#mehmedxreader

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

That someone, improbably, was you.  

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

---

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

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

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

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

“Yes, my Sultan.”  

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

His brow arched. “You find this amusing?”  

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

“And... ‘love’?”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mehmed noticed.  

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

“Of course, my Sultan.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”  

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

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

The hours stretched into days, the days into weeks. The air in the palace was alive with activity, but Mehmed’s eyes often found themselves lingering on you, yearning for your attention. You were engrossed in your pursuit of mastering Arabic, your dedication unshakable. Scrolls littered your chambers, phrases etched into parchment, your lips forming the sounds of the ancient language over and over until they flowed naturally.  

At first, he admired your diligence, his heart swelling with pride at your determination. But as time passed, a seed of discontent began to grow in him. You no longer sought him out the way you used to, your laughter no longer echoed in his chambers as often. Mehmed was a sultan, the ruler of empires, a man who commanded armies and conquered lands, but here he sat, longing for a touch, a glance, a moment of your undivided attention.  

One evening, Mehmed sat in his study, the weight of empire heavy on his shoulders. Maps of the Balkans were spread before him, marking the territories he aimed to secure. The flickering light of the oil lamps cast shadows across his face, accentuating the storm brewing in his dark eyes. His mind should have been on strategy, but instead, it wandered to you.  

“She hasn’t visited today,” he muttered to himself, his voice low.  

One of his trusted aides, Hasan, glanced at him but wisely said nothing. Mehmed waved him away, dismissing the council early. He couldn’t focus.  

By the time you appeared at his door that evening, he had already resigned himself to the thought that you had forgotten him entirely. When the door creaked open, he didn’t even look up, his hand tracing a route on the map before him.  

“Sultan,” you said softly, stepping inside.  

He didn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening. His silence was a wall, a coldness you hadn’t felt from him in weeks.  

“Mehmed,” you tried again, your voice laced with warmth.  

Finally, he looked up, his expression unreadable. “What brings you here?”  

The formality in his tone stung, but you knew better than to let it dissuade you. Closing the distance between you, you placed a hand on his shoulder. “I came to see you.”  

“Did you?” His gaze bore into yours, a flicker of hurt behind the guarded exterior. “Or did you run out of scrolls to read?”  

You frowned, realizing the extent of his discontent. “You’re upset with me.”  

“Should I not be?” His voice was calm but laced with an edge. “Days pass, and I barely see you. I watch as you pour every ounce of your energy into your studies, and I... I am left here, wondering if I am still part of your world.”  

His words struck deep, the vulnerability in them unexpected. Mehmed was always so composed, so sure of himself. To see him like this was a testament to how much he cared for you.  

“Mehmed,” you whispered, stepping closer. “I never meant to neglect you. I was working on something... for you.”  

He arched a brow, skepticism flickering across his face. “For me?”  

Nodding, you reached for the scroll you had tucked under your arm. “I wanted it to be a surprise, but I see now that I was wrong to keep you waiting.”  

You unfolded the parchment and began to recite, your voice steady and melodic as you read the Arabic poem you had spent weeks perfecting. Each word was chosen with care, the phrases weaving together a story of admiration, devotion, and love.  

Mehmed’s eyes softened as he listened, his expression shifting from guarded to captivated. By the time you finished, his lips were parted, his gaze locked onto yours.  

“You did this... for me?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.  

“For you,” you confirmed, a small smile tugging at your lips.  

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor as he closed the distance between you in an instant. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks. “And I was a fool,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “A fool for letting my doubts get the better of me.”  

You wrapped your arms around his neck, leaning into him. “You are no fool, Mehmed. You are a man who loves deeply, and I admire that about you.”  

His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I cannot bear to lose even a moment with you,” he admitted. “I thought I could, but... the thought of you slipping away, even for something noble like your studies, it unsettles me.”  

“Then let me make it up to you,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.  

Mehmed’s lips found yours, the kiss slow and deliberate, as though he were savoring every second. When he pulled back, his dark eyes searched yours. “Stay with me tonight,” he said softly, though it was more a plea than a command.  

“Always,” you replied, your voice steady.  

That evening, the maps and scrolls were forgotten as you and Mehmed lost yourselves in each other. He carried you to the bed, his movements reverent, as though you were the most precious thing in his world. His hands traced every inch of your skin, his lips pressing soft kisses along your neck and shoulders.  

