Can You Do A Angst Arda Ff Story Where He Has A Bestfriend And A Girlfriend But He Only Hangs Out With
Can you do a Angst Arda ff story where he has a bestfriend and a girlfriend but he only hangs out with his bestfriend and the reader starts to feel left out.
And it went on for about 2 months and the reader couldn’t hold it anymore because Arda barely spent time with her at her worst days and she leaves him at the end.
But there’s a plot twist.
She wanted to spend time with him because she was diagnosed with cancer but he obviously couldn’t so she left him with a goodbye letter where she confesses her feelings and he eventually feels guilty and regret.
WITH LOVE, • ARDA GÜLER
( pairing ) arda güler x reader
i actually love this request esp the best friend part because, real.
warnings - character death, maybe slight grammatical errors
Everyone had warned you about the girl best friend, that it was a world wide experience to most, if not all, girlfriends where they would be a third wheel in their own relationship.
You had been warned by everybody, a collection of stereotypes thrown at your way and your only way to refute them was, “well, the boyfriend wasn’t arda.”
You were so confident that Arda would never replace you, would never prioritise anyone else above you and at first, this confidence hadn’t been misplaced.
Arda made you feel like you were the moon in a sky full of stars. You were charmed by him, why wouldn’t you be?
Unfortunately you should’ve listened to your friends when they told you about the three month rule and the inevitable consequence of dating a man who had a girl best friend.
You should’ve listened when they said that a guy is only friends with a girl they find attractive.
You should’ve listened to them, when your dates became group hangouts, where your usual passenger princess seat was designated for Arda’s best friend because Arda had picked her up before he’d come to get you.
You should’ve heeded the warnings when you were left there blinking owlishly while Arda laughed himself off to an inside joke shared with another girl. With the best friend. With a girl that wasn’t you. He was laughing. At an inside joke. Something you couldn’t understand.
You had never felt more lonely, knowing that someone else had discovered the secret parts of Arda, your person, when you had only just began to scratch the surface.
You knew what he liked and what he didn’t, but she knew the stories behind his preferences, was there when he made these decisions. And it hurt, it felt like a knife twisting around your gut, because even though you were the one who held Arda’s hand, even though he was always there, he still managed to feel so far apart. Out of reach for you.
At first, it was easy to brush off the unease. They were best friends, after all, and you knew better than to be jealous. Arda was charming in his own right, with that effortless way of making everyone around him feel important. But as time went on, the charm began to wear thin, replaced by a growing ache in your chest that you couldn’t quite name.
It started with the little things, because it was always the little things, wasn’t it?
The way Arda’s eyes lit up when she walked into the room, a brightness in his eyes that you had noticed only rarely when he looked at you, a look that you had to work hard for that she so effortlessly attained.
The way he would talk about her, his best friend, and it was indisputable the way his voice would soften, laced with fondness and warmth that made your heart twist with something bitter.
You tried to ignore it, telling yourself it was nothing, that you were being paranoid, but the doubt lingered, gnawing at the edges of your happiness.
You remember the first time you truly felt like a third wheel. The three of you were out for dinner, and it had scared you, how fast date night had turned into more than just you and Arda alone.
The conversation flowed easily between them, a rhythm you struggled to keep up with. You laughed at their jokes, nodded along to stories you weren’t a part of, but it was like watching a movie you weren’t cast in. Arda made some offhand comment, and her laughter rang out, loud and free, and the pride in Arda’s eyes at eliciting that very reaction made you want to claw out your own. You had tried to join in, but the moment had already passed, leaving you feeling awkward and out of place.
It escalated to the point where you felt like you were watching them from behind a glass wall, there but only barely. You were only an onlooker, watching but never part of the moment.
You began to wonder whether Arda even realised you were there.
It hurt, but you swallowed the pain, telling yourself it was just your imagination. But the cracks in your relationship widened, little fissures that deepened with every glance, every shared moment you weren’t a part of. You tried to bring it up once, tried to tell Arda how you felt, but he brushed it off, laughing softly as he assured you there was nothing to worry about.
“You’re being silly,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead and then it was back to her again.
The kiss had meant to be warm, but you only felt a deep bone chilling cold, freezing you in place.
The little kiss on your forehead, a gesture of comfort, had brought more pain to you in that moment than anything else.
The pain had begun to grow so egregious, it had begun to affect you physically, that when you began to cough up blood, you had felt at first that it was only your bleeding heart. It wasn’t long after that when you started to feel the changes in your body. The fatigue that wouldn’t go away, the bruises that appeared without reason, the weight loss you couldn’t explain. You tried to ignore it, chalking it up to stress or exhaustion, but deep down, you knew something was wrong. You could feel it, a quiet dread settling in the pit of your stomach, growing heavier with each passing day.
Arda had been so caught up with her, he never noticed.
Of course a visit to the Doctor, alone, confirmed that you had a diagnosis of terminal cancer, and not just a severely broken heart.
You had sat there, in the cold sterile room, resigned at your fate, the doctor’s words echoing inside your head.
