll be calmed when I have the ringleaders’ heads hanging from the walls.”

No one answered that. They all knew the truth. The world feared the Ottomans—but not enough. Not yet.

I turned from them, hands braced on the windowsill. Outside, the sun split the sky like a blade, casting the domes of Topkapı in gold. I could see the edge of the Bosphorus glittering in the distance.

Every time I thought I could breathe, something new clawed at my throne.

I thought of Constantine. Of the siege. Of the blood that soaked the gates. All that for the dream of an empire that could outlive Rome. And yet, it wasn’t rebels or traitors that haunted me most.

It was her.

Her.

The girl I’d seen only briefly yesterday—hooded, silent, back turned to me—but it didn’t matter. I knew her. Even hidden behind veils, time hadn’t dulled the shape of her. The curve of her neck, the stillness of her shoulders. I felt it like a blow to the chest.

Eight years. And still I remembered her face more clearly than I did my mother’s.

I should have called her back. Should have torn off the veil and demanded to know if it was real. But then ZaganosPashahad come with news of rebellion, and I had no choice but to let her vanish like a ghost again.

Or maybe I didn’t want to see the truth.

If it really was her… what had she been doing all this time? Why now? Why here?

“Bring me Sümbül Agha,” I said suddenly.

Zaganos and Ishak exchanged a glance. “Sümbül?” Ishak asked carefully. “From the harem?”

“Yes,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Now.”

They obeyed without question. No one questioned me. I was the Padishah. The Shadow of God on Earth. But no divine title could erase the memory of her lips whispering secrets into my skin, her hands trembling in mine when we were barely more than children.

I ran a hand through my hair. My temper flared too easily these days. I hated that. A sultan needed to be still, cold. Not stormy.

My eyes flicked back to the map. Rebellion or not, if it was truly her, she would upend everything.

But I needed to know.

Not just if it was her.

I needed to know why she was hiding from me.────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

Reader’s POV

I scrubbed harder at the hem of the shift, though the stain had long faded. My hands were raw, fingers puckered and cracked from the endless laundry, yet I kept working—because if I didn’t, I’d think. And if I thought, I’d break.

The stone basins steamed around me, echoing with the hiss of boiling water and the thud of fabric slapped against rock. My linen sleeves clung to my arms, wet from elbow to wrist. Menekşe knelt beside me in silence, wringing out a pair of silk trousers with her teeth pressed tight to her bottom lip.

No one dared speak about what had happened the day before. About the embroidery. About the summons. About me.

But they whispered.

Their whispers floated through the corridors like perfume—soft, sweet, and poisonous.

“I heard he didn’t say a word to her…”

“Maybe he recognized her.”

“No, she’s too plain for him.”

“…but what if she’s a witch? What if that’s why Sümbül protects her?”

They didn’t say it to my face. They were smarter than that. But their eyes burned holes in my skin.

And now, even Gulbahar hated me more than usual—which, frankly, I didn’t think was possible.

I twisted the cloth tighter, water sloshing up the side of the basin.

Gulbahar.

I could still see the look on her face after I told her everything. The horror. The fury. The humiliation. She’d always assumed she ruled the harem—but the truth? The truth shook her. Because he had been mine first. Because I had something she couldn’t reach, not with all her perfume, silks, or songs.

She wanted to kill me for that. I could feel it in the way she stared holes into my back when we crossed paths. Like she was waiting for the moment I made a mistake—just one slip—and she’d run straight to Mehmed.

But she wouldn’t.

Not while Mother Mara was watching.

I exhaled slowly, leaning my weight on the edge of the basin. My knees ached. My back screamed. Yet none of that compared to what curled up inside my chest every time I thought of him.

He hadn’t seen me. Not really. He’d barely looked up before Zaganos barged in. But I’d felt it—that moment. The way his head tilted. The silence that fell when I stood in his chambers. The ghost of recognition.

Was it possible?

Did he feel it, too?

A splash beside me snapped me out of my thoughts. Menekşe nudged a tunic into my basin, her brow tight with worry. “You need to be careful,” she whispered, eyes darting around the steam-filled chamber.

“I am careful.”

