I only caught the end of the second half of the Real Madrid vs Arsenal game and honestly, I shouldn’t have even turned on the TV
Reblogged
Anonymous asked:
Hey, could you write something for Jude where the reader is tired of the game? One day, he was all hers,intense looks, lingering touches, words that made her heart race. The next, he was cold and distant, as if nothing had ever happened. She tried not to care, to pretend it didn’t bother her. But every ignored message, every unexplained absence, only made the knot in her chest tighten. Did he really love her? Or was she just a distraction for his lonely days?
Please think about it!!!! 🙏🙏🙏🙏
❦ - lonely days.
warnings:: angst, no closure & self care also no happy ending.
writers notes:: this is the last fic on my list so i wrote this in a crisis @barcapix iykyk 💔.
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one day, he was all yours.
the way he looked at you like there was no one else in the world. fingers tracing the edge of your wrist like he was memorizing it. words he only said when the room was dark and the space between you was just barely enough to breathe.
‘you get under my skin like no one else.’ ‘don’t ever leave.’ ‘this feels like more, doesn’t it?’
you’d believed him. every time.
because it did feel like more.
until it didn’t.
the next day, he was cold. distant. unreadable.
no good morning texts. no soft smiles. no warmth in his voice.
he’d brush past you like your body wasn’t one he held against his just nights ago.
you’d send a message.
hey. you good?
left on delivered. for hours.
then days.
you tried not to care. really, you did.
told yourself he was busy. that he didn’t owe you anything. that it wasn’t serious.
but your chest told another story.
a tight knot that only grew worse with every silence, every excuse, every moment he proved he could disappear just as fast as he showed up.
you saw him laughing at a party once, eyes shining, arms around someone else.
not touching her the way he touched you. but still enough to hurt.
he caught your eye from across the room.
and for a split second, he looked guilty.
then he looked away.
you sat in your car that night, keys still in the ignition, phone in your hand.
did you ever really care? or was i just a distraction for when you were lonely?
you didn’t send it.
you didn’t need to.
the silence already answered for him.
you never got your closure.
no text. no call. no explanation.
just… distance.
and over time, that silence turned into something else not peace exactly, but a quieter kind of pain.
the kind you learned to live with.
the kind that stopped stinging every time you heard his name.
you started showing up again.
not for him, but for yourself.
brighter lip gloss. louder music in your car. smiling at strangers just to feel a little something warm in return.
you still thought of him sometimes when your favorite song came on. when someone said “you look happy lately.”
but mostly, you just… moved.
forward. slowly.
and jude noticed.
at first it was a glance.
you walked past him in a crowded room, head held high, a soft laugh falling from your lips, and he looked.
then came the double take. the long stares. the quiet moments when he thought you didn’t notice him watching.
but you did.
you just didn’t care anymore.
he finally texted one night.
can we talk?
you stared at the screen for a full minute before locking your phone again.
not out of anger.
but because there was nothing left to say.
you’d already cried. already questioned everything. already pieced yourself back together.
you weren’t angry. you weren’t bitter.
you were just… done.
and jude?
he was the one sitting in his car now, staring at his phone, wondering how it all slipped through his hands so easily.
he replayed every moment like a highlight reel he couldn’t turn off.
you smiling in his hoodie. you falling asleep on his chest. you whispering “don’t make me regret this.”
he did.
some nights, he thinks about texting again.
but he knows better now.
you weren’t a maybe.
you were always almost, until you weren’t.
and now you’re untouchable.
because you stopped waiting for him to choose you.
and chose yourself instead.
Reblogged
Anonymous asked:
Can you write angst about kenan asking for your fathers phone number because he has interest in you. But your father doesn’t deem him fit/has worries about his potential loyalty to you because he’s surrounded by allot of woman because of his fame. Or because he probably won’t be around a lot?
❦ - but baba.
summary:: what the req said.
warnings:: none
pairing:: kenan yildiz x hijabi!reader
writers notes:: uhh so i made one where baba did end up accepting kenan but why not make one that contradicts that! this req was sent before the other one so im sorry this took like 2 months. also this was so refreshing to write omg.
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‘can i have your father’s number?’
the question fell in the middle of a quiet walk home, your scarf slipping slightly with the wind.
you blinked. ‘what?’
kenan looked nervous, hands deep in his jacket pockets, gaze low.
‘i know this isn’t… light. but i’ve been thinking about it a lot. about us. and i want to do this properly. not in secret. not behind anyone’s back.’
he paused.
