#ask: hurrem sultan

[crazerk]

Our Mc can be like Hurrem Sultan?

She’s one of my major inspirations tbh.

[horizon-verizon]

Hurrem and Kosem would’ve yelled at show Rhaenyra and Alicent once and these two would’ve cried themselves to sleep because HOTD doesn’t know how to handle ambitious women in power ready to spill blood, they’d rather have the consort and the heir spend the season crying and suffering WEAK ASS 🥺🥺 EMOJI ASS DOORMATS this fandom need to shut the fuck up with feminine soft power I don’t want the throne I don’t want bloodshed let my sons be beaten up in front of me like passive ass rhetoric have these writers ever heard of backbones ???

It’s so refreshing to watch Magnificent Century or even The White Queen because those women ARE NOT PASSIVE AND PALATABLE, most women on these shows would stop at nothing and have no moral qualms whatsoever in pursuing their own agenda. They have fire in them that comes out one way or another, they feel real, they aren’t just classic art teary doe eyed pinterest pale aesthetics barely alive on screen.

You have no fucking idea how much I love The White Queen & the White Princess...like, the whole thing, for some of its flaws, was fucking art.

And I agree with you! Elizabeth Woodville in that show, she had her flaws and her revenge was intellectually terrible...doesn't mean I couldn't understand nor that she wasn't a character I could recognize as a human being with their own thought processes and the writers managed to make her feel so real. I want real people, not characters made to make me or certain others (HotD's case, centrists and sexists and liberals) feel comfortable.

[alicentsultana]

Hi! Sorry if im bothering you ,but since i will probably start the magnificent century ,i thought i could ask you question.

So ,ive seen a lot of Rhaenyra stans being baffled about the Hurrem .Alicent comparisons (Or Alicunt ,as they call her) .

Since i trust your opinion more than theirs ,what are your thoughts?

Have a good day and cant wait for your fic!

Hi! You're never a bother, don't worry.

So, mc is a roller-coaster ride get ready for your feelings.

Hurrem is a like a natural fenomenon, and the character in the series is based in rumors and short descriptions and considerations made from ambassador at the time she was alive. But I believe she experience the feminist kween effect like Elizabeth I, Anne Boleyn, Mary Stuart , Catherine of Aragon and many others because of media exacerbation, when in fact they were just elitist women of their own time (no bashing, just a reminder). So i can understand the rhnr stans going feral over her.

The comparisons between Hurrem and Alicent you kind of can see an outline - innocent girl have to please the guy in charge and do things she doesn't want to do to protect herself and her children's right.

Alicent is a Lady, she have resources, and Hurrem was a peasant turned slave, that after some many slaps she finally managed to be respected and gain the title of sultana. Both had to learn how to stand for themselves alone and think about their survival and their children only, no matter the damages. In this story we can make a mention of how Hatice can be compared to rhnr - but you guys are not ready for this discussion yet (I'm waiting patiently for this day).

I understand why everyone is obsessed with Hurrem, I am too, and all because she was doomed by the narrative, she had to literally rise from the ashes and call it a day, did everything she could to become free, killed some people and cried for others, and she did it all serving face and looks, hairs, and a ton of personality.

She is not a good girl, she is the antagonist, she is there to make other people angry, she is there to look at you and almost whisper "I win". You can't help but simply adore her because of all of this things she is.

Anyway, everyone should at least get to know Hurrem, I believe is worth it, and in my opinion she is kind of a water divisor idk I just get this vibe there is a world before magnificent century and a world after it.

Enjoy! And don't fall into kween crap trap

I'm so excited for the fic too skskdkdkdkdkd though there's still a long way to go

[sultanaswardrobe]

Why don't you like s4!hurrem? I'm just curious

I think it's the actress's fault, it's not the same hurrem as in previous sesons. But I'm not saying that actress who played hurrem in s4 is bad, for me she just dont fit the personality of hurrem. But it's only my opinion and my love for meryem ;) <3

[gulnarsultan]

Hello! Long time follower and I love your page, especially the Magnificent Century content as no hardly writes for them.

Could it be possible to have a Yandere Sehzade Mustafa and a concubine reader who was brought along with Nurbanu. Like both were supposed to be part of Selim's harem, but Mustafa wanted reader when he saw her and strings were pulled to put reader in Mustafa's harem instead.

Thank you in advance and again, I love your work!

Hello dear. I am so glad to hear this. Thank you.😍🥰😘❤ ​​Unfortunately. There are almost no other blogs that write about Magnificent Century/ Kösem. Sad🥺. I hope you like it dear.💞

You and Cecily were captured and sold to the Ottoman Palace at the same time. Like Cecily, you were also a member of a noble family. Unlike Cecily, you were immediately chosen by Hurrem Sultan to join the harem of her son, Prince Selim. Cecily had to struggle to be chosen. You were taking lessons with you, Nurbanu and a few other concubines for days.

Prince Mustafa noticed you when he came to the Istanbul Palace. Your beauty seemed to tear the Prince's heart out of his chest. Prince Mustafa wasted no time in gathering information about who you were from the Palace staff. When he found out that you were chosen for his brother, Prince Selim, he was furious. He wanted you for himself and he knew he had to do something.

Without wasting any time, he immediately asked for help from his mother Mahidevran Sultan. Mahidevran Sultan did not turn down her son's request and agreed to help. Somehow they prevented you from becoming Prince Selim's concubine. To be honest, you were sad to be separated from your friend Nurbanu. You are going to the Sanjak that he rules with Prince Mustafa.

Prince Mustafa gives you many gifts. He invites you to his bed the most. Prince Mustafa's love, desire and wish for you never runs out. You are the mother of all of Prince Mustafa's children. You have more than one child together.

Prince Süleyman

Prince Ahmed

Nergisşah Sultan

Mihrişah Sultan

Prince Orhan

Handan Sultan

Prince Mehmed

[fastlikealambo]

The third wife of rhaenyra targaryen.|| rhaenyra targaryen x black!fem reader

In the five years since Queen Rhaenyra The Conqueror, Bringer of New Valyria, triumphed over the usurper without losing a single dragon, the realm is at peace. Having no need of husbands and taking two other wives, Queen Alicent and Queen Mysaria, the dragon queen is in need of a third and final wife to rule the seven kingdoms at her side.

You were just a girl from nowhere, watching the sky fill with dragons at peace, destined to be a scullery maid in a vicious household and the future wife of a ratcatcher until fate and blood decide your future for you. 

History will remember Rhaenyra Targaryen as the great unifier, the second coming of Visenya Targaryen who brought another golden age of dragons out of war. But they will sing songs of you, the smallfolk who ascended to fire and blood as the queen’s favorite, the one they tried to kill so many times, the third wife of rhaenyra targaryen.

Some notes: Aegon, Aemond, and Daemon are dead but their dragons were saved, and Otto Hightower and Criston Cole spontaneously combusted, I don’t know what to tell yall. Luke lived, Jace lived, Helaena lived, Jaehaerys lived, Baela and Rhaena are happy goddammit.  During the short war, Rhaenyra married Mysaria and one year after the dance of dragons ended, she also married Alicent.

Some other notes: This is dark and I drew some inspiration from Cinderella and Hurrem Sultan (the fictional representation of her from the show's magnificent century but nobody I know watches that show). Rhaenyra is in her thirties and reader is in her twenties. 

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

This chapter contains smut, MINORS DNI

Chapter Four: Hunger.

 Your mother held you so tight you felt like you were going to break in two.

       “I thought they were taking me to your body, not the keep itself. You left on foot this morning and before nightfall here comes a carriage picking me up, a carriage! What have you been up to, my girl? I’ll have the truth out of you and nothing else, queen or not.”

Confessing to murder is best done sitting between your mother’s legs as she oils your scalp and pulls your braids back into a bun. She doesn’t even falter once you get to the murder, just kisses the top of your head.

   “I’ve known you before you knew you which means I know you don’t go around hurting anyone. If it wasn’t you it would have been someone else, that fancy lady has half of the flea bottom girls working for her until she avoids them or worse when she can’t pay them, you’re just the first to do something about it.”

  “Why are you so calm?” You asked. Your mother sighed and took a seat on the floor next to you, an arm around your shoulder.

  “The idea of me going without had you stand before the dragon queen and win a place at her side. In a matter of hours, you’ve taken your life back from that monster and now you’re to be the wife of Queen Rhaenyra. The Gods have had a hand in these proceedings my love, but you have shaped them.”

   “What happens now?”

   “Now, we live. Not survive, live.”

In the chambers of The Small Council, the dragon queen’s grip tightened on Dark Sister, her patience tested by the two remaining men at her table. 

       “The Great Houses expected you to take one of their daughters, Your Grace.  They will not take lightly to being slighted and raising up a common girl.”

      “And what, exactly, is wrong about being common?” Mysaria asked with a rueful smile in Rhaenyra’s direction.  Rhaenyra reached under the table and rubbed Mysaria’s thigh, giving the men fifteen seconds too many.

       “The smallfolk are still recovering from the war. We are at peace but they are still in need of the crown’s help. We shall give it by feeding them, giving them shelter, and by raising up one of their own. Should the other houses take issue, they need only be reminded of the knee they bent and whom they serve. In fact, as your last acts on my council, you will go to them and refresh their memory on why they do not rest on a bed of ashes.” Rhaenyra said.

   “Your Grace if I may-

   “ You may not, Ser Alfred and as your last act, you will join him. You are both dismissed.”