“You are my greatest treasure,” he whispered in Arabic, the words wrapping around you like a warm embrace.  

You responded in kind, using the phrases you had learned, your voice trembling with emotion. Each word seemed to light a fire in him, his kisses growing more fervent.  

By the time the first rays of dawn began to filter through the curtains, you lay entwined in each other’s arms, your bodies and hearts closer than ever before.  

Mehmed brushed a strand of hair from your face, his gaze soft but intense. “I never want to feel that distance again,” he murmured. “You are my world, and I cannot bear to be without you.”  

“And you never will be,” you assured him, your voice firm.  

The soft light of dawn filtered through the silk curtains of the Sultan’s private chambers, casting a golden hue over the room. Mehmed lay still in the vast expanse of his bed, his face serene, the weight of his empire momentarily forgotten in the quiet of early morning. His dark curls rested against the pillow, and his chest rose and fell with the rhythm of his steady breaths.  

You stood silently at the doorway, watching him. Today was his rare day of leisure, a day free from councils, war strategies, and the demands of his empire. You decided it would be a day for him to remember, a day when he could feel nothing but love and ease.  

---

The kitchens had been bustling since before sunrise under your instructions. Delicate honeyed pastries, ripe figs, and freshly baked bread were prepared, accompanied by aromatic coffee and a sweet syrup infused with rose water. You carried the tray yourself, refusing the help of any servant.  

Your attire was chosen with purpose—soft silk, barely opaque, the pale fabric clinging to your figure with every step. You left your hair loose, its waves cascading down your back, scented lightly with oils of jasmine. Every detail was intentional, a tribute to the man who had stolen your heart so thoroughly.  

---

As you set the tray on the low table near the bed, the clinking of cups stirred him. His eyes fluttered open, those deep pools of endless brown focusing on you. For a moment, he seemed caught between dream and reality, his gaze drinking in the sight of you.  

“What is this, my moonlight?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.  

“A surprise,” you replied softly, your tone teasing.  

His gaze dropped to your dress, and his smile deepened into something more wicked. “You intend to kill me this morning, don’t you?”  

You laughed, the sound light and melodious as you perched on the edge of the bed. “I thought I would remind the Sultan of the joys of leisure.”  

---

He sat up, the sheet slipping down to reveal his broad chest. His strong arms stretched lazily, but his eyes never left you. “You could have sent for me. Yet here you are, torturing me in person.”  

You leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “If I am torturing you, Mehmed, it seems to be a torment you enjoy.”  

He chuckled, low and deep, and pulled you onto the bed beside him. “Enjoy is not a strong enough word,” he murmured, his lips grazing your temple. His hands moved to your waist, the silk of your dress slipping easily beneath his fingers.  

“Breakfast first,” you insisted, laughing as you tried to free yourself from his grasp.  

He groaned in protest but released you. “Fine, but only because I suspect you’ve outdone yourself.”  

---

You fed him delicately, holding a piece of honey-soaked bread to his lips. He bit into it, his gaze locked on yours, the intensity in his eyes making your pulse quicken.  

“Sweet,” he remarked, his voice soft, “but not as sweet as you.”  

You rolled your eyes at his charm, but your smile betrayed your delight. “Is this how the Sultan intends to flatter me all day?”  

“No,” he replied, leaning closer. “This is how I intend to worship you all day.”  

He reached for a ripe fig, breaking it open with his hands and offering it to you. As you leaned forward to take a bite, his fingers brushed against the corner of your mouth.  

“You're driving me mad,” he whispered.  

---

Later, as the tray of breakfast lay forgotten, he pulled you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you. “Let me teach you something,” he murmured, his voice a warm caress.  

“And what might the Sultan teach me today?” you teased.  

“Words,” he replied, his lips brushing your ear. “Words of love.”  

He spoke to you in Arabic, his voice low and melodic, the words rolling off his tongue like poetry.  

“Qamar,” he said, his fingers tracing your jawline.  

“Qamar,” you repeated, your accent imperfect but endearing.

“What does it mean?”  

“It means moon. Because you are my moon, lighting the darkest nights.”  

Your cheeks flushed, and he chuckled, clearly pleased with your reaction.  

“Habibti,” he continued, his thumb brushing over your lips.  

“I know this one!” you exclaimed, “My beloved.” Mehmed chuckled, gaze locking with yours. “Yes, the one my heart cannot live without.”  