‘i want to speak to him. ask for permission to get to know you, with respect. with intention.’
your heart slowed.
because you believed him. you believed in his kindness, his faith, his effort. and it meant something that he wanted to go through your wali.
you nodded. whispered, ‘okay.’
you gave him the number and you didn’t expect the silence that came after.
not from him.
not from your father.
but the hours stretched long, your phone quiet, your chest heavy.
until kenan finally texted.
‘can we talk?’
he was pacing, hoodie up, hands shaking just a little.
‘he said no.’
the words hit you like cold water.
‘what?’
‘not no, exactly… just not yet. not now. maybe not ever.’
your throat tightened. ‘why?’
kenan looked at you, really looked. eyes full of something like guilt.
‘he said my lifestyle doesn’t match yours. that i’m too public. too distracted. surrounded by temptation. he said… he’s seen brothers like me before. ones who say all the right things but can’t commit. who get caught up in the dunya and forget what matters most.’
you stared at the ground, fighting the ache behind your eyes.
silence. heavy and aching.
‘i don’t need perfection,’ you whispered. ‘but i do need truth. and a man who’ll fight for this without dragging me into anything haram.’
he nodded. eyes soft. chest open.
‘i want to do this right,’ he said again.
but wanting and being allowed to are two different things.
and right now, your father wasn’t convinced.
your dad didn’t speak much after the call.
just a quiet ‘inshaAllah, khair,’ like he was trying to let it go.
but you didn’t. not really. because kenan stayed on your mind like a lingering dua. not loud. not desperate. just… constant.
he didn’t message you for days. maybe out of respect. maybe shame. maybe both.
until one afternoon, your father came home with a strange look on his face.
you watched him remove his shoes, hang his keys, wash his hands.
and then he said it.
‘he came to the masjid.’
you looked up.
‘kenan?’
he nodded. calm. unreadable.
‘he came to pray, i saw him. we spoke again.’
you didn’t say anything. your heart was already too loud.
‘he said he doesn’t want to go further without your wali’s consent. said he’s working on his deen. asked if we could meet properly. with boundaries.’
you held your breath.
‘he looked me in the eye,’ your father added. ‘didn’t flinch. didn’t fold. just told me straight, he wants to marry you. not now. not in a rush. but when the time is right, when he’s the man he’s meant to be.’
you whispered, barely audible, ‘what did you say?’
your father sighed. not annoyed. not disappointed.
tired.
but there was a softness under it.
‘i said we’ll see. and that if he’s serious, he won’t disappear. he’ll grow, and he’ll do it with Allah in mind, not just you.’
you told kenan that night.
not with big words. not with promises.
just: ‘thank you for not giving up.’
and he said: ‘i don’t want your heart if i’m not ready to guard it the way your father would.’
it wasn’t fixed.
there were still glances from your father. still silence between them that needed softening. still moments when your chest ached with waiting.
but kenan kept showing up.
he prayed beside your dad every friday. he sent questions to the imam about nikkah and mahr. he texted you only when necessary, and never late. he didn’t ask to see you. didn’t flirt. didn’t cross lines.
he made it easy to trust him.
because this time, he wasn’t chasing love, he was chasing permission.
months passed.
your father called you into the living room one evening.
he didn’t say much. just handed you a folded prayer rug.
‘he gifted this to me today. said he wanted you to have one just like it. said when he finally makes sujood next to you… he wants the rugs to match.’
you blinked through tears.
and your father, the man who never cried, said:
‘i’m not saying yes yet. but if this is the man Allah wrote for you… then maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to look like the kind of man i’ve been praying you’d marry.’
epilogue::
your dress was simple, stunning. your hands trembled. your heart was quiet, but full. you signed your name with your breath caught in your throat.
it was done.
you were his.
you didn’t have music or a big crowd. just soft smiles, warm food, your mum crying, your friends giggling behind their hands.
kenan kept looking at you like he couldn’t believe it was real.
‘you’re my wife,’ he whispered once, in awe.
you grinned. ‘alhamdulillah.’
Reblogged
Anonymous asked:
Can I request for a possessive Pedri being very angry at a guy who just can’t take no and stop harassing his girlfriend. We all know he is normally someone with a calm head but let’s just say when things escalate he will change gears because he will do anything to protect the people he love. Hurt comfort with a sensitive topic as I draw inspiration from incidents irl.
✮ Protective4You - Pedri González
pedri gonzalez x fem!reader
sy: pedri is always collected, conserved and private. but when he finds his girlfriend in trouble, even at the expense of his own game, he’ll risk his whole calm persona.
a/n: i tried to make this as comforting as possible because nobody deserves any type of harrasmenet, but my inbox is always open if you want to chat. i hope your safe ml 🩷
warnings: some stalkish behaviour, brief harassment, cussing but mostly comfort.