The chambers emptied after that and Rhaenyra took Mysaria onto her lap, kissing the back of her neck, kneading her breast with one hand and the other..busy.

     “Shall I report on what I have found on your bride or would you like to continue, Your Grace?” Mysaria asked.

Rhaenyra removed the ringed fingers from within her mistress of whispers, sucking on them one by one.

    “And what has my star found?”

Mysaria shifted on Rhaenyra’s lap, wrapping her legs around the dragon queen.

  “She worked at a cabbage stall as a child till she learned to sew. Got kicked out her first household at seven for sneaking and listening to the daughter’s lessons so she could learn to read and write so her overtired mother wouldn’t have to worry about teaching her. She’s taken any work she can find since then to keep her mother safe and fed. Her last employer, a destitute Lannister lady was found dead but none of it leads to her.”

     “And what do you think of her?” Rhaenyra asked, kissing up and down Mysaria’s neck.

  “I think she is untested and tenderhearted but will do anything to keep her mother alive. She can be molded, motivated, and a far better seat on the council than Ser Alfred. Most importantly, she has known hunger. That sort of pain never leaves your eyes, and she’ll do anything to never know it again.”

 “And do you think she can be trusted?”

  “Do you trust her?” Mysaria posed the question right back at her wife, leaning back to look Rhaenyra in the eye.

  “I believe that I can and would rather see her at our side than someone whose house would use them to try and usurp me. She will be raised up and those that disagree will be met with fire and blood.”

Mysaria kissed her queen softly and slowly, sucking on her top lip.

  “Then we shall crown her for all to see.”

Dinner would be served soon yet Rhaenyra found herself outside your door, about to knock when she heard you swearing on the old gods and the new.  Swinging open the door, Rhaenyra found you contorting yourself in an attempt to do the laces on the back of the extravagant gown you had been gifted.

 The blood red sparkled against your dark skin and Rhaenyra could not look away.

“Oh no, am I late, Your Grace? I’m so sorry-“

“You will be a queen in two days time, apologies at every turn will be beneath you. Come, let me help you.” Rhaenyra said, holding out her hand towards you. You took it, standing in front of the mirror as she adjusted your smallclothes better to fit beneath the ornate gown.

 “May I ask you a question, Rhaenyra?”

 “You can ask me anything you like.”

“Why do they call you The Bringer of New Valyria?”

Rhaenyra did not falter from her work doing up the tiny laces of the gown, tightening them slowly.

  “Since I sat the throne I’ve started to rebuild King’s Landing to better fit its people using the gold seized during the blockade to restore the keep and homes in King’s Landing. Those who do not particularly like what I’m doing have called King’s Landing ‘New Valyria’ as if to doom it before it begins in full to scorn me, but I welcome it.” Rhaenyra explained, deft fingers moving along your back.

Once finished, you turned around to face her with a smile.

“How do I look?” You asked and couldn’t stop yourself from giving a small spin that brought a laugh to her lips.

 “Every inch a queen.” Rhaenyra said and you watched as the smile shifted from content to ravenous.

The dragon queen was beneath the gown she had taken the time to put on in seconds, tongue to your clit, lapping you up like fresh milk.

 “My queen, we’ll be late for dinner.” You managed to choke out but Rhaenyra simply kissed you.

“I’m the protector of the realm, we shall dine when I wish to dine, sweet one.” 

 You let yourself go, kissing the queen back roughly, ripping at her bodice and the laces of her own gown, gracing her skin with kisses from nose to navel. She leveraged her weight against you and you both fell onto your new bed.

  To make love to Rhaenyra Targaryen was a holy act, therefore you would sit upon her face and pray. The dragonrider welcomed your weight without complaint, mouth to your pussy with honor and such precision you held onto the headboard like reins.

With her hands on your thighs, you came quick and hard, letting the queen up for air, crawling down her body till your head was between her legs, alternating between tongue and fingers, pumping in and out till Rhaenyra’s back arched.

You never did make it to dinner.

Nor did you break your fast the following morning with the queen in your bed again, again, and again.

But bliss ended quickly for on the following day, the day you were to wed Rhaenyra, it began to rain. 

Hope you liked this chapter! Please comment or reblog so I know if I should continue :)

@asvterias

@nxcxllxsevens

@newcaptainofsquad9

@awolfcsworld

@wannabwanted

@evattude

[daintydawnx]

Whispers Behind the Veil

a/n:hiii, this is the first time I write and I'm super nervous. I just wanted to clarify some things. I'm not from Turkey but I randomly imagined this story one night and thought it would be fun to share it with others! English is not my first language so forgive me for any grammatical and vocabulary mistakes.

A prologue(?) (+ playlist recommendation)

No usage of y/n and no NSFW scenes. I also didn't mention any genitals but my characters still have their own name and backstory ♡

P.s if you found it cringe please just scroll cause I am still super nervous about posting this ૮ ྀི◞͈ ˔ ◟͈ ྀིა

Warning: death/blood

❀ magnificent century (hurrem’s dance)

The night the world began.

The palace breathed in jasmine and oud. Lanterns hung from every colonnade like slow-moving stars, their stained glass casting reds and violets across the white marble courtyard. On the breeze came the trembling sound of a ney flute, tender as a secret.

Guests spoke in low tones, their laughter restrained — the kind that comes from centuries of etiquette. Emirs in green turbans, women in draped pearls and embroidered veils. No one arrived at the palace without knowing they were being watched.

Yasmin stood behind the curtain, just beyond the reach of the candlelight.

She could hear the hush. She always could. that exact second when the air changed. When her presence, even before she was seen, brushed against the room like perfume.

She inhaled, once. Then stepped out.

Barefoot. Anklets of gold and bells, just enough to whisper. Her dress was gossamer, almost translucent in the candlelight, layered in midnight blue and plum. Her arms moved like water. Every step, deliberate. Every blink, measured.

The first note of the zither trembled across the courtyard. That was her cue.

And across the room — someone blinked.

✧

Layla stood with her hands behind her back, dressed in black with silver embroidery at her cuffs. She rarely spoke at these gatherings. She never smiled. It was said her loyalty to Princess Mihrimah was matched only by her coldness. Some said she’d killed a man with her bare hands. Others claimed she was once a poet. No one ever asked her directly.

Tonight, her eyes were fixed.

She didn’t shift her weight. Didn’t adjust her posture. But her gaze— it moved across Yasmin’s body like a veil of smoke. There was no hunger in it. Not yet. But there was something sharp. Something ancient.

Next to her, Mihrimah smirked.

“She has that effect on people,” she said.

Layla didn’t turn her head. “Who is she?”

“The dancer. The one they whisper about.”

Layla still didn’t blink. “No. Who is she.”

Mihrimah tilted her head. “Yasmin. From the old dancer line. Her grandmother used to perform for my grandfather.”

“Hm,” Layla said.

She didn’t say anything else. But inside her chest — something uncurled. A question, maybe. Or a beginning.

✧

Yasmin didn’t see anyone. Not the nobles. Not the courtiers. Not the Sultan’s sons watching from the upper balcony.

Only one person.

A woman dressed in shadows, standing like a blade too proud to be drawn.

A stranger. Watching her like she already belonged to her.

And Yasmin — against everything she’d trained for, everything she knew about survival — felt herself smile.

Not a performance smile.

A real one.

A small curve of her lips, quick and shy, like a candlelit secret.

She looked away. She danced.

But her heart had already gone.

❀ Trash Magic by Lana Del Rey

Days passed after that first glance in the courtyard, but the world seemed to shift beneath Yasmin’s feet.

Layla, who had always moved through the palace like a shadow in service to Mihrimah, suddenly appeared in places she never had before.

At first, it was small things.

Layla ordered new flowers for the servants’ dining hall, and Yasmin noticed the delicate wild roses—her favorite—that replaced the usual rigid carnations.

Then, Layla took a sudden interest in the music. She requested different instruments for the upcoming festivities—lutes instead of oud, flutes with a breathier tone—and stayed late into the evening to test the sound herself. Yasmin heard the gentle notes drifting through the walls, like a secret song meant only for certain ears.

Each day, Layla’s eyes searched the rooms where Yasmin worked, though she never dared speak to her directly.

Yasmin caught herself straightening her posture more often, brushing her hair more carefully, letting the small bells on her ankles ring just a little louder. She had never before craved attention, but now, the thought of Layla watching made her heart quicken, her breath catch in her throat.

The first encounter was unplanned.

Layla approached her quietly in the corridor, the bustle of servants and nobles swirling around them.

“You dropped this.” Layla held out a small silver flower pin, delicate and gleaming.

Yasmin blinked, surprised. “Idon't recall owning such a thing.”

Layla’s lips twitched into a faint smile, almost imperceptible. “Then I’m giving it to you anyway.”

Yasmin’s fingers brushed against Layla’s as she took the pin. A spark of warmth laced the brief contact.

That evening, Yasmin lay awake, the pin clutched in her palm.

Why does she care? the thought echoed inside her like a whispered prayer.

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

Days blurred into weeks.

Layla’s visits grew more frequent, though still indirect. She lingered near Yasmin’s dance rehearsals, watching with a quiet intensity that made Yasmin’s skin tingle beneath her silk skirts.

One afternoon, Layla found her in the servants’ garden, hands deep in the soil as she arranged freshly picked flowers.

“You always choose the wild ones,” Leila observed softly, stepping closer.

Yasmin looked up, startled, then smiled shyly. “They are free. Untamed.”

Layla’s gaze softened for the first time. “Like you.”

Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the world fell away.

Neither moved.