---

Hours passed as the two of you remained entangled in each other, the world beyond the chamber door forgotten. He couldn’t keep his hands from you—his fingers grazing your shoulders, his lips brushing your neck, his hands tangling in your hair.   

“Mehmed,” you whispered, cupping his face in your hands. “You deserve every happiness, every moment of peace. I wish I could give you a world without burdens.”  

“You already have,” he replied, his voice breaking slightly. “When I am with you, I forget the weight of my crown. With you, I am simply a man who loves his woman.”  

--- 

As the sun dipped below the horizon, its golden light bathed the room. You lay beside him, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His fingers traced patterns on your back, his touch soothing and tender.  

“Do you know,” he began, his voice thoughtful, “that there are poets who would give their lives to describe your beauty?”  

“And do you know,” you countered, smiling against his skin, “that there are women who would give their lives to be where I am now?”  

He laughed, the sound rich and genuine. “Let them envy. You are mine, and I am yours.”  

The stars outside Mehmed’s chamber burned brightly against the velvet of the night sky, their brilliance casting a soft glow through the tall, arched windows. He sat at his desk, surrounded by the maps and treaties that were a constant reminder of his responsibilities, yet his thoughts were far from politics or war. His mind wandered instead to you—the fire in your eyes, the defiance in your voice, the way you carried yourself with a pride and strength that both intrigued and challenged him.

Since your last encounter, Mehmed had been consumed by thoughts of you. The memory of your soaked dress clinging to your figure, your sharp tongue daring to challenge him, haunted his dreams and lingered in his waking moments. You were unlike anyone he had ever known, and the more he thought of you, the more he wanted to see you again. To feel the heat of your presence, to hear your biting words and see the blush they brought to your cheeks.

With a wave of his hand, he summoned a servant and gave the order: you were to be brought to him immediately. 

---

You stood before the grand doors to Mehmed’s chambers, your hands trembling slightly as you smoothed your dress. You had hoped to avoid him after your last encounter, not wanting to feed into his games or your own confusing feelings. Yet here you were, summoned once more, your heart pounding in your chest as the doors swung open to reveal him.

Mehmed stood by the windows, the moonlight casting a silvery glow over his sharp features. He turned when he heard you enter, his lips curling into a smile that was both warm and mischievous. “You came,” he said, his voice low and rich.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you replied, your tone as defiant as ever. 

He chuckled, stepping closer, his dark eyes locked on yours. “Do you ever do anything without resistance?” 

“Only when it’s worth my time,” you shot back. 

His laughter filled the room, warm and genuine. “Then I must strive to be worthy of your time,” he said, his gaze softening as it lingered on you.

You lifted your head, trying to maintain your composure under his intense scrutiny. “What do you want, Sultan?”

“I have a request,” he said, his voice serious now. “I want you to be my muse.”

You blinked, taken aback. “Your muse?”

He nodded, gesturing to an easel and a collection of charcoal and parchment set up near the window. “I’ve been inspired by you—your strength, your beauty, your fire. I wish to capture it.”

You hesitated, your heart racing. “And what exactly do you expect me to do? Pose naked?”

His lips twitched with amusement, but he shook his head. “No, that won’t be necessary. You’re perfect as you are.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, but you pushed it aside, nodding stiffly. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

---

The hours passed in a haze of tension and quiet intimacy. You sat on his bed, your posture straight and your gaze fixed on a point in the distance, determined not to meet his eyes. Mehmed worked with a focused intensity, his hands moving deftly as he sketched your form. Every so often, he would glance up, his dark eyes studying you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

“You’re very still,” he remarked after a while, his voice soft. “It’s unlike you.”

“Perhaps I’m trying not to give you another reason to mock me,” you replied, your tone dry.

He chuckled, the sound warm and rich. “I would never mock you. Tease, perhaps, but never mock.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile that tugged at your lips. As the night wore on, the initial tension between you began to ease, replaced by a strange, fragile connection. He asked you questions about your homeland, your family, your dreams, and for the first time, you found yourself answering honestly. His curiosity was genuine, his attention unwavering, and you couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through you under his gaze.

---

It was nearly dawn when exhaustion finally caught up with you. Despite your best efforts, your eyelids grew heavy, and before you knew it, you had lay down on the pillows and had drifted off to sleep.

Mehmed set down his charcoal, his eyes softening as he watched you. You looked so peaceful, your features relaxed, your lips slightly parted. For a moment, he simply sat there, taking in the sight of you, his heart aching with an unfamiliar longing.

