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how mc fandom sees Nurbanu x Selim

Vs How the Show actually potrays Nurbanu x Selim

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how mc fandom sees Nurbanu x Selim

Vs How the Show actually potrays Nurbanu x Selim

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how mc fandom sees Nurbanu x Selim

Vs How the Show actually potrays Nurbanu x Selim

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how mc fandom sees Nurbanu x Selim

Vs How the Show actually potrays Nurbanu x Selim

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i haven't seen anyone make this connection so I will be the first one to

kanji from persona 4 and mickey milkovich lowkey twins

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Süleyman ignoring Hürrem drinking coffee confirms my belief that he ignored the whole Leo thing on purpose. And confirmed that he knows so many things Hürrem does behind his back but doesn't say anything cause he loves her and knows she's loyal

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The Courtier Who Laughs Too Loud

A man can conquer kingdoms and still fear the sound of another man making her laugh.

The dining hall in Ibrahim Pasha’s palace was elegant in its restraint — polished marble, tall narrow windows casting long lines of sunlight across the table, the centerpiece arranged with pale tulips and sprigs of rosemary, an Ottoman nod to foreign guests. The table itself was European in style — long and stately, a symbol of diplomacy more than tradition — and tonight it was set for ten.

Süleyman sat at the head, with Ibrahim to his right, Hatice beside him. Hürrem sat opposite them, close enough to speak to easily, far enough that he could study her without suspicion. She wore a gown of emerald silk, understated by her standards, but no less arresting. Her hair was woven with thin strands of gold, barely visible, like sunlight braided into red.

The Florentine noble — Lord Giuliano di Spada — was seated near her, two places down. He was young. Keen-eyed. Fluent in Ottoman, though he seemed to enjoy inserting Italian flourishes, as if to remind them all of his roots. Ibrahim had spoken highly of his connections, his quick mind, his loyalty to the Medici.

Süleyman had no reason to dislike him.

And yet.

The meal began gently. Saffron rice, roasted quail, stewed apricots. Conversation wove easily around trade routes, Venetian envoys, the paper mill recently built on the outskirts of Istanbul. Giuliano spoke well — concise, well-informed, appropriately deferent — but every so often, his gaze flicked sideways toward Hürrem. Never too long. Never enough to accuse.

But enough to notice.

At first, Süleyman told himself it was habit. Hürrem drew attention — it was a law of nature. And she, for her part, was perfectly composed. She drank sparingly. Offered a few opinions, all relevant. She knew how to be watched.

It was nothing.

Still, he watched her more closely.

By the third course, the wine had warmed everyone’s voices. Giuliano began telling a story — something about a winter storm near Genoa, a broken carriage wheel, a monk who mistook him for a ghost. It was well-told. Quick-witted.

She smiled.

Süleyman sipped his wine.

Giuliano added another flourish — some small, dramatic gesture — and Hürrem gave a soft hum of amusement. Not quite laughter. Not yet.

But her eyes shone.

He felt it then, the shift. A quiet discomfort at the base of his ribs.

A moment later, Giuliano made some sly comment — the kind meant to surprise, to provoke — and she laughed. Just once. Light and free, like air caught in sunlight.

It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t seduction.

But it was joy. Undiluted.

And for a moment, it wasn’t his.

Across from him, Ibrahim glanced up. Noticed. Then turned back to his plate like a man well-practiced in silence.

Hatice’s fork scraped gently against her plate.

Süleyman said nothing.

But his knuckles tightened slightly around the silver goblet.

The laughter faded, but it left a mark — like the echo of a dropped goblet no one acknowledged.

Süleyman’s posture didn't change, but something in him retracted. The indulgent half-smile he had been wearing for most of the evening faded by a breath. He still looked every inch the Sultan — serene, composed, almost untouchable — but now his silence had edges.

Hürrem noticed. Of course she did.

But she didn’t look at him right away. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, listening as Hatice asked Giuliano about his travels. Hürrem smiled politely. Engaged. But her lashes lowered for a second too long. Calculating. Like a cat who’d heard a sound behind the wall.

The meal wound down with pleasant formalities. Dates and figs were brought out, and serbet was refreshed, but Süleyman declined. He spoke only when necessary. And when he did, his voice had cooled — not with anger, but the practiced frost of someone who cannot afford to speak emotionally and remain sovereign at once.

When the guests finally rose, and polite goodbyes were made in the marble corridor, Süleyman lingered only long enough to nod curtly at Giuliano before turning toward the guest chamber where he was to stay the night.

He didn’t look at Hürrem again.

She didn’t try to stop him. Not there. Not in front of Hatice. But her hand curled around the edge of the silken sash at her waist, and her mouth set with that same subtle defiance she wore in the harem during their first battles — when her rank was nothing and her will was everything.

Later, when the palace had gone quiet, she found him in the side salon — the one with the red glass lamps and the view of the courtyard garden. He stood with his back to the open window, hands clasped behind him. The moon cast sharp lines across his face.

He didn’t turn.

She stepped inside anyway.

“Sultanım,” she said softly, as if formality might soften the blow.

Still, he didn’t move.

“I’ve come to ask if something’s wrong,” she continued. “Or if you’ll keep wearing silence like armor.”

At that, he looked at her. Not sharply — but slowly. Measured, like someone weighing damage.

“You laughed,” he said.

A beat passed.