But in that silent moment, a promise settled between them — fragile and trembling, like a bud on the verge of bloom.

✧

The slow dance of glances, small kindnesses, and unspoken words wove tighter.

Layla, usually reserved and distant, began to open ever so slightly — a flicker of warmth in her eyes, a rare softness in her voice.

Yasmin, whose beauty and grace had always been admired but never quite understood, felt seen in a way that made her pulse quicken and her heart ache with a new kind of hope.

They were both afraid — of discovery, of judgment, of the impossible gulf between their worlds.

But still, they dared.

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

It began with the announcement.

A royal festival — one unlike the others. A celebration of the Sultan’s name day, when only the most talented in the palace were summoned to perform before the court.

The courtyard that evening glowed like a lantern — golden firelight flickering against marble, silk, and jeweled turbans. A hush rippled through the crowd as the musicians began to play. The low hum of ney flutes, the soft tap of the bendir, like the beat of a careful heart.

The prize was no coin or title.

the purple fabric.

Silk, deep as dusk and shimmering like moonlight on still water. A token of favor, given to only one — allowing access to the secret garden in the Sultan’s estate. A place said to be older than the palace itself, wild and untouched, meant for reflection and intimacy. Only one guest allowed. A private evening beneath the stars, where no rank mattered. Not servant, not noble. Just heart and desire.

Yasmin heard the whispers and didn’t dare hope. She had fallen from favor before. And yet — when the head steward named her as the lead dancer, her knees nearly gave out beneath her.

That night, she danced like the universe had been poured into her skin.

At the center, the dancers stood still like painted porcelain. Until the music shifted and Yasmin stepped forward.

Barefoot, hair unbound, her violet veil trailing behind her like dusk itself. She moved not like a performer, but like a spell being cast slow, deliberate, each movement unfolding from her body like petals.

Her arms rose like smoke. Her hips told stories. Her eyes, though cast downward, shimmered with defiance. The ankle bells chimed only softly, as if even they feared interrupting her rhythm.

She didn’t dance for applause. She danced like she was praying.

And in that quiet stillness — the Sultan, a man not easily stirred, leaned forward. He admired but didn’t give in easily. The sultan watched in silence.

Yasmin’s arms floated upward as if pulled by strings of silk. Her body bent like a tree in wind.

Not yet.

Beside him, the Grand Vizier tilted his head to whisper something — but the Sultan lifted a hand. “Silence,” he murmured.

the music ended, Yasmin stood breathless in the center of the floor. Her chest rose and fell. A curl of hair stuck to her temple. She didn’t bow.

She simply looked up — just once — toward the raised seat of power.

And waited.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

he exhaled. Deeply. Almost wearily. “God protect me from women who dance like flames and never fear the fire.”

He turned to the velvet box beside him.

Pulled out a single piece of violet silk.

Held it out.

.

.

One clap and the sound echoed like thunder.

The next morning, Yasmin found herself wandering.

Not rehearsing. Not resting. Just… thinking.

The violet silk was now folded carefully in her quarters — not worn yet, too sacred. She traced its edge with her fingers as if the threads might speak to her. But her thoughts kept drifting, over and over, to one face.

She waited until evening before going to the library.

Layla was there, of course. She always seemed to be — either out of discipline or loneliness, no one could ever say. She stood by the window, half in shadow, reading some heavy book on diplomacy or logic. Her coat hung open, her belt loose. She hadn’t heard Yasmin enter.

Yasmin hesitated in the doorway.

But she didn’t leave.

“You read too much,” she said softly.

Layla turned — slowly, deliberately, like someone savoring the sound of a voice they’d been hoping to hear.

“Well,” Layla replied, “you dance too much.”

Yasmin smiled despite herself. “That’s not possible.”

“No?” Layla’s smile spread, just slightly. “You danced last night like you were trying to undo everyone in the room. I watched a vizier forget his own name.”

Yasmin’s cheeks colored. “I wasn’t dancing for them.”

Layla raised an eyebrow. “No?”

Yasmin hesitated. Then stepped forward, drawing something from the sash around her waist. A small bundle of violet silk — the corner of the prize she’d won.

“I received this,” she said, “and with it comes a garden invitation. One evening. No eyes, no rules. And…”

Layla was watching her closely now. The playful edge in her gaze sharpened.

“And?” she murmured.

Yasmin inhaled. “I can invite one person.”

Layla closed the book in her hands. Quietly. Her fingers lingered on the cover.

“And you chose me?”

Yasmin looked down. “I didn’t choose. I just… knew.”

There was a pause. A shifting of weight. Then a soft chuckle from Layla.

“I didn’t think the famous Yasmin got shy.”

“I’m not shy,” Yasmin said quickly — but her voice betrayed her.

Layla took a step forward. Her presence always felt larger than her body — like she took the air with her when she moved. She reached for the silk bundle still in Yasmin’s hand — but instead of taking it, she let her fingers brush over Yasmin’s.

“You’re charming when you’re nervous.”~

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s hot.”

“I’m cold,” Layla whispered.

Yasmin’s mouth parted, but no words came. So she simply pressed the fabric into Layla’s palm and walked away, her skin on fire.

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

The Garden Where the night opened like a promise, and the heart began to speak

The night of the garden was cooler than expected. The guards opened the wrought-iron gates without a word, and Yasmin entered first, her heart pounding like a trapped bird.

Behind her, Layla’s steps were silent. She just wore a long black coat over a simple ivory dress. Yasmin couldn’t stop looking at her.

The garden was unlike anything she had ever seen — wild and ancient, moonlight pooling across stones overgrown with moss, and old trees leaning together like old lovers. Fountains gurgled in hidden corners. The scent of crushed violets lingered in the air.

They walked side by side, their hands brushing sometimes. Neither spoke. The silence wasn’t empty — it was full of tension, of possibility.

At the center of the garden was a marble platform, surrounded by tall lavender hedges and a still pool reflecting the stars. A platter of fruits and small pastries had been left for them.

Yasmin reached for a fig and turned to Layla, offering it.

“I only give sweet things to those I like,” she said, smiling with a touch of mischief.

Layla bend down and bit into it Slowly while Yasmin still holding it.Her eyes never left Yasmin’s.

“I think you terrify me,” she said softly, after a moment.

Yasmin’s breath hitched. “Why?”

“Because I never let anyone touch my thoughts like this. And yet… here you are.”

Silence again — the kind that wasn’t awkward, but thick with everything unsaid.

Yasmin stepped forward.

Their faces were close. Close enough to feel breath, but not yet touch.

“Do you want me to stop?” she asked, almost in a whisper.

Layla looked at her. Something in her eyes cracked — like frost under sunlight.

“No,” she said. “I want you to keep going.”

Yasmin’s hand lifted, brushing gently against Layla’s jaw, her thumb trailing the edge of her cheek. Her other hand settled on her waist — not claiming, not demanding. Just asking.

And then — their lips met.

It was soft. Tender. Like a secret blooming between them. Not rushed. Not wild. Just perfect.

Layla pulled Yasmin closer, slowly, until there was no space left. Her hands slid up her back, clutching the silk of her dress like she had waited years for this. Yasmin melted into her, sighing into the kiss, her fingers threading into Layla’s hair.

The kiss deepened — not just in movement, but in meaning. A slow-burning promise. An answer to every gaze, every ache, every unspoken wish.

When they finally pulled apart, Yasmin rested her forehead against Layla’s and whispered:

“I thought I could only imagine this. I thought I was foolish.”

Layla’s breath trembled. “Then we’re both fools.”

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

They built a language in the garden.

Yasmin brought stories, fragments of poems she had someone read to her.

Layla brought silence. And with her silence, listening. The kind that made Yasmin feel seen in ways no applause had ever managed.

One night, Yasmin lay back on the grass, arms stretched over her head, exhausted from a day of practice. Her eyes searched the stars, blinking against the breeze.

“Do you think they ever loved like this?” she asked. “The old queens. The courtesans. All the painted women on the palace walls.”

Layla, sitting beside her, glanced up. “Not like this.”

“How do you know?”

“Because if they had, we wouldn’t be the secret.”

Yasmin sat up, propped on one elbow, her eyes searching Layla’s face. “Do you regret it? The kiss?”

There was a long pause. Layla looked down at the fig tree beside them, her expression unreadable. Then, quietly, “No. I regret everything I didn’t do before it.”

Yasmin’s throat tightened. “Like what?”

“I regret not watching you longer the first night. Not speaking to you sooner. Not touching your hand when I offered you the flower pin. And I regret not asking you why you never wear shoes.”

Yasmin blinked at her. Then laughed softly. “They make me too quiet. I like when I don’t make a sound when I walk.”

Layla reached out — for the first time that evening — and placed her hand gently over Yasmin’s ankle.

“I like the sound you make when you’re near.”

They didn’t kiss that night.

But when Layla left, Yasmin leaned against the fig tree and pressed her fingers to her lips, as if sealing something there. Something too delicate for speech.

✧

This hidden haven, with its overgrown vines, ancient stone benches, and the gentle murmur of a secluded fountain, became the secret rendezvous for Yasmin and Layla. Here, away from prying eyes and courtly duties, their connection deepened, nurtured by whispered conversations and shared silences.

Their meetings were clandestine, often under the veil of night or during the quiet hours of dawn. Yasmin would bring fresh fruits or delicate pastries pilfered from the kitchens, while Layla would share tales of distant lands and philosophical musings.

“Do you believe in destiny?” Yasmin once asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she traced patterns on Layla’s palm.