“d’you come here alone often?”
there’s too many people around you, but nobody’s listening.
everyone’s too caught up in the match, screaming, shouting nonsense at the pitch, to themselves, to their friends. and nobody’s listening.
the man’s voice is smooth, alluring. “that’s rare for a pretty girl like yourself.”
he just wont stop talking to you. clearly, he’s intoxicated—theres a stale booze smell lingering from his mouth, occasionally flashing a cigarette between his lips.
you merely give him a tight-lipped smile. “im just trying to watch the game.”
you’ve already shuffled away, rejected and, told him that you weren’t interested but he just couldn’t accept the hint. what makes matters worst is that his voice is so honeyed, that it doesn’t catch anybody’s attention against the loud screech’s of the crowd.
the man leans in, his decayed breath skimming your neck. “y’know, its better to watch the game with company,” there’s a slight slur in the way he speaks.
you close your eyes with a wince. “im okay thanks.”
the guy lets out a frutasted sigh, like hes getting more pissed off at your reluctance than anything. his sigh grates at your ear—sharp, guttural like hes about to say something else.
maybe worse. maybe louder.
“i’ll guarantee you fun,” he takes a step closer. only briefly—does his arm slip around your waist as if he’s about to pull you against him.
you don’t know what stops him.
your grip tightens around the drink in your hand, warm and watery now. a flush of nausea hurdles at the pit of your stomach and you feel your throat close. “please. just leave me alone.”
your voice comes out thin, shaky and that’s when you hear it.
a sudden roar from the crowd, louder than ever shoots through your ears and it briefly pulls you out of your frozen stance. that’s why he stops.
heads turn. gasps expel. screams screech. through a blur, you see a player sprinting—straight towards the stands, towards you.
pedri.
he leaps over the barriers like it’s nothing, boots sliding against the concrete steps and security hardly had time to react before he was infront of you, eyes locked onto the guy.
pedri instantly fists the guys shirt, yanking him away from you. “¿qué carajo crees que estás haciendo?!” (what the fuck do you think your doing)
the guy scoffed, his hands in surrender. “oy—oye! relax man i was just—”
“just what?” he snarls, his brows arched in fury. “you think just because no one’s watching, you can put your hands on her?”
the guy squirms. “its not that serious herma—”
“si lo es,” pedri spits. “dont talk, dont look at her, joder—dont even fucking breathe next to her again. and if i ever see you near her again..”
pedri reels him in, nose to nose. “you’ll leave here with more than a bruised arm.”
then, he pushes him back, enough to knock his balance. the stranger palled with shock, hastily scrambling away through the bodies of people.
you stand there in paralysation, pedri’s voice is barely auidable over the thumping in your ears; you faintly feel the weight of his arms circling around your body as he lifts you up.
everything happens too fast.
your eyes are hugely blurry, your breaths were uneven and you just felt stuck. araujo and gavi come hurdling over the barriers, clearing out a path for you both.
“dont focus on them, focus on me,” you manage to hear him say, holding onto you tighter. “i’ll get you out of here, mi amor.”
you reach the locker room, the door clicks with a dull thud. pedri doesnt hesitate when he cradled you upon the bench, crouching infront of you.
your chest rises, painfully and irregular. vision swims with tears, and the noise from the stadium falls away like water in your ears.
delicately, pedri’s hands found yours, the warmth of his fingertips brushing over your chapped knuckles, then over your palms.
“mira,” he begins softly, nothing like the bite it held moments ago. “breathe with me, okay? breathe.”
subconsciously, you warily nod.
”inhale with me,” he whispers. “okay.. now exhale. good. you’re doing good. now again.”
he stayed there, counting each breath of yours, with one hand resting atop your knee while the other stayed intertwined with yours.
finally, your breathing pattern recovers: shallow but steady.
“im so sorry,” you rasp, blinking with wet eyelashes. “i didn’t know what to do,” your voice cracks, “i couldn’t—i could only—”
“hey,” pedri’s voice lowered as he cut you off. “none of that. don’t ever apologise to me, none of that was your fault.”
another tear falls before you can stop it, but his thumb catches it.
“you didn’t do anything wrong, not even close,” he whispers a little firmly, like he needed you to believe it. “you refused him, that should of been it. and i swear if see that guy in the streets or anywhere—”
he trails off, the rest of the sentence swallowed down like fire on his tongue.