“I do that sometimes,” she replied, tilting her head. “It’s not a crime. Yet.”

“It wasn’t that you laughed,” he said, finally stepping toward her. “It was that he made you laugh.”

His voice was quieter than before. Not cold now, but stripped of that protective grandeur. He looked not like the Padishah who ruled the world — but like the man who had once handed her a single tulip, in secret, as if it were rebellion.

“You laugh for me,” he said. “You smile because of me. That has always been mine.”

There was no fury in him — just a raw, unshielded ache he had no practice hiding.

Hürrem drew closer, stopping only when she was close enough to see the small tremor in his jaw.

“I didn’t give it to him,” she said. “It slipped. That’s all.”

He looked away. “You belong to the man who built you a palace. And still I feel threatened by a look. A laugh.”

“Because you’re human,” she said simply. “Because love makes fools of gods and emperors both.”

There was silence between them, but it wasn’t empty.

“I’ve never feared losing power,” he confessed. “But the thought of losing you — even a sliver of you, a breath, a glance — it undoes me.”

“And yet,” she said, stepping into his space now, placing her hand on his chest, “you pull away, as if distance could keep you safe. As if I haven’t already ruined you.”

He laughed — not loud, not free, but real. The sound of surrender.

“I did laugh,” she admitted. “But only because it reminded me of something I’d forgotten.”

“What’s that?”

“That I never used to be this careful with my laughter,” she said. “Before you, before this life. I used to be reckless with joy.”

“And now?” he asked, his hand covering hers.

“Now,” she said, “I treasure it. Because I want you to be the only one who sees it.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

Then, gently, he kissed her — not as a Sultan, not even as a lover, but as a man who had wandered too close to doubt and been pulled back by truth.

The lamps burned low. The courtyard outside stirred with wind. But inside the salon, all was still.

And somewhere beneath the silence, laughter waited — not a threat, not a weapon, but something shared. Something safe.

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Title: “The Shape of Their Silence”

Premise:

After a long council day, Süleyman overhears a tense conversation between Hürrem and Ibrahim — hushed voices, too quiet to catch, but sharp with tension. He doesn’t ask about it. He waits. Watches. Broods. But the silence between them becomes a third presence in his chambers, and soon he can't help but try to pry it open. Because he trusts them. But he doesn't believe them. Not completely. Not anymore.

The Shape of Their Silence

It is not love that makes him jealous. He is not that foolish.

It is not the shape of Ibrahim’s mouth, or the way Hürrem’s voice softens when she says his name. It is not that he suspects betrayal — not the kind that would wound his pride. It is worse than that.

It is the silence.

It happened three days ago. He walked past a side corridor, footsteps soft from long habit. Their voices — hers sharp like cut glass, his cold as marble left in the sun — halted the moment he turned the corner.

They stood close. Not improperly. Not even warmly. But the air between them had been charged. Not like a flirtation. Like a standoff. Like two mirrors, held face to face, each waiting for the other to break.

They bowed. Said nothing. Dispersed.

And still, he thinks of it.

Hürrem hasn’t mentioned it. Neither has Ibrahim. As if they’ve agreed — he doesn’t need to know.

But Süleyman is a man who has built his life on knowing. Weighing. Measuring. Secrets are weapons, and silence is often the sheath.

He finds her alone that night, her hair unbraided, draped in pale blue silk that doesn’t try to flatter — and flatters all the more for it. She doesn’t look up as he enters.

“You fought with him,” he says, without preamble.

She doesn’t pretend not to understand. “We speak often. It’s rarely peaceful.”

He steps closer. Slowly. “Why?”

Now she looks at him — and the look in her eyes makes something in him curl in warning. Not anger. Not defiance. Pity.

“He doesn’t love you the way I do,” she says.

The words land between them like a dropped blade. He stares.

“And you think that gives him reason to hate you?” he asks.

Hürrem’s mouth twitches. “No. I think it makes him... curious. About me. About what you see in me that you don’t in him. He wants to know if I bewitched you. If I’m hollow. If you’ll grow tired of me, like a beautiful object that stops being useful.”

Süleyman’s fists clench. “He said that?”

“He doesn’t need to. I see it in his face.”

A long pause.

“And what do you say to him?”

Now, Hürrem rises. She walks toward him, slow as moonlight, steady as judgment. She stands close. Closer.

“I tell him I would destroy him,” she says, voice quiet. “I tell him I will always protect what’s mine.”

“And am I that?” he murmurs. “Yours?”

She cups his face, lightly. “Only when you forget you’re the Sultan.”

He closes his eyes.

That is the thing that burns. Not the fear that Ibrahim desires her — but the fear that he understands her. That they have some language of ambition and sharpness that doesn’t need words. That they recognize the fire in each other, and see no need to name it.

He pulls her to him.

“I want to know what you said,” he whispers into her skin. “Every word.”

She presses a kiss to his jaw. “Then ask him.”

He flinches — and she feels it.

“Why does that anger you?” she asks softly. “That I won’t lie?”

“Because you could,” he breathes. “And I’d believe you.”

That silences her.

In the morning, he will rise before her. Order the guards out. Leave the tray of untouched fruit and pastries where it is, unsweetened tea in his hand. He will pass Ibrahim in the hall. Say nothing. But his eyes will linger too long.

And Ibrahim — ever loyal, ever silent — will bow.

But he will not look away.