Layla considered the question, her gaze fixed on the intertwining vines above. “I believe in choices,” she replied. “And the paths we carve with them.”

❀ kusura bakma by sezen aksu

Their bond, though profound, was not immune to the undercurrents of palace life. Whispers began to circulate—subtle at first, then more insistent. Servants exchanged knowing glances; courtiers spoke in hushed tones.

“Yasmin is ambitious,” one would say.

“She’s using Layla to climb the ranks,” another would add.

These rumors, though baseless, began to take root. Layla, ever composed, started to notice the lingering looks, the sudden silences when she entered a room. Doubt, once foreign to her, began to creep in.

Their secret garden meetings became less frequent. When they did occur, the warmth was tinged with unease.

“Is something troubling you?” Yasmin inquired during one such meeting, her eyes searching Layla’s face.

Layla hesitated, then shook her head. “Just the weight of responsibilities,” she murmured.

But the distance grew. Layla began to immerse herself more in her duties, often citing obligations to avoid their encounters. Yasmin, feeling the shift, tried to bridge the gap. She left notes, small tokens, and even choreographed dances inspired by their shared moments.

Yet, the whispers persisted. “Yasmin seeks favor,” they said. “She manipulates with charm and beauty.”

Layla, torn between her feelings and the murmurs of the court, began to question the authenticity of their bond. The garden, once a symbol of their unity, now stood as a silent witness to their growing estrangement.

✧

The news came without warning, carried not by Layla but by a messenger with pity in his eyes and hesitation on his lips.

Yasmin stood in the dancer’s quarters brushing her hair. Dilara was beside her, braiding jasmine into her braid. They were laughing. For a moment, the world was still kind.

Then the guard entered. He did not look her in the eye.

He read from a scroll. His voice was clipped. Detached.

“Yasmin, daughter of Ahmet . By order of the royal office, your position as ceremonial dancer is hereby dissolved. You are to report to the servant’s courtyard before sunset. Your privileges are revoked. Your possessions will be inspected. Your attire will be exchanged for appropriate rank. Any resistance will be punished.”

Yasmin did not understand the words at first.

“What… what does that mean?” she asked, blinking.

The guard would not explain.

He just bowed and left.

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

They came that afternoon with a box.

They stripped the room bare. Took the silks Layla had chosen for her, the pearl earrings she wore only on performance nights, even the lavender perfume she had made herself from crushed petals in the gardens.

Her dance ribbons — gone.

Her books of pressed flowers — burned.

Her hair, long and black as night, was pulled tight and cut with garden shears. She wasn’t allowed a mirror, but she could feel the weight of herself disappear.

The other dancers watched in silence.

Some with horror. Some with relief.

“She flew too close,” someone whispered. “Now she burns.”

When Yasmin was handed her servant’s uniform — coarse linen, rough sandals, no colors — she didn’t cry.

She simply touched her scalp where her braid had been. Her fingers trembled for a moment, and then they stilled. Wondering whose order this possibly is.

“I’m ready,” she said.

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

Her first job was in the stables.

She carried buckets of water that spilled down her legs and made her skirts heavy. Scrubbed manure with her bare hands. Her nails cracked. Her skin peeled.

She smiled at the horses.

“Even you get treated better,” she whispered.

That night, Dilara escaped from the dancer's quarter and came to her in secret.

Yasmin hugged her so tightly, the girl cried.

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

❀ Salvatore by Lana Del Rey

She began to find little ways to make things bearable.

She sang to herself as she swept the outer halls. Hummed the melodies Layla used to hum to her, late at night, when they’d lie side by side, fingers intertwined.

One day, while scrubbing the courtyard stones, she saw Layla.

Standing under the pomegranate tree. Speaking to a guard. Her face calm. Her arms crossed. She looked strong. Unbothered. Untouchable.

Yasmin’s breath caught. Her hands stopped.

Layla turned.

Their eyes met.

And in that instant, Yasmin knew: she had seen her.

Layla knew.

Yasmin waited for her to walk over. To say something. Anything.

But Layla simply turned away.

Still, she didn’t give up.

She left little flowers outside Layla’s door. Dandelions. Wilted violets. Anything she could find.

She asked Dilara to write letters for her. Simple ones. Honest ones.

“I miss the way your voice drops when you’re sleepy. I miss the way you hold my face when you kiss me.”

“You believed them, but you never let me speak.”

“If you want me gone, say it. I’ll never come again. But don’t let others speak in your place.”

No answers ever came.

The palace began to treat Yasmin like dust. Inconvenient. Something to be swept aside. She ate scraps. Once, she fainted in the gardens. No one helped her up.

Except for Dilara .

“Why don’t you leave?” Dilara asked one night, stroking her forehead with a damp cloth. “You could run. Disappear.”

Yasmin opened her eyes, barely a whisper: “Because… what if she calls for me?”

Dilara wiped her tears. “She won’t.”

Yasmin could only ignore.

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

One evening, she heard her name in the corridor — being laughed about.

Two guards. A maid.

“She was a fool, thinking a woman like Layla would love a peasant like her.”

“She threw herself at her like a dog.”

“I heard she let the chief musician touch her. Anything for a chance.”

Yasmin stood there, frozen, around the corner. Her heart didn’t race. It didn’t break.

It just.…stopped. The people who she thought were her friends, were thinking and talking of her like this.

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

Later that night, she returned to the courtyard where she first danced for the Sultan. The marble floor still gleamed. The candles still flickered.

She knelt on the cold stone. Slowly stretched her arms.

And began to dance.

There was no music. No audience.

Only memory.

But in her mind, Layla was there.

Watching.

And for a single, imaginary moment, Yasmin smiled.

The letter came folded once, sealed in violet wax.

Yasmin found it on her cot — the one in the corner of the servant dormitory where the wind bit through cracks in the wall. Her hands trembled as she broke the seal. She recognized the handwriting instantly. Layla’s. Still sharp, still clean, like every word she’d ever spoken.

“Come to my chambers. One hour past sunset. Come alone.”

Just those few words. No greeting. No signature.

Yasmin stared at it for a long time. She held it close to her chest and sat in silence, unmoving

“She wrote,” Yasmin whispered.

⋆｡˚｡･:*˚:✧｡

The sky was deep violet when she made her way through the palace. Every step felt like a prayer. She’d washed three times, scrubbing herself raw. Her hands still smelled of lye and rose petals. She wore the cleanest thing she owned — a white dress with a tear at the hem. The only color on her was a small ribbon she’d saved from her old silks — violet — which she tied around her wrist.

She had no perfume. So she tucked wild mint into her braid.

She picked flowers on the way. Nothing fancy. A few crushed marigolds. A crooked daisy. She arranged them with fingers that still bore scabs from scrubbing stone.

As she stood outside Layla’s door, she hesitated.

She could run.

She could crumple the note. Walk away. Live.

But she knocked.

❀ Silver Soul by Beach House

The room hadn’t changed.

Still clean. Ordered. The furniture dark. The same curtains. The same scent of sandalwood.

Layla stood near the window, dressed in black. Her hair was bound tight. Her back was turned.

Yasmin stepped in slowly, closing the door behind her.

“I brought you flowers,” she said, holding them out like a child. “They’re not much. But they reminded me of you. Strong. Quiet. Though it's a little crooked.”

Layla didn’t turn.

Yasmin placed them on the small table, carefully, aligning the stems.

“I washed. Three times.” She laughed, nervous. “Didn’t want to leave dirt on your rug.”

Nothing.

“…You look well,” Yasmin said softly. “Or at least… still like yourself. That’s more than I can say about me.” she quietly giggled at herself

Still, Layla didn’t move.

So Yasmin stepped closer. Her voice fell to a whisper.

“I’ve missed you every day. I tried not to. I really did. I thought maybe if I stopped loving you, the pain would stop too.”

Her hand reached gently, carefully, toward Layla’s arm. Her fingers grazed her sleeve.

Layla flinched.

Yasmin stepped back, heart cracking.

“I never used you,” she whispered. “Whatever they told you. Whatever you believed. I would’ve died for you.”

Layla turned then.

Her face unreadable. Her eyes were rimmed red — but her mouth was hard. Set.

“You lied to me,” she said coldly.

Yasmin froze.

“No,” she breathed.

“You let them touch you.”

“No—”

“You let them buy your favor.”

Yasmin’s voice broke. “Layla. You know that’s not true. You saw me every night. I waited for you.”

Layla took a step forward.

“They said you only came to me because you were desperate. Because you wanted power. A name. A title. And I believed you. I believed every smile.”

“I smiled because I loved you,” Yasmin said. “Not because I wanted anything.”

“But you took it,” Layla snapped. “You took everything I gave.”

“I took your hand. I took your words. I took your love. That’s all I ever wanted!”

Yasmin was crying now. Not quietly. Not delicately. The kind of crying that cracked her ribs.

“I was nothing,” she sobbed. “No name, no title, no worth. And you looked at me like I was real. Like I mattered. I didn’t want to own you — I just wanted to belong, To you.”

Silence.

Layla stared at her. Her hands trembled.

“You ruined me,” she whispered.

Yasmin fell to her knees. Clutched at her dress like a prayer. “Then ruin me too. Just don’t walk away.”

Layla didn’t speak.

✧

She knelt slowly in front of Yasmin. Her hands cupped her cheeks. Her thumbs wiped the tears gently.

For a moment, everything stilled.

“I still dream of you,” Yasmin whispered. “Even now.”

Layla kissed her forehead.

And then she pressed the blade in.

It wasn’t deep.

Not at first.