“We found something,” he had said, his voice gentle but firm. The words that followed blurred together, a litany of medical terms and probabilities, but the meaning was clear enough. It was cancer—aggressive, late-stage, the kind that doesn’t leave much room for hope.
You decided that you would keep this to yourself. Finding that telling Arda to be something more difficult than the entire ordeal you had been subjected to.
All you felt was if, when, your presence would disappear from Arda’s life, would he miss you? And then you shook your head, how could he, because you had already disappeared from Arda’s life ages ago.
You came to the realization that though you had still a beating heart, you were a ghost now, haunting the edges of a relationship that no longer felt like yours.
You went home that day, walking through the door as if nothing had changed. Arda greeted you with a smile, asking how your day was, and you answered with a lie that came too easily, your voice had remained steady, betraying nothing. You sat with him on the couch, feeling their warmth beside you, but all you could think about was how much time you had left—how many more moments like this you’d get,
You felt selfish, knowing that you weren’t breaking up with him even if your relationship had come to an end ages ago. You wanted to delude yourself into thinking that Arda, some part of him atleast, still loved you.
And when the pain became too much, when your body started to betray you with weakness and exhaustion, you found excuses. You were tired from work, you said. You weren’t feeling well, maybe just a cold. Arda would look at you with concern, but he believed you—why wouldn’t he? He had no reason to doubt you, no reason to think that something so terrible could be lurking just beneath the surface.
The days blurred into weeks, and the cancer spread, a silent invader you couldn’t stop. You could feel it inside you, gnawing away at your strength, your hope, your future. The pain was constant now, a dull ache that radiated through your bones, but you bore it in silence, hiding the worst of it behind closed doors. You were familiar with heartache, what was a little more agony?
But Arda was perspective, at least somewhat. He noticed how you’d down a pill after every meal, the pallor of your skin, and your ghostly complexion. He noticed the bags under your eyes, and how frail you’d gotten, but it was too late.
You felt the day arrive, the day you knew that your life had reached its end, and it had took all your energy to muster up the strength to write everything you had wanted to say into a letter.
Dear Arda,
I don’t know how to begin this letter, and even if I did, I’m not sure it would be enough to say all that I need to say. But I’m running out of time, and I need you to hear this, even if it’s only in the words I leave behind. By the time you read this letter, you’ll know why I’ve written it.
First, I want you to know I’ve always admired you, Arda. From the moment we met, I knew there was something special about you—something warm and bright that drew people in, like a lighthouse in the dark. I’ve watched you bring so much joy to those around you, and it hurt me incredibly when I realised that I never did the same for you, rather it was your best friend, but now that I’m going, i’m happy that you have someone who makes you just as happy as you do with everyone else.
I have told you this, but i’ll say it again,I love you, Arda. Even though loving you hurt me more than anything, i’m grateful to have met you, and I wish nothing but the best for you, I wish you happiness for eternity.
I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. I’m sorry for keeping you in the dark about what was happening to me, but I couldn’t bear the thought of you looking at me with pity, of you worrying about me when you already had so much on your shoulders. I didn’t want you to see me like this, broken and scared, knowing there was nothing you could do to stop it. You were always so strong, so solid, and I couldn’t bear to take that away from you.
By the time you read this, I’ll be gone, Cancer does that. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye in person, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold it together if I did. I wanted you to remember me as I was, not as I am now. I wanted you to keep that image of me in your mind, whole and happy, instead of the person I’ve become.
Anyway, I’m asking you to live your life, Arda. Don’t let my passing weigh on you. Don’t let it stop you from being the person you’re meant to be. I want you to be happy. I want you to find joy, even if it takes time. You deserve that. You deserve everything good in this world.
I loved you, Arda. I still do. And I’ll carry that love with me, wherever I’m going. Please don’t cry for me. Just remember me, and remember that I wanted you to live, really live, even after I’m gone.
With love,
You signed the letter and then, finally, you allowed yourself to cry.
Sobs wracked through your body, all the pain that you felt flowing out like a waterfall and that’s how you left, tear stained cheeks and curled up in bed.
It was pitiful, but it had been how you felt, Helpless.
When Arda came home that evening, he found the apartment eerily quiet. The air felt thick, heavy with something he couldn’t quite place. He called your name, but there was no answer. He knew you had been feeling off lately, more tired, more distant, but he never expected this. His heart pounded in his chest as he made his way through the apartment, a creeping dread settling in his stomach.
And then he saw you.
You were lying on the bed, your body still, too still. He rushed to your side, his breath catching in his throat as he called your name again, louder this time, but still no response. His hands shook as he reached out to touch you, his fingers trembling against your cold skin.
“Please,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Please, wake up…”
But you were gone.
The realization hit him like a freight train, knocking the breath from his lungs. He collapsed beside you, his hands clutching at you desperately, as if he could somehow pull you back from the brink. Tears streamed down his face, hot and unrelenting, as the full weight of your loss crashed over him.
He found the letter on the nightstand beside the bed, your handwriting scrawled across the paper, shaky but familiar. With trembling hands, he unfolded it, his eyes scanning the words you had left behind for him. As he read, his tears fell harder, soaking the paper, smudging the ink.