Carefully, he moved to the bed, sliding in beside you without waking you. He lay there for a long time, his eyes tracing the curve of your jaw, the softness of your lips, the way your hair spilled across the pillows. He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, and whispered words in Arabic —words of adoration and promises he wasn’t ready to voice aloud.

---

When you woke, the first thing you noticed was the warmth beside you. Your eyes snapped open, and you froze, realizing that Mehmed was lying next to you, his arm draped casually over your waist as he slept. Your cheeks flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment as you sat up, your movements sharp enough to wake him.

He blinked up at you, a lazy smile spreading across his face. “Good morning.”

You glared at him, your hands clenched into fists. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, it’s my bed,” he replied, his tone infuriatingly calm. “But I suppose we could share.”

You slapped his shoulder, your cheeks burning. “You’re impossible!”

He laughed, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. “And you’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

You scoffed, pushing yourself off the bed. “This is the last time you’ll see me, Sultan. I refuse to play your games.”

His smile faltered slightly, but he quickly masked it with his usual confidence. “You say that, but I don’t believe you.”

The grand bath chamber was a sanctuary of opulence and tranquility, its marble walls reflecting the golden glow of oil lamps. Steam curled lazily upward, blending with the faint scent of rose and sandalwood that filled the air. Mehmed reclined in the large sunken bath, his dark hair damp and clinging to his forehead, the water lapping gently at his chest. After a day of meetings, decisions, and the heavy weight of ruling an empire, this was his moment of solace.  

He closed his eyes, letting the warmth soothe his muscles, but his peace was soon interrupted by the soft shuffle of footsteps. His eyes opened lazily, curiosity flickering across his features as he turned to see you enter the chamber.  

You hesitated at the doorway, your posture rigid, your gaze darting around the room as though seeking an escape. The thin silk of your dress clung to your frame, a subtle reminder of your vulnerability in this gilded cage. You had been captured during one of Mehmed’s campaigns—a token of war, brought to the harem to serve. And tonight, it seemed, your fate had been decided.  

“Come closer,” his voice, deep and rich, resonated through the chamber.  

Your hands trembled, but you stepped forward, your chin held high despite the fear coiling in your stomach. You despised him—this man who had taken you from your home, your people. Yet, here you were, standing before him, powerless to defy the sultan of the Ottoman Empire.  

Mehmed’s gaze swept over you, lingering just long enough to make your cheeks flush. He smirked, amused by your defiance. “You’re trembling,” he remarked, his tone teasing. “Am I so terrifying?”  

“No,” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. “I’m cold.”  

His laughter echoed through the chamber, a low, melodious sound that both infuriated and unsettled you. “Cold, are you? Perhaps the water will warm you.”  

You scowled, refusing to meet his gaze as you approached the edge of the bath. A tray of oils and soaps rested nearby, and you busied yourself with selecting one, hoping to distract yourself from his piercing stare.  

“You’ll bathe me, then?” he asked, leaning back against the edge of the tub, his arms draped lazily over the rim.  

“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” you replied, your tone laced with sarcasm.  

His brow arched, the smirk never leaving his lips. “Sassy,” he murmured. “I like that.”  

You ignored him, pouring a fragrant oil into the water, the rich scent of jasmine and amber filling the air. As you knelt beside the tub, your hands dipped into the water, your fingers brushing against his skin as you worked the oil into his shoulders.  

“You’re quite skilled,” he said, his voice softer now, though still laced with amusement. “Have you done this before?”  

You bit back a retort, focusing instead on your task. His skin was warm beneath your touch, the tension in his muscles slowly easing as you massaged the oil into his skin. Despite your anger, you couldn’t deny the power he exuded—the strength in his frame, the sharpness of his gaze.  

He tilted his head, watching you closely. “What’s your name?”  

You hesitated, then muttered it under your breath.  

He repeated it, testing the syllables on his tongue. “Beautiful,” he said, his tone almost reverent.  

You scoffed, shaking your head. “I’m sure you say that to all the women in your harem.”  

His laughter was soft this time, almost fond. “You think I’m so easily impressed?”  

“I think you’re used to getting what you want,” you shot back, your fingers pausing briefly before continuing their work.  

He reached up, his hand catching your wrist. The sudden contact startled you, and you looked up to find his eyes dark and intense. “Careful,” he said, his voice low, a warning edge to it. “I am your sultan.”  