Just a sudden, cold, sharp pressure beneath the ribs.

Yasmin gasped. Her eyes went wide. Her mouth opened, but no sound came.

She looked down. Saw blood.

Saw Leyla’s hand shaking.

Then the knife was pulled out — and in again.

This time deeper.

Yasmin fell into Layla’s arms, still holding onto her like a child.

“Why?” she gasped.

Layla was crying now. Silent. Shaking.

“Because I loved you,” she said. “ I believed you. ”

Yasmin’s blood soaked the white of her dress.

She reached up. Brushed her fingers against Layla’s cheek.

“Even now,” she whispered, “I forgive you. I love you”

✧

She died with her head in Layla’s lap.

Eyes wide. Lips parted as if to say something more.

But it never came .

The chamber had not been touched in months.

The sunlight no longer reached the corners. Dust curled in the beams of light like ghosts performing a slow dance. The scent of sandalwood had long faded, replaced by the damp, faint trace of old ink, dried rose stems, and something almost metallic — like sorrow baked into stone.

Layla’s room had become a sealed place. A tomb not just of the body, but of memory.

When she died — the guards found her lying on the same carpet where Yasmin had bled. Her head resting against the leg of the table.Her lips blue. A vial spilled beside her. Nothing violent, nothing loud. Just silence. Just surrender.

No letters were left behind. No note. No dramatic farewell. Just a diary being held by Layla

✧

It was Dilara , trembling, who returned to the room.

Not by order. Not out of duty. But because no one else could bear it.

She lit a single oil lamp. Sat on the floor in silence for a while. And then, like a ritual, began to clean.

She did not know what she was looking for.

She folded Layla’s black robes. Brushed dust from the shelves. Wiped the windows until the light spilled again across the walls like warm milk.

Then she found it.

Tucked into the farthest corner of the trunk.

A cloth bundle, tied shut with violet fabric.

Dilara’s hands shook as she pulled it out. The moment her fingers touched the fabric.

Tiny, clumsy stitches. Uneven. Childlike.

L . Y

She pressed it to her lips before untying it.

Inside — a book. Leather-bound. Soft, worn. The edges bruised with use.

She opened the first page.

And stared.

“Today I saw her again. She walked past me like the sun walks across the sky — not knowing the fire she leaves behind.”

“I tried to hide how I stared. But I think she saw me.”

“She always sees me.”

Dilara ’s mouth went dry.

She turned the pages slowly.

They were filled with the same small, awkward handwriting — not Leyla’s. Not the sharp, clean style of the woman who could kill with a look.

This was soft. Untrained. Emotional.

“Her voice could slice silk.”

“She gave me a flower today. I know she pretended it was nothing. But she remembered my favorite kind.”

“I wrote her name in the dust on my window. Ten times. Then wiped it away. If anyone saw, I’d be gone.”

“She kissed me in the garden. I don’t think I’ll ever taste anything sweeter again.”

“Maybe if I dance perfectly, she’ll look at me the way she did the first night.”

•

And then the drawings began.

Every few pages — sketches.

Layla’s face in charcoal. Sometimes serious. Sometimes smiling. Once, asleep — her mouth parted slightly, her cheek resting on Yasmin’s thigh. In another, her hand reached out of frame — Yasmin had drawn only the arm, but the caption beneath read:

“She reached for me in her sleep.”

“I think I’m in love.”

“No. I know I am.”

“I love her. I love her. I love her.”

“I would die happy if it meant one more night in her arms.”

Dilara could not stop the tears.

She clutched the book to her chest and rocked, slowly, like a mother mourning a lost child.

“They tell me she’s cold today. That she hasn’t smiled in days.”

“I left her flowers again. She didn’t take them.”

“I wrote a poem. Asked Dilara to copy it neatly. I’m leaving it under her door.”

“Even if she never speaks to me again, I will wait. I will wait until my bones become dust. I will wait for her voice like a beggar waits for coins.”

And finally — on the very last page:

A single line. No decoration. No drawing.

Just words pressed so deep into the paper they’d torn through.

“I forgive her.”

✧

Dilara took the diary and placed it where it belonged ——untouched by the others out of respect or fear.

✧

Later, in the courtyard, a vine bloomed along the far column.

It hadn’t flowered in years.

Now, it poured blossoms.

Violet ones.

People said it was strange — that when the breeze passed through the courtyard just after sunset, they could swear they heard a whisper, low and aching, riding the wind like a secret never meant to die.

“I only ever loved you.”

My dearest Layla,

If these words find you—if your hands ever touch this paper, may they tremble not with anger or regret, but with the memory of a love that was as fragile as the morning mist and as fierce as the sun’s first light.

I wonder if you remember the way your eyes held me the very first time we truly looked at each other—like I was a secret too beautiful to speak aloud. I wonder if you remember the way your hand rested on my waist in the garden, steady and sure, like you were trying to anchor us both to something real in a world full of shifting shadows.

I never meant to use you. Never. I loved you with every part of me that could hope, that could breathe. I was afraid that this world, this place, could never hold a love like ours without crushing it beneath its cold weight. So I smiled at others. I laughed when they looked at me. But in my heart, it was always you I danced for, the only one whose gaze I sought when the music faded.

I begged the stars to give me more time with you. I begged my own trembling hands to hold you just once more in the quiet moments before dawn. But fate was cruel. And words—these fragile things—were not enough to save us.

When you pushed me away, I saw not hatred but fear. Fear that the world’s whispers would swallow us whole. Fear that I was a cage, not a sanctuary.

Layla, if you read this, know this: I never wanted freedom without you. My only freedom was in your arms.

I forgive you. For the silence. For the turning away.

I forgive you because I loved you. Because love does not count the days, nor the wounds, nor the endings.

If time could turn back, I would find you in the garden again. I would speak only truths. I would let my heart speak louder than fear.

But now, all I can do is leave these words with the wind, hoping they find you where your heart is heavy.

I love you, Layla. Always.

Yasmin.

[i-cant-sing]

i forgot their names already and confuses me, could u like uhhhh idk how to put it like put them more simply like whose son is who 😔😔🙏

OKAAAAYYYY since a lot of u keep asking me about the ottomans, i'll clear this up rn:

Sultan Suleiman has two wives:

First wife: Mahidevran (less fav wife). She gave birth to Mustafa, the eldest child of the sultan, and Mahidevran's only kid, period. Also, he's killed by Suleiman in history, because Mihirmah's future husband frames Mustafa to be a traitor to Suleiman.

Second wife: Hurrem (Suleiman's fav wife). She gave birth to 5 kids (4 sons, 1 daughter), in the order: Mehmed, Mihirmah, Selim, Beyazid, Cihangir. Mehmed dies due to an illness, and he was actually favoured by Suleiman to be his successor. Selim becomes the actual successor of Suleiman, and Beyazid and his sons are executed once Selim is named sultan. Cihangir had a hunchback, and died due to his chronic health issues, but some say that he died due to shock and grief over Mustafa's death.

And thats it!

[burningdreambanana]

I used to like Hurrem in the first episode and wanted to root for her, but after she burnt Maria’s face and gave her a psychotic speech about how she will only be her slave and blamed a 5-year-old for a fire, it was so cringe that after she got to rule the harem, part of her speech was about how she is Suleyman's slave and concubine, and sorry for my ranting.

The first two points are part of the things I won't defend Hurrem over; it was completely wrong of her, though it doesn't prevent me from loving her character, since her being flawed and morally complex are part of her appeal for me.

However, you seem to have a really strong issue with Hurrem being a slave and concubine, which, is not something that she can change. She didn't ask to be taken captive and put in the sultan's harem.

And on top of everything I have already said on that subject, I think it makes perfect sense that she would have some kind of pride at being his slave and concubine, no matter how "cringe" it may seem, since her power and safety are derived from that relationship. Being a slave-concubine is a position of vulnerability, but as a favorite, Hurrem has also managed to turn it into a position of strength (while still being vulnerable of course), which is a form of "revenge" against being turned into a slave in the first place.

You also have to keep in mind that Suleiman, as the sultan, was considered a superior being with a divine right to rule, so it makes sense that his favor is something that people would feel proud of.

I think Hurrem is trying to find meaning in a system where Suleiman represents absolute power, divine will, as well as him being her husband and lover, so of course her love towards him comes across as "worship" a bit. It doesn’t mean she has no dignity, but more so that she’s navigating the only structure available to her and finding ways to transform her assigned role into a form of power, while also attempting to find happiness at the same time.

[theposhsworld]

Stoic Femininity

This is for ladies new to my wall but a recap for those who have been here already. What is the secret of great power of the most powerful on in the planet in history? Stoic philosophy. Some know it by name like the leader of China who reread Marcus Aurelius 100 times, and some like Hurrem Sultan discovered it on her own without knowing the name of the philosophy.

Stoicism is the foundation of power. To get anything out of life you need power.

Do you feel that feminism says it’s for women but you end up just angry, disempowered and splitting the bill with broke dusty losers who are mean to you and pump and dump you? Do you feel that you are being scammed by feminism and not getting the empowerment you have been promised? You are not alone and I have the solution for actual empowerment that makes you feel empowered in your real life.

Why am I not a feminist? Because it’s a philosophy designed to empower broke dusty dusty losers and manipulate women into trafficking their own bodies to irresponsible broke dusty losers for votes in the name of women’s liberation and lower what corporations have to pay men to maximize corporate profits. Feminism is a philosophy that disempowers women in practice in the name of women’s empowerment.