“No, you’re angry,” she hissed. “You’re provoking Gulbahar. You’re drawing attention. Even Valide Mara can only protect you so much. You think Mehmed won’t find out eventually?”

I said nothing.

Because she was right.

I was angry. Furious, even. At Mehmed. At myself. At fate. At this gilded prison dressed as a palace.

But more than that—I was terrified.

Because if Mehmed found out who I was… I didn’t know what he’d do.

Would he chain me? Hide me? Claim me again? Or would he destroy me for the secrets I carried?

I reached for the next tunic and scrubbed until my knuckles went white.

You promised to find a way out, I reminded myself. Not to fall back in.

But part of me already had.

And that part? It was louder every day.

────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

Mehmed’s POV

The council chamber was a furnace of tension and sweat.

Scrolls lay open before me, filled with hastily scrawled reports—ink still fresh in some places. Zaganos Pasha paced like a tethered wolf, while Ishak stood by the window, arms crossed, jaw locked. The rebellion in the north was spreading faster than anticipated. And worse, some beylerbeys had grown too quiet.

“Traitors don’t shout,” I muttered, pressing my thumb and forefinger to my brow.

“No,” Zaganos said, “they whisper. And then they wait.”

The words left a bitter taste in my mouth.

I nodded slowly, reaching for the dispatch from the border. Supplies were low. Grain shipments had been seized by rebel horsemen. Two tax collectors had been hanged from a fig tree as a warning. This wasn’t just a flare of discontent—it was a calculated move. Someone was testing me.

Again.

I leaned back in my chair. The weight of the empire rested on my shoulders—but my mind drifted.

Not to the rebellion. Not to the traitors.

But to… her.

That girl. That slave.

The one Sümbül sent with the embroidery.

She hadn’t spoken a word, not even when I turned to look at her. Something in her silence had clung to me like incense. Something… familiar.

I should have asked. I should’ve called Sümbül and demanded to know who she was.

But I hadn’t.

And now…

“My Sultan,” Sümbül Agha’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. He approached quietly, a thin layer of sweat on his brow. “The horses are being saddled. Your guards await.”

I stared at him for a long moment. The question was at the tip of my tongue: Who was she? That girl?

But I swallowed it down.

There was no time. Not now. I had a rebellion to crush. Borders to secure. Enemies to hang.

Besides, what would I even say?

Tell me the name of a laundress who brought a folded cloth and stared at me like I was both her captor and her curse?

No. It was foolish. Sentimental.

I stood and nodded once. “Tell the viziers we ride by nightfall. And double the guards near Edirne’s supply route. If any beylerbey hesitates to pledge loyalty, send his head before his words.”

Sümbül bowed. “Yes, my Sultan.”

I turned from the table, the thick hem of my cloak sweeping across the mosaic floor. But even as I left, a strange pull tugged behind my ribs—a whisper, soft and persistent.

You’ve seen her before.

I clenched my jaw.

Now was not the time for ghosts.

Let her stay forgotten.

For now.

────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

Reader’s POV

I didn’t need a trumpet’s cry or the janissary drums to know Mehmed had left the palace.

The air told me first.

It was… stiller.

Like the Topkapi itself was holding its breath.

Then came the hurried footsteps of guards, the flurry of kalfas tightening silks, Sümbül Agha shouting orders to the eunuchs and scribes about routes and banners, names of viziers, and tax routes too tangled for my weary mind. From the laundry window, I glimpsed the back of his cloak—dark crimson in the morning light—as he disappeared into the belly of the courtyard, flanked by his men.

He was gone.

I exhaled.

Why did I feel… lighter?

Why did I feel… disappointed?

“Don’t just stand there like a ghost,” Sümbül Agha snapped, smacking his cane near my feet. “You, yes you, laundress girl—go with the others to the bathhouse. We’ve no time for idle thinking today.”

“Yes, Agha,” I murmured, bowing my head and tucking the embroidery linen under my arm.

The bathhouse was always hot—steam coiled around our ankles like creeping fog, the marble slippery beneath our soles. I carried bundles of damp silks to the drying benches while the kalfas gave commands. The harem was quieter without the Sultan. Girls whispered instead of giggling. Their hunger seemed to have momentarily disappeared with him.