“what about the cameras? did you see how many people were recording?” you begin to panic. “i mean—what will they—”
the boy shakes his head. “i don’t care what the cameras caught. what people see. i don’t care if they ban or suspend me,”
his thumb finds a path back to your cheek, catching another tear that your eyelashes dropped, wiping it across your pale skin.
“your the only thing that matters to me.”
you reach for him then, finally regaining any strength back to hurl yourself into him. and the moment your fingers curled into his jersey, he welcomed you in.
pedri slung your legs over his hips, swiftly twisting you on his lap as he took your place on the bench. your tuck yourself away into the indent of your shoulder, his resting over yours.
the way he held you was so precious.
his arms strung across your torso like vines, holding you ever-so tightly so that you couldn’t fall. they moved featherlight over your spine, circling shapes over your back like a lullaby.
“i wish i could take it all away from you,” he vowed. “every single second of it.”
pedri tightens his hold around your frail frame, cupping the back of your head as if he’s trying to shield you away from anything else. his nose brushes the crown of your hair to sooth you.
“your the strongest person i know. but you don’t always have to be with me,” he reassured. “let me be strong for you, neña.”
your heartbeats starts to slow, syncing with his—his voice, arms, the rhythm of his chest beneath your cheek—it’s all so gentle.
“i love you pedri,” he’d heard it a million times before but it would kill you to say it again.
the player moves his head slightly to nibble at your neck, barely a breath. “i love you more.”
before you let sleep pull you away, you hear him, sure: “i’d tear the whole world apart before i let anyone hurt you. until i take my last breath.”
Reblogged dilliwaaligirlfriend
Okay, he looks so cute without his facial hair
Such a baby face, he looks so good like this
Reblogged
Hot Chocolate Confessions
Kenan Yildiz x Reader
They were never anything official. No labels. No confessions. Just that messy, beautiful in-between — stolen glances across crowded rooms, messages sent too late at night, moments that lingered in the air longer than they should have.
With Kenan, everything felt suspended. Like they were always on the edge of something, yet never brave enough to jump.
That week, she was drowning in exams. Deadlines, notes, and an endless cycle of revision had taken over her days. She had decided — consciously — to ignore him a little. She needed space to breathe, to focus. But no matter how many pages she flipped through or how many topics she crossed off her list, he haunted the back of her mind.
By the end of the day, her eyes ached from staring at notes, and her heart was just as tired as her brain. She needed a break — not just from studying, but from herself. From the weight of everything she was pretending not to feel.
And so, she found herself walking into the tiny café tucked between two bookshops — the one that always smelled like cinnamon and comfort. It was quiet, warm, filled with low jazz and the gentle clinking of mugs. The old lady who owned it greeted her with a smile that felt like home.
“The usual, sweetheart?”
She nodded, sliding into her favorite corner seat. “Yes, please.”
While the rich scent of hot chocolate filled the air, the woman moved slowly behind the counter, humming softly. The mug was warm in her hands before she even realized she was holding it.
And then, the question came — gentle and unexpected, like a hand brushing against a wound you thought was hidden.
“And how’s your heart doing, dear?”
She froze. Her eyes dropped to the swirling chocolate in her mug. For a moment, she thought about deflecting. Smiling. Changing the subject.
But instead, she answered — softly, truthfully.
“I think it’s in love with someone who might not feel the same…”
There was silence. The kind that hangs heavy, like the world is listening.
What she didn’t know — not until the door behind her clicked shut with a soft finality and the air shifted ever so slightly — was that she wasn’t alone.
She turned.
Kenan stood by the entrance, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Like he hadn’t meant to walk in at that exact moment. Like he hadn’t meant to hear. But he had.
She didn’t breathe. Neither did he.
“How long were you standing there?” she asked, voice trembling.
He swallowed. “Long enough.”
The distance between them was barely a few steps, but it felt like miles. She gripped the mug tighter, wishing she could melt into the floor.
“I didn’t mean—” she started.
“I’m glad I heard it,” he interrupted gently.
She looked up. His gaze was unsteady, not cocky or sure like she was used to. Just real.
“Because I thought I was the only one feeling it,” he said.
The café faded into background noise — the music, the warmth, the old lady who had quietly slipped away to the back.
“I was scared,” she admitted. “Of saying something and ruining what little we had.”
Kenan stepped closer.
“So was I.”
Another breath passed between them, unspoken and delicate.
He smiled, just barely. “But maybe it’s time we stop pretending.”
Her heart thudded against her ribs. Still unsure, still raw, but ready.
“Maybe it is,” she whispered.
And for the first time, there was no in-between.
Just them. Right there. Saying what they never dared to before.
This was Requested.🫶🏼