I am against the suffragettes because changing laws doesn’t empower women but gives women a false impression of female empowerment. I believe in building female agency or power first and then the laws follower.

So why is the suffergette movement only empowering on the surface but actually disempowered women? This is the issue with western feminism. Feminists say you are equal but basically boys split the bill 50-50, fake relationships to get laid to the point a even woman living under the Taliban looks more empowered than a western woman because no f boys in Afghanistan no 50-59, and you think how the hell did we get here.

Are women empowered under the Taliban? It’s what Afghan women wanted because the western allied regime was corrupt when they were interviewed before Taliban took control. If Afghan women didn’t want them they would not be there. Ruling requires consent to be governed and no regime survives being hated by the silent majority of women. Many regimes are hated by loudmouths but secretly supported by most women. The famous Afghan girl with green eyes now a woman supports the Taliban because it’s less corrupt than the rest.

This is why I think the Iranian regime has a fragile hold on power as the younger generation grows older but you can’t dislodge the Taliban. Older Iranian women remember under the Shah most people lived in poverty, few in extreme wealth and criticism was punishable by death so the average person is better off under the mullahs because of equal distribution of wealth. Young women only see too many restrictions, poverty and not enough opportunity. The Mullahs of Iran will fall or reform in my life time. Saudi reformed. This cycle will affect the Taliban after my lifetime.

Saudi women had a campaign to drive. A few years later they were granted this and more rights because this is the power of women and no one is asking Saudi women to split bills or give their bodies for free. Saudi women unlike western women retain all the old privileged and new rights.

With the Trad wife movement you clearly see something wrong in the West. You don’t see a Saudi Women Stop Driving movement.

Are western women more disempowered under feminism than under the Taliban while we can agree Taliban women are less empowered than other Muslim countries? Yes.

Has feminism become a scam? It always was a corporate scam to outsource factories overseas to pay male workers fewer wages to maximize corporate profits. Why? How the hell was women’s right to vote a priority in the 1800s? It wasn’t. What was a priority is to allow women to have private property and their own bank accounts so their husbands wouldn’t gamble away their money. They could easily influence a father’s movement to protect their daughters. Muslim women got the right to private property and equal pay for equal work for a man called Prophet Mohammed.

The fact that the first act of feminism was not to give women their own bank accounts tells you that movement is a scam. So why was women’s right to vote the first right and not something more urgent? It’s because women are two standard deviations more aggreable than men so it’s much easier for corporations to use propaganda and manipulate women against their self interests. If the mega corporations have the women’s vote plus some weak men you have corporate tyranny bye bye democracy. Most women are extremely easily manipulated against their self interests by their feelings so in the third world crooks use images of dead babies to manipulate women against their self interest.

Would women be better off not voting? If women didn’t vote but organized to lobby the male vote you will higher wages, healthcare in America and more policies that benefit women. Abortion would be a state to state thing. The most loud advocates of abortion I have seen are liberal men.

What I am teaching is propaganda literacy and media literacy, how to spot scams. If it’s not giving you results it’s probably a scam.

Why do I have a problem with suffergettes ? Because I love power. Why do I love power. I love power not for its sake but because we need power to get anything done and make change we want to see. I love being empowered which is why I have a big problem with first wave feminism.

Empowerment comes from power and power comes from stoicism.

What is the stoic root of power?

Stoicism says we can’t change the world but only our reaction to it: this is where our power lies.

What does this do? Create an internal locus of control.

All powerful people see themselves as the master of their destiny that make things happen and weak powerless people see themselves as victims with things being done to them.

Master of their destiny = internal locus of control.

Things happen to me, I am oppressed, I am a victim = external locus of control.

These are laws of power. Even if a king loses his power he isn’t going to blame the world or the system but as a refugee going to think if there is a will there is a way. The nobility stays with the king even without power. When wealthy lose their money and become a refugee they keep the affluent mindset and built ourselves back up but the poor stay poor.

My mother taught in a school in the United States that was located half the district was old money and half was poor. There was a housing project near a choicy old money area. The refugees were out of this project and their children were no longer using food stamps for lunch within half a year. Their American neighbours were in the projects for generations. This is the power of mindset.

My father was the advisor to Yemen’s former president who said if there is a will there is a way. This is not only internal locus of control but high agency.

What is agency: agency is empowerment and a being in control by taking responsibility.

A high agency person is a powerful person because they have an internal locus of control from stoicism- I can’t change the world but can change my reaction to it.

A low agency or disempowered person feels helpless, that things happen to them, it’s always the fault of the system or society or someone else that they are miserable and think people who are happy and successful are only happy because of luck.

Now can you see the root of disempowerment of first wave feminism? They want to fix laws externally before fixing women internally . External locus of control. The roots of western feminism are in female disempowerment because of external locus of control. That is why broke dusty losers are the main beneficiaries of feminism and good responsible high value men are punished by it.

Empowerment comes from internal locus of control.

Western feminism keeps women enslaved by blaming the patriarchy, laws and system. So women change the system still low agency external locus of control, still disempowered in their minds so they actually become worse off working and being free.

A high agency woman like Hurrem Sultan can even find empowerment in slavery and a low agency women like a Pickmeisha will find herself disempowered and abused by broke dusty losers in Sweden.

What gets women abused? Being a Pickmeisha.

Even a good man is tempted to abuse a doormat.

Stoic femininity gives women true empowerment by believing women’s empowerment is through building female agency including female sexual agency by femininity, beauty and hypergamy.

The stoic feminine believes she cannot change the world but can empower herself changing her reaction.

A glass of water can be half full and half empty. Both are true.

You can believe women are oppressed and disempowered by misogyny and the patriarchy but all this will do is give you victim mindset, learned helplessness, make you a slave looking for a savior and fumble the bag.

It’s equally true that women were never oppressed because when women unite and deny men please it has stopped wars. It’s equally true that as women we always had the power but our Pickmeisha ancestors and even mothers in “misogynist” cultures gave their power away thus got abused.

The stoic feminine narrative that women were always queens but some chose to give their power away as Pickmeishas and children learned from their parents but now women are uniting on social media teaching agency and taking their power back is almost more empowering than women are helpless victims of a patriarchal system and misogynist culture.

The person who views the glass half full is an empowered go getter who will get themselves a full liter of water after they drink the glass. The person who sees the glass half empty is also right but their pyschology will make them feel too sad and upset to achieve more.

Feminism and other forms of level down propaganda have victim mindset in common. In America elite reduce competition since universities became accessible to everyone by hiding the classics for themselves and teaching the masses victim mindset to reduce competition.

Was all feminism level down propaganda? No. The first wave of feminism started with corporate opportunism with suffragettes then came with sensible things like women’s bank accounts, no fault divorce (like emotional abuse), equal pay and having the same rights as Muslim women.

The second wave of feminism or women’s liberation was Soviet level down propaganda marketed to enslave American women to the Soviet goals and weaken American society. Women’s lib or liberation has communist roots that women & LGBTQ have a violent coup to overthrow and unalive heterosexual men and create a dictatorship of the proletariat which professor Andrea Dworkin an obese ugly academic feminist activist advocated. Feminism in the 1970s was radical and extreme.

The North American Man Boy Love Association to legalize Epstein island was as popular as feminism & LGBT activism in the 1970s. The Vietnam war literally made America insane & should have stopped to preserve society. The Soviet Union exploited the Vietnam war promoting failed Trotskyst experiments including Russian 50-50 feminism & hook up culture Russian women hated to weaken society.

Trotsky had some crazy ideas that they tried under Lenin for three months in a big social experiment to rebel against the church. Women hated it so much it had to be shut down are three months.

The experiment was complete free love & polyamory that sexual partners are also changed once a month so you move in with a different partner once a month, women don’t cook but everyone eats at the cafeteria and children were raised by the state and bills were split 50-50. Pregnant women were having none of this nonsense and always arguing. It stopped feeling like a giant frat party. Men became very demoralized and uninterested in participating in communist party activities. They also actively promoted homosexuality cross dressing and total sexual freedom and men just became lazy, demoralized and disenfranchised.

Women became extremely angry at the Trotsky 50-50 free love social experiment. The cafeteria food was awful and women preferred to cook but not for a hook up but someone who invested in them.

After Trotsky Russian women rejected feminism. No we are not dumb Pickmeishas who are going to give up our power to be enslaved but the solution to ending violence against women isn’t laws but our own actions as women and our unity as women.

The societal norms will be determined by the most beautiful women and what we chose to accept and choose not to accept. The societal norms and standards don’t apply to the most beautiful high value women: no we make the standards that the society will follow.

We have the power.

We women always had the power.

We have the power to become beautiful and our power first stems from our beauty and NOT academics. Once you are beautiful academics and unisex forms of competence empower you more.

Learning how to use a makeup brush is as important as learning math. Math is important because you have to know how to count money to keep it.

Charm is another form of female power. Connections, earning a lot of money, competence are many forms of female power.

My problem with feminism is the lie that only masculine things give women power like a degree when the most enslaved abused cheated on scammed disempowered women I see are masculine women.

So many women say “well actually feminism means this or that to me” which is still a lie. Then let’s replace the word feminism with blank, that it has a different meaning for every different woman that it means nothing at all.

However saying “feminism means x to me” is a form of manipulation that evades the radical roots of second wave feminism of hatred, demonization and actually advocating for genocide of the male population.

You can’t love men & be a feminist and every men knows this. Would you date a misogynist as an empowered woman? You would call the taxi as soon as he says “what do you bring to the table?”