The reminder stung, and you pulled your hand away, your expression hardening. “I haven’t forgotten.”  

For a moment, the tension between you hung heavy in the air, the only sound the gentle ripple of water.

Then, unexpectedly, his lips curved into a grin, and before you could react, he reached out and grabbed you by the waist, pulling you into the bath with him.  

You let out a sharp cry as the warm water enveloped you, soaking your dress instantly. “What are you doing?” you shouted, splashing water in his direction.  

Mehmed laughed, the sound rich and unrestrained. “You looked like you needed to relax,” he said, his hands still resting on your waist.  

“Let me go!” you demanded, trying to push away from him, but the slippery water made it difficult.  

He relented, releasing you with a chuckle, but his gaze lingered on you as you pushed yourself to the edge of the tub, your soaked dress clinging to your skin. “You’re even more beautiful when you’re angry,” he remarked, his tone teasing.  

“You’re insufferable,” you snapped, your cheeks burning as you tried to wring out your dress.  

“And you’re captivating,” he countered, his voice softening as he leaned back, his eyes never leaving yours.  

Despite your anger, you couldn’t deny the heat that spread through you under his gaze. There was something about the way he looked at you, as though you were the only thing in the room worth his attention.  

Finally, he stood, the water cascading off his body as he stepped out of the bath. You looked away closing your eyes. He reached for a towel, wrapping it around his waist before turning back to you. “You may go,” he said, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “But I expect to see you again.”  

You bristled at his words, but you didn’t argue. Gathering what little dignity you had left, you climbed out of the tub, your dress now nearly transparent from the water. His gaze flickered over you briefly, but he said nothing, his respect evident despite his obvious attraction.  

As you turned to leave, you paused at the door, glancing back at him. “Don’t expect me to be so accommodating next time,” you said, your tone sharp but your heart pounding.  

He laughed softly, his expression unreadable. “I look forward to it,” he replied.  

The library had never been so quiet, the air heavy with anticipation. Mehmed was already seated, leaning back in a cushioned chair with an open book resting on his lap. His sharp gaze followed you as you entered, his eyes softening instantly. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, one that spoke of mischief more than academic intent.  

"You’re late," he said, his voice carrying the low authority of a sultan, though the teasing undertone betrayed his mood.  

"You’re early," you countered, meeting his gaze with a challenging glint in your eyes.  

He tilted his head, gesturing to the seat beside him. “Sit. Let’s see if you’re as eager to learn today as you were the last time—or will I have to chase your attention again?”  

---

Settling beside him, you glanced at the open book on the table, the beautiful Arabic script flowing like art across the pages. Mehmed leaned closer, the subtle scent of cedar and musk enveloping you as he picked up a quill and began writing.  

“This is the phrase we’ll start with,” he said, his voice dropping lower as he leaned even closer, his lips nearly brushing your ear. “Read it aloud.”  

You tilted your head, your face now inches from his. “You’re too close,” you muttered, though the warmth in your cheeks betrayed the protest.  

“I’m exactly where I need to be,” he replied smoothly, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Now, read.”  

Your focus shifted reluctantly to the text. You stumbled through the phrase, and Mehmed chuckled, his hand brushing yours as he reached to correct your pronunciation.  

“Habibti, la takhafi. Ana huna ma'ak,” he said slowly, his voice rich and deliberate. “It means, ‘My beloved, do not be afraid. I am here with you.”  

You repeated the phrase carefully, but your eyes darted back to him. His expression was softer now, his gaze almost reverent.  

“Do you want me to learn it for yourself, Sultan?” you teased.  

“For you,” he admitted, his hand lingering on yours.  

--- 

As the lesson continued, his focus seemed to waver. Instead of guiding you through the phrases, his hand would drift to your shoulder or the small of your back, pulling you just a little closer.  

“Mehmed,” you said, trying to sound stern, “this is supposed to be a lesson. Stop distracting me.”  

“I am teaching,” he replied, his voice filled with mock innocence. “You’re the one who’s distracting me.”  

You rolled your eyes, trying to pull away, but his arm snaked around your waist, holding you in place. “You told me you have learned something by yourself?” he asked, his tone suddenly curious.  

Turning to face him, you smirked. “A few things. Would you like to hear?”  

He nodded, leaning back slightly, his expression intrigued.  

You hesitated for a moment before speaking softly in Arabic. “Ana uhibbuka. Enta qalbi wa ruhii.”  