The letter was like a knife to the heart. Every word was a reminder of how much you had suffered in silence, of how you had loved him, even as you were slipping away. He could barely breathe as he read your confession, and when he reached the end of the letter, regret consumed his being, enveloping and guilt drowned him.
He cried, his sobs wracking his body as he clutched the letter to his chest. He cried for you, for the time you didn’t have, for the things he never said. He cried for the feelings he hadn’t realized you felt, for the guilt that now gnawed at him, knowing you had kept this burden from him, from everyone. He cried because he couldn’t save you, because you were gone, and there was nothing he could do to bring you back.
But he cried most for his blindness, how couldn’t he have noticed how you had felt, how had he let you feel so unloved, so ignored.
Self loathing plagued him as he sat there, pondering whether he could have saved your life, only if he hadn’t been so stupid.
He wished for time to turn back, he wished to change the way he had treated you, but it was too late.
fin.
More Posts from Verspia and Others
could you do arda and rodrygo’s younger sister? with like lots of fluff and sweet stuff, sorry if this is super broad 😓
INTO YOU • ARDA GÜLER
( pairing ) arda güler x reader
this was so fun to write i hope u guys like it!
The stadium is still buzzing with excitement, the roar of the crowd echoing in your ears as you weave through the sea of fans. Tonight’s match had been exhilarating—one of those nail-biting games that leaves everyone on the edge of their seats. Real Madrid won, of course, with Rodrygo playing a crucial role in the success of tonight’s match.
You’re so incredibly proud of your brother, seeing him flourish in the sport that he’s dreamed of ever since he was a child. Football runs in his veins in a way you’ll never understand, but you can’t help but reminisce your childhood when he would bounce around with a ball and force you to play with him, teaching you little tricks and while you were never anywhere as close to the level that he is, you enjoyed the moments that you and your brother had, especially now that with his career taking off, they’ve become rare.
You’ve not been to many of his games, but there’s always something special about seeing your brother perform with that kind of magic on the pitch.
You’re here to congratulate him, to give him a hug and tell him how proud you are. It’s something you’ve done ever since he was a little boy playing in youth leagues back in Brazil, back when you’d both race to the car after every match, breathless and laughing, his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. Back when both of you weren’t too busy with your own jobs taking up all your time, when childhood innocence still lingered about. Those were the days when he was just a kid with a dream—before he became the star he is today.
As you squeeze through the crowd of excited fans crowding the exits, you make your way toward the players. Your heart thrums in your chest, the jubilation of the rest of the stadium is so pragmatic, that you yourself feel euphoric, your face flushed as if you’re the one who’s just run around the field for ninety minutes.
There’s a feeling of anticipation that’s bubbling under your skin, and you can feel yourself vibrating under the excitement of it all, and perhaps you’re so distracted by the air of triumph that envelops the whole stadium that you’re blind to the presence of someone else, accidentally knocking into someone and almost stumbling face first into the ground.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” a voice says quickly, concerned.
You turn to see a young man standing there, his hair damp with sweat, his cheeks flushed from exertion. You recognize him immediately—Arda Güler, your brother’s teammate, and one of the club's rising stars. You’ve seen him play countless times, but you’ve never actually met him face-to-face.
“It’s okay,” you say, smiling a little. “I was in the way.”
Arda looks flustered a little, his already red cheeks flaming further and his mouth drops open a little, an exhale escaping his mouth, as if someone has punched him in the stomach, only his eyes seem far too delighted for that, wide with glee and something more that you can’t understand. It confuses you, why he seems to look as if he’s seen heaven on earth, but then you realise that perhaps the victory of today is only just dawning on him, maybe he’s the type to grapple with disbelief a little before truly feeling the ebullience of the night.
“You’re Rodrygo’s sister, right?” he asks suddenly, a slight smile forming on his lips. “Y/N?”
You nod, surprised that he knows your name. You’re never around enough to have been formally introduced to any of your brother’s teammates, and you doubt he’s the type to blabber on about you to any of them, but perhaps you’re wrong.
“Yeah, that’s me.” Your voice comes out a little breathlessly, “and you must be Arda, congratulations on tonight!”
He grins, his eyes lighting up. “Thanks. Yeah that’s me?” He scratches the back of his neck, and you seem a little thrown off again, maybe he’s still struggling with the language barriers, so you brush off his words.
He looks around, as if searching for someone, then back at you. “Waiting for Rodrygo?”
You nod again, glancing toward the door where players are still coming out. “Yeah, I came to congratulate him on the win, i can’t find him anywhere,” You gesture around, “have you seen him?”
Arda chuckles. “He’s probably around somewhere with the rest of the team, dancing with Vini maybe?”
You laugh at that, knowing exactly what he means. “That sounds just like him.”
There’s a brief moment of silence, and you notice that Arda seems a bit unsure, like he’s debating whether to say something more. He finally speaks, his voice softer. “You don’t come to a lot of our matches, right? I don’t see you with the rest of Rodrygo’s family”
“Yeah,” you reply, feeling a little flustered under his gaze. “I try to come whenever I can though, I love watching you guys play. You have such a good team.”
He looks genuinely pleased at your words, and his smile grows. “Thanks. It’s