I know very beautiful women who got a husband inspite of being a feminine feminist but they would have had even more choice being more empowered and focusing on female power instead of blaming men and society. If you are not a great beauty with a lot of game with men you cannot afford to be a feminist unless you love hookups with dusties and splitting bills.

Feminist: Society is misogynistic and toxic, I am tired and can’t do much because it’s a patriarchy but will vote for Joe Biden.. why men only want 50-50 with me.

Stoic Feminine: I refuse to date rude men, I am going to make sure I have a bride price as a housewife and a part time job. I am going to make sure I marry a kind man by not chasing butterflies. I am going to make myself as beautiful and high value as I can to have the most choice so I can say no. I am going to learn about narcissists and love bombing.

You see the feminist and stoic feminism look at the same situation differently. Because the feminist is focused on what she doesn’t want she sees more of it & can’t see the good men then gets lonely and settles with a jerk inspite of her high powered job and fancy degree.

The stoic feminine is focused on her self empowerment and what she wants. The stoic feminine doesn’t see her dream man around her but has the vision and optimism to be attractive to the kind of men she wants, to move to London or Monaco or Palm Beach or Houston or Dallas. She gets a stylist and a gym membership and works on self improvement.

In the world there is both bad and good but if you focus on the bad you will be too tired to do anything about it.

You have to be stoic and accept life is unfair and systems are unfair but if you change your reaction to things you can eventually have the power to make life & systems unfair in your favour.

If you see yourself as a victim = external locus of control = learned helplessness = you will look for a saviour = you will be a Pickmeisha = you will get abused.

Empowerment starts within. If women are empowered the laws will start to reflect that. Intially Saudi women wanted to be protected from being made to drive because it’s prestigious for women to be chauffeured. Muslim women rode on horses to battle historically so why can’t they drive? The silent majority didn’t want to. The new generation of educated Saudi women wanted to drive. King MBS had to think how to negotiate his generation with the old. A few years later Jared Kushner came with a plan & King Salman seized it. Saudis today are rated some of the happiest people in the world because King Salman gives them what they want not over night but in due time.

Saudi women are not splitting bills. They live as housewives and stay at home daughters if they choose and work if they choose. Unlike Western women no one forces Saudi women to work.

Now westerners will use head of herring propaganda picking the one Saudi woman forced to do something but how many western women are forced to walk on eggshells with a boyfriend asking if he will ever marry them & he gaslights them treating his live in free maid free chef free escort like she is crazy for asking if he is going to marry her.

Laws don’t create female agency. Internal empowerment in a woman taking responsibility for how she reacts to an unfair world does.

Remember Hurrem Sultan was a Ukrainian woman enslaved by Turks and her family murdered. She learned to accept her situation and found how to make herself the queen of the Ottoman Empire and run the Ottoman Empire.

Epictetus one of the greatest stoics used stoic philosophy to get out of slavery. His student was Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius who was one of the greatest emperors that ever live.

Ladies this is the secret to all great power to see yourself as the Queen who already has her dream life and makes decisions out of a place of being fully empowered. You are queens. You are not victims.

If your country is misogynist you can make decisions to be the first empowered woman in your country and teach others empowerment until they teach others and one day the whole country is empowered.

Words matter when it comes to our actions.

Choose empowering words where you are the Queen and the daughter of a CEO or king and anything is possible if you figure out a way.

If there is a will there is a way.

What spoiled princess bothers about unfair systems? Only poor people bother about an unfair system. Ex rich immigrants don’t care about the system is fair or unfair, they find out how it works and climb it back up to their advantage.

Ladies there is no misogyny. There is no patriarchy. There are only four things:

🍓Pickmeishas

🍓Dusty losers

🍓Queens

🍓High value gentlemen

There is no misogyny or patriarchy, there are losers and winners.

Don’t be a Pickmeisha and unite with other queens and you will have your power.

Life is like a game of poker.

A winner like Hurrem Sultan will take an abusive situation & system rigged against her and play the card hand she is dealt to win.

A winner will still win at poker with a bad hand of cards.

A loser will still find a way to lose with a good deck of cards.

The secret elite don’t want you to know is life is like a game of cards: the cards you are dealt with don’t matter but knowing when to hold them and when to fold them is everything.

The secret elite don’t want you to know is it doesn’t matter what cards you were dealt but how you play them!

Stoic femininity is about victor not victim mindset.

Western elite especially don’t want women of colour to know this secret to reduce competition so you will see a lot of level down propaganda targeting us. Like we should give WAP for free to broke dusty losers and split the bill 50-50 because Cardi B was paid to say so.

You can’t be a victim and spoiled princess at the same time so pick who you want to be.

I teach royal mindset and I am not playing.

Power is agency (ability to achieve your dreams) - agency comes from taking responsibility and stoicism (you can’t change the world but your reaction to it, feel your feelings but make your choices based on logic).

High agency femininity as in stoic femininity is empowering in practical terms in our daily life. The Daily Stoic is one of the best guides to female empowerment as well as hiring a stylist and taking make up classes, diet, gym, perfume and being cultured in classics.

Feminism is only empowering in theory but you end up forced to split bills 50-50 and give free kitty 🐈‍⬛ cat to mean ungrateful broke dusty losers and work yourself to the bone like a slave.

Judge trees by their fruit and judge theories by results. Queen Elizabeth’s & Hurrem Sultan’s stoicism will do you a lot more good than 50-50 victim mindset ideology.

Think like Queens. 👑 Become Queens .

Credit Maria Al Masani

[bluedemiurge]

I just pictured Kevin Day walking onto the UAE court to play against the Ravens, coaching for the US Court, or receiving his gold medal with the internal monologue or energy of Sultan Hurrem in the Sultan series, when she is appointed director of the harem.

I’m Alexandra La Rossa. Kevin Day, number two of the perfect court.

Ukrainian slave, sold to the Ottoman palace. Irish slave, gifted to the Moriyama Empire.

Slave, brought the Dnieper The Celtics sea to the Black SeaAtlantic coast.

Slave who lost her his mother, father, brothers, and all loved ones.

Praying to God that they swallow huge waves, to the sky, to again find my family.

With 17 9 years met suffering and misery of the world, which is for one day aged for a thousand, nobody and nothing, poor Alexandra Kevin.

I’m Alexandra La Rossa. Kevin Day, son of Exy.

No one I trust my pain, even with anyone, is never shared.

I buried my sorrows in a deep well, and poured them into the sea.

They took them to the waves.

For all I melted the soul fit, I smile.

I weep my tears only for my family.

I protested against the fate, and from slave I became queen.

And here I am in the place that changed my life and destiny.

In the palace of Sultan Suleiman USC, which I have wanted to overthrow to their head.

Now, it become my home, my nest.

How could I know that my heart is numb revenge, knock again awakened by love hope.

I promised myself, I swore that the day will come when all those I kneel, kissed the hem and asked for forgiveness, kneel before me. Now, that day came. The end to all enemies who are prepared me so much pain, sorrow and suffering. Some now fear! Because they will poison every breath. Like the rain will fall on them.

I, Hurrem. Slave of sultan Suleiman, concubine, sultana, married his wife Hurrem. Mother of five of his children. Its fragrance of Paradise, Treasure, lover, bright moon, and hope his companion, his beauty upon beauty, Hurrem. I, Hurrem. Mehmet, Mihrimah, Cihangir, Bayazid’s happy mother. Haseki Hurrem Sultan! My children! I'm Kevin Day, son of Exy, son of Kayleigh Day and David Wymack. I'm Perfect Court, Queen of the Court. I'm the number one striker in the country, Fox of the Palmetto State.

What is a harem a Court? I will rule the world this sport!

...

do you see my vision?👀

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

The Obey Me brothers reacting to a Hurrem Sultan Mc!!

Hurrem Sultan Reader | Yandere Obey Me! 

You’ve worked hard to get what you want. Your position of mere concubine heightened to that of the right hand to the sultan. So that’s why you cursed out Diavolo for bringing you to the devil dom in the first place. That may have something to do with why you were so cold and demanding when you first arrived. But now the seven brothers are at your beck and call, wooed by your intelligence and personality they work to show their love and be the best tools for your reign of RAD: 

Satan 

“As per usual your choice of poetry is truly like none other.”

Is privy to your influence as well as your soulful character

And while he plays hard to get when you ask

He’s more than willing to release his anger on who you point your finger too

After all you are the love of his life

Leviathan

“What’s the passwo-”

“One. Two.”

“I’m coming! I’m coming!”

Your title matches perfectly with your love

Your ruling of a sultan is how he plays a willing servant to you

Accepting your love and careful words as he and lotan act on your every wish

He equates you to the op character in a game that can solve every problem but instead cheers you on as they chuckle at your puny victory

No flood is unwarranted if you so much as thought of it

Mammon

“Woof!”

Is more than honored to be your loyal dog

That returns to dazzle and drape you with his findings

Even if he stole them

He was the first of your demons to fall into their rightful place

So praise him often 

Especially when he gifts you with the ripped horns of some idiotic naysayer

Asmodeus

“Oiya~reward me more (Y/n)!”

Is delighted that you’re so forward with your decision to advise them

He could learn a thing or two from you

To make it so that he’s honored to even lay his head in your lap

Or so jealous of his own fans he contemplates strangling them

But with your soothing kisses surely he won’t murder then

Beelzebub

“Where do you want me to carry your throne?”

He’s a good boy and he appreciates you telling him

While you feed him those human grapes 

He listens and does all that he can 

Usually satisfied with that 

At least it’ll hold him off from eating the demon that gave you a suspicious side-eye

For now

Belphegor

“Hmmm and who was that you were mumbling in your sleep?”