His eyes widened slightly at the confession, the words hitting him harder than you’d expected. “You’ve been studying well,” he said after a pause, though his voice had softened considerably.  

“You didn’t expect that, did you?”  

“I didn’t,” he admitted, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face. “But hearing it from you... ya Allah, it’s more beautiful than I imagined.”  

---

Emboldened by his reaction, you decided to push further. “If I keep studying, will you take me with you to the Middle East on your next campaign?”  

The playful warmth in his eyes dimmed slightly. “No.”  

You blinked, surprised at the firmness in his tone. “Why not?”  

“It’s not a place for a woman,” he said simply, his voice edging into the authority of a ruler. “It’s dangerous.”  

“I’m not just any woman,” you countered, sitting up straighter. “I’ve been training with you. I’ve learned strategy from you. I can handle myself.”  

He chuckled, “You really don’t understand the reality of war. It’s not just battles and victories. It’s blood, pain, and suffering. I don't want you to be there.”  

“And how are you going to live without me while you will be away?” you challenged.

Mehmed leaned back against the edge of the library table, arms crossed, watching you with that signature blend of amusement and authority. His gaze had grown darker, more intent as the tension in the room shifted.  

“You doubt my willpower?” he asked, his voice low, his lips curling into a half-smile.  

“I do,” you replied with a playful tilt of your head, stepping closer to him. The mischief in your eyes was unmistakable. “I don’t think you could resist me if you tried.”  

He raised an eyebrow, the challenge evident in his expression. “You’re underestimating me.”  

“Am I?” you teased, crossing your arms as you took another step toward him. “Let’s make it interesting. Ten minutes, Sultan. You can’t touch me. Not once.”  

He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”  

You shrugged, unbothered by his warning. “I think you’re the one in danger of losing.”  

“Ten minutes, you say?” He straightened, his confidence unwavering. “Fine. But when I win, you’ll admit that no one—not even you—can bend the will of a sultan.”  

---

The room seemed to grow warmer as you moved to the center of the space, your movements slow and deliberate. You began to sway, a subtle rhythm to your steps as you locked eyes with him. Mehmed’s composure faltered just slightly, his jaw tightening.  

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice calm, though his hands were already gripping the edge of the table.  

“Proving my point,” you said simply, spinning lightly as you reached up to untie the scarf around your shoulders. You let it fall to the ground, your fingers trailing along the soft fabric as you did.  

His gaze followed every motion, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “This isn’t fair.”  

“Who said anything about fair?” you replied, your voice lilting with mock innocence.  

You reached for the pin that held your outer robe together, your fingers working slowly as you allowed it to slide from your shoulders. The silk whispered against your skin as it fell, revealing the lighter gown underneath.  

His eyes darkened further, and though he hadn’t moved from his spot, his grip on the table tightened. “You’re testing my patience.”  

“Patience, or your self-control?”  

---

The seconds ticked by, your movements growing bolder as you swayed closer to him. The gown you wore hugged your form perfectly, and every subtle shift seemed to taunt him further.  

“You can stop now,” he said, his voice strained.  

“Why would I stop?” you asked, stepping closer, close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating from you. “You’re the one who accepted the challenge, Sultan.”  

“Enough,” he growled, his tone low, his eyes fixed on yours.  

“Have you reached your limit already?” you teased, tilting your head as you leaned just close enough for your breath to mingle with his. “You’re supposed to last ten minutes.”  

He didn’t answer, his jaw tightening as his gaze flickered to your lips.  

Finally, you reached for the ties of your gown, your hands moving slowly as you began to undo them. That was the breaking point.  

“Enough,” he repeated, his voice rougher this time as he closed the distance between you in an instant. His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him.  

You laughed softly, your arms wrapping around his neck as he buried his face in your shoulder. “You lost,” you whispered.  

“I’ll admit defeat,” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing your collarbone, “if it means I get to hold you like this.”  

---

He didn’t let go, his hands wandering your back as though reassuring himself you were real. His lips found the curve of your neck, trailing kisses upward until he reached your ear.  

“You’re impossible,” he said, though the adoration in his tone betrayed his words. “But you adore me,” you replied, your fingers threading through his hair.  

The air in the palace was heavy that night, charged with tension and the weight of decisions that had occupied Mehmed for hours. He had been in council all day, arguing with his viziers and planning strategies for the wars in the Middle East. By the time he dismissed them, his usually confident demeanor was burdened with exhaustion, his steps slower as he retreated to his chambers.  