“Don’t wrinkle that one,” barked Cennet Kalfa, smacking my knuckles with a wooden brush.

I bit my tongue. Again.

My knees ached as I bent to wring out linens. My fingers had long turned raw from scrubbing. My thoughts drifted to Radu, to Vlad, to my people. But mostly, to her.

Valide Sultan.

Mara.

I didn’t want to speak to her again. I didn’t want to remember the way she once held me when I cried over Mehmed. But I couldn’t avoid her either.

Later that afternoon, I was summoned to her chambers.

They smelled like rose oil and lavender, like the home I barely remembered.

Valide Mara sat by the window, embroidery in hand, eyes distant. A rare softness clung to her face. Her silvery hair was wrapped in a dark purple scarf, heavy with golden pins.

“You look tired,” she said, her voice still holding its Serbian lilt. “Come. Sit. I won’t bite.”

I sat.

“I heard about the embroidery,” she added, threading a needle. “It pleased him.”

I said nothing. What could I say?

“Do you remember the winter in Smederevo?” she asked. “You and Vlad building snow beasts in the courtyard. You cried because his was larger than yours.”

“I remember,” I murmured.

“I told you to pour hot water on his. You did. It melted.”

That made me smile, faintly. “You were always cunning.”

She smiled too, a sliver of sadness flickering in her eyes. “How did you survive? Where were you all these years?”

And so I told her. The long journey back home. The raid. The smoke. the burning village. My capture.

Her expression darkened.

And behind her, near the doorway—Gulbahar stood listening.

I could feel her gaze like fire on my skin. But I didn’t care.

She wasn’t alone.

The others were there too.

Gülşah Hatun and Sittişah Hatun stood further back, whispering between themselves. Çiçek Hatun sat pretending to mend a scarf. The others—Anna, Helena, Maria, Hatice—watched from cushioned corners, their eyes wide and sparkling with questions they didn’t dare ask aloud.

“She was the girl he used to write to,” Gulbahar hissed, stepping into the room. “The one he mourned. And now she’s back, parading her embroidery like a badge.”

“Enough,” Valide Mara said sharply, her eyes narrowing.

“She thinks she’s better than us!” Gulbahar snapped. “She struts around like she knows him best.”

“I do know him best,” I said, rising from the cushion. “Because I had him first.”

Gasps filled the room. Even Mara blinked.

“Before the crown, before Constantinople, before you all began panting over the scent of his robe—I knew him. I knew the boy who hated figs and snuck into my bed chamber to whisper poems.”

My voice dropped into a whisper.

“He was mine. Long before he became yours.”

Silence.

Gulbahar trembled, her hands balled into fists.

Valide Mara stood slowly, folding her embroidery and facing us both.

“That’s enough,” she said. Her voice was low, but sharp as a blade. “What happened in the past… remains there. Speak of these things again, and I’ll have you scrub the palace floors until your skin bleeds.”

I looked at her and nodded once.

I’d pushed too far.

Gulbahar stared at Valide, betrayed and pale. “So it’s true… what she said?”

Valide didn’t answer. She only turned to her maids. “Leave us.”

As they filed out, I lingered near the door, my heart thundering.

Mara looked at me. “Be smarter. You’re not in Wallachia anymore.”

“I never forgot that.”

“Good,” she said. “Because in this palace, memory is power. And forgetting… can be fatal

[gulnarsultan]

Yandere Fatih Sultan Mehmet with a scientist f!reader?

Yandere Fatih Sultan Mehmet and scientist woman reader.

~ Sultan Mehmet was one of the Ottoman Sultans who valued science very much. He has been closely interested in science since his childhood. He loved chatting and making friends with scholars and scientists.

~ Mehmet had heard of your reputation. He never thought he would fall in love when he wanted to meet you. Every time he spent with you was like the best moments for Mehmet.

~ Then he realized that spending short time with you wasn't enough anymore. He conveyed through messengers that he wanted to marry you. Whether you want it or not, you become Mehmet's wife.

~ After all, no one can oppose the Conqueror. Mehmet will do anything to get you. In a short time, you get married with a beautiful wedding and settle in the Palace.

~ You are still working on science. However, you are not allowed to leave the Palace. Researches of other scientists and many historical works are gifted to you by Mehmet.