Is a jealous follower that struggles with even his brother’s open obsession 

Will not usually work with mere…words of encouragement

 you need to give him a part of yourself worthy exchange for his service

Perhaps a hummed naptime for those demons to go missing

Lucifer

“As you wish…my sultan.”

He knows what you’re doing 

using your kindness and general influence to rule as best as you can

He’s oddly more willing than he would’ve thought

Not only do you entrance him with your personality but you’re negotiation skills are like none other

Every action you ask of him aligns with his own ambitions 

Somehow  you already know

He will still defend you, outside of your asking

Something Cerberus would be happy to help with if it meant getting a full tummy

[spoonfullofwit]

Game of Thrones/HoTD AND Magnificent Century Crossover Headcanons

EVERYONE CALM DOWN! AND LET ME COOK!

Don’t ask how I got to this headspace (i was high on edibles), but I did! And I have to talk about it!!

Hear me out! Sultan Suleiman, Stannis Baratheon, Ned Stark is a fucking dream team! I don’t know sports but I think this would be like Micheal Jordan, Coby Bryant, and Shaq all decided to be on the same team (I think?). They would be rocking shit.

Their core values are fucking locked the every loving the FUCK in. They all value honor, honesty, law and order, loyalty, family, and duty. They are all stoics, they are reasonably disciplined, and they are all seasoned warriors.

But I want to focus on the honesty part especially for Suleiman. Being your typical Scorpio, the one thing that will turn Suleiman’s back to you quick is dishonesty when it comes to him. For example, with Firuze who Suleiman fell in love with for a good bit, but as soon as he found out she was a fraud his love and trust in her dropped in an instant. Like he cannot stand the thought of someone not being honest to him with the exception Hurrem, but she counterbalances with her ironclad loyalty. Like he knows Hurrem is not always a truthful person but he knows at the end of the day she would never backstab him not even for her children, and proven she would give her life for him willingly and without question. so she gets a pass. But everyone else no!

This is why Suleiman would get on a lot better with Stannis Baratheon and Ned Stark. Stannis and Ned are honest to a fault. They tell it like it is, and they do not sugarcoat anything. And I think Suleiman would appreciate that a lot more than everyone else just telling him what he wants to hear or telling him things with ulterior motives.

Ned and Stannis they don’t have ulterior motives. They genuinely believe that the law is the law. They are men you can actually trust they will uphold the law, and their values will almost never falter. They don’t mind games, and they believe that everything should be fair.

And Stannis and Ned would absolutely fuck with Suleiman because Suleiman is about that action no questions asked. Suleiman lives and dies by the sword.

If he was not a contender for the throne, and Stannis was Grand Vizier or Hand of the King, EVERYTHING is getting laid the fuck out. Like Europe would be in actual fucking danger because Stannis would get shit done by any means necessary. And the worst part he would NEVER be executed. You won't catch him with shit. Infidelity won't do anything to him because the MC and ASOIAF men don't hold each other accountable for cheating. No DV, no lying, no conspiracy to take the throne or put another person on the throne, no NOTHING. CUS THE RULES ARE THE FUCKING RULES. AND HIS DUTY IS HIS DUTY POINT BLANK PERRIODT!

Ned would probably be merciful and be like "Yo, bro I think we good on conquering stuff. As your friend, you're doing too much."

I'm not sure if Hurrem and Mahidveran would have harder time getting away with their shenanigans or easier time. Because neither Ned nor Stannis are getting in women's business and probably tell them in their way "WE DO NOT CARE." If children getting harmed is involved THEN Ned would step in, but other than that...He's noping the fuck out.

(They're Powerpuff Girls coded I swear🤣🤣)

[sultanaswardrobe]

Halime Sultan wearing Hurrem Sultan's and Mahidevran Sultan's clothes - asked by anon

[fastlikealambo]

The third wife of rhaenyra targaryen.|| rhaenyra targaryen x black!fem reader

In the five years since Queen Rhaenyra The Conqueror, Bringer of New Valyria, triumphed over the usurper without losing a single dragon, the realm is at peace. Having no need of husbands and taking two other wives, Queen Alicent and Queen Mysaria, the dragon queen is in need of a third and final wife to rule the seven kingdoms at her side.

You were just a girl from nowhere, watching the sky fill with dragons at peace, destined to be a scullery maid in a vicious household and the future wife of a ratcatcher until fate and blood decide your future for you. 

History will remember Rhaenyra Targaryen as the great unifier, the second coming of Visenya Targaryen who brought another golden age of dragons out of war. But they will sing songs of you, the smallfolk who ascended to fire and blood as the queen’s favorite, the one they tried to kill so many times, the third wife of rhaenyra targaryen.

Some notes: Aegon, Aemond, and Daemon are dead but their dragons were saved, and Otto Hightower and Criston Cole spontaneously combusted, I don’t know what to tell yall. Luke lived, Jace lived, Helaena lived, Jaehaerys lived, Baela and Rhaena are happy goddammit.  During the short war, Rhaenyra married Mysaria and one year after the dance of dragons ended, she also married Alicent.

Some other notes: This is dark and I drew some inspiration from Cinderella and Hurrem Sultan (the fictional representation of her from the show's magnificent century but nobody I know watches that show). Rhaenyra is in her thirties and reader is in her twenties. 

Trigger warnings for violence, murder, abuse. MINORS DNI

Chapter One.

Chapter Two: All that you are is transformed.

 “I wish to be anointed.”

   “Anointed?” 

The question did not come from Princess Rhaenys but from Queen Rhaenyra herself, who sat forward on the throne. You dared to allow your eyes to meet hers and her gaze, though formidable, was not cold, simply curious. 

  “I’m smallfolk, Your Grace.  I do not carry the rank or protection of a house, everything you see before you is all that I am. To be by your side would be a blessing, not only to me, but to those who serve you, to all smallfolk. Anoint me, Your Grace, and you anoint yourself.”

Where in all the gods did that come from?

Didn’t matter.

    “Shall we continue on, Your Grace?” Rhaenys asked but Queen Rhaenyra lifted her hand and beckoned you closer.

 You forced one foot in front of the other until you were in front of the dragon queen, your face reflecting in the famed sword Dark Sister, the queen rested one hand on its hilt, the other was outstretched to you.

No, you would not go back to mending dresses and waiting for good bread. You would not die today, not tomorrow, nor the next day.

 You bowed before Rhaenyra and her hand found your cheek, a calloused thumb brushed away your tears. 

   “You believe yourself capable to rule next to me? To forsake all that you have known, all that you are, to be mine and only mine, my lady?”

No one had called you their lady before, much less a lady.

   For your mother, for yourself, you took Rhaenyra’s hand that held your face and put it over your heart.

     “All I ask is for my mother to be safe and never know hunger again. With that I’m yours, Your Grace.”

  You released the queen, only then remembering there were other people in the throne room.

Perhaps you had overestimated yourself, you should have been more demure,curtsied better. Perhaps if you told the truth, confessed that you were wearing a dress stolen from the back of a noble lady you murdered, the queen would show you mercy.

There was no going back now.

Queen Rhaenyra stood and you curtsied again, a sudden storm of fear sweeping over you that calmed when Rhaenyra bent forward and put her lips on your forehead, each cheek,and lastly your lips. 

To know the mouth of the dragon queen was to know The Gods themselves.

  “Send the rest away, I have chosen. “ Rhaeyra ordered and took your hand in hers.

    “I believe the gods have brought you to me for a reason and you will be safe here. Come, we will get you settled in and then I will introduce you to my wives.” Queen Rhaenyra said and suddenly you felt dizzy.

Was this really happening?

Had your fate truly been transformed?

As you two took your leave, a crowd entered the throne room, the not chosen ladies clambering to see who was chosen.

 You spotted your former employer’s daughters and watched their eyes widen at the sight of you on the queen’s arm. They pushed and shoved their way to the front, shrieking.

  “Do you know them?” Princess Rhaenys asked, studying you for a moment.

You made complete and total eye contact with both girls before letting the Queen lead you on.

  “No, I do not believe I do.”

Just a little something to tide you over! Hope you liked it!

@asvterias

@nxcxllxsevens

@newcaptainofsquad9

[thevampiremarie]

Treehouse Ask: I like how you have drawn inspiration from different historical and mythological couples to create Morpheus/Reader's relationship. Using Suleiman the Magnificent and Haesaki Hurrem Sultan was a great choice because it was very much a real-life darker Cinderella story (not to romanticize enslavement). While Hurrem was considered lovely with her (possible) red hair and green eyes it's said her wit and intelligence captivated her husband. I feel like that was similar to Reader.

Hi!

Sorry it took me a bit to answer this! I actually am just sitting down to watch Magnificent Century as I write chapter 29 and it reminded me that you sent this ❤️.

I LOVE the love story between Suleyman and Hurrem and I admire Hurrem so much. I have been wanting for years to work in elements of their romance into something but nothing was ever the right fit. Their dynamic was so complicated, given the historical/social context, yet very beautiful.

As I was planning out Morpheus and Reader’s relationship, I realized I needed to find inspo/themes that would somewhat accurately translate my perspective of their dynamic and how they handle the immense power he has over her while being romantic/passionate/loving. To me, bringing the two stories together was the perfect fit.

As a nod to this inspo, I have titled Lucienne’s position within Morpheus’ realm as one of his Viziers. This won’t be the last we see of the Ottoman court hierarchy in treehouse!