You had been waiting, pacing in your room, your heart twisting at the thought of him bearing the empire’s weight alone. Servants had whispered of his mood, of the storm brewing in his eyes, and you knew tonight you had to do something to bring him peace.  

---

You dressed with care, slipping into a gown of deep crimson silk that shimmered like liquid fire. It clung to you perfectly, its golden embroidery catching the dim candlelight. Your hair fell in soft waves, scented with jasmine oil, the subtle fragrance weaving through the air. As you caught your reflection, your chest tightened with both determination and nerves.  

When you stepped into his chambers, he didn’t turn to greet you immediately. He was seated by the window, the goblet of wine in his hand untouched. His dark eyes stared out at the night sky, his profile sharp and commanding, even in his fatigue.  

“Mehmed,” you called softly, stepping closer.  

He turned then, and the moment his gaze fell on you, the weariness in his eyes softened, replaced by something deeper, warmer.  

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual authority.  

“But I am,” you answered, a teasing lilt to your tone as you closed the distance between you.  

---

You placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension in his muscles. “You look like you’ve been at war with the world all day.”  

He exhaled deeply, leaning back in his chair. “The world demands much from its sultan. It cares little for rest or mercy.”  

“Then let me care,” you murmured, sliding onto his lap before he could stop you.  

His hands instinctively came to rest on your waist, his fingers tightening around the soft silk of your gown. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low but tinged with amusement.  

“Distracting you,” you replied, threading your fingers through his dark curls. “You’ve carried the empire long enough today. Let someone carry you for a while.”  

He chuckled, a sound that was almost foreign amidst the tension of the day. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”  

Leaning closer, your lips brushed against his ear as you whispered, “By reminding you that even a sultan deserves to feel happiness.”  

---

For a moment, he froze, his gaze searching yours as though trying to confirm you were truly there. Then, his hands gripped your waist more firmly, pulling you closer. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.  

“Habibti,” he murmured in Arabic, his voice rough with emotion. “La astati' an a'eesh bidunak. I cannot live without you.”  

Your fingers traced the strong lines of his jaw, guiding his face back to yours. His eyes burned with a mix of exhaustion, longing, and an unspoken devotion.  

“You don’t have to,” you said softly, your words steady. “I am yours, Mehmed. Always.”  

He kissed you then, slowly, deeply, like a man drowning in you and unwilling to surface. His touch was unrelenting, his lips exploring yours with a reverence that made your heart ache.  

“Do you even know what you do to me?” he whispered against your lips, his voice barely audible. “You consume me, body and soul.”  

---

When he lifted you into his arms, it was without haste, each movement deliberate, as though he wanted to savor every second. He carried you to the bed, his eyes never leaving yours, his expression a mixture of desire and tenderness.  

Laying you down gently, his fingers traced the lines of your face, lingering on your lips, your cheekbones, and your jaw.  

“You’re unreal,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

“Sometimes, I wonder if you’re even of this world, or if the heavens sent you to torment me.”  

Your hand slid over his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your touch. “If I’m tormenting you, then what are you doing to me?” you asked, a small smile playing on your lips.  

His laughter was soft, his forehead resting against yours as his fingers skimmed the exposed skin of your collarbone. “Ana la amlik sabran ma'ak. I have no patience when it comes to you.”  

His hands were everywhere—gentle yet unyielding as though mapping every curve of your body. His lips followed, pressing kisses to your forehead, your temple, your lips, and down your neck.  

“You are my sanctuary,” he whispered. “The only peace I have in this relentless world.”  

---

As the night stretched on, his touch became less urgent and more tender, his words soft and steady. He told you of how he missed your voice in the silence of his chambers, how your presence lingered in every corner of his mind, even during the most grueling council meetings.  

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me,” he confessed, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I could conquer the world a thousand times over, but it would mean nothing if I didn’t have you to share it with.”  

His hands entwined with yours, his grip firm yet gentle. “Say you’ll stay with me. Always.”  

The intensity in his gaze left no room for doubt. In that moment, there was no empire, no council, no wars—only the two of you, tangled in the certainty of your love.  

As the first rays of dawn crept into the room, he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you like a shield against the world. “You make me believe I can face anything,” he said, his voice a soft rumble. “As long as I have you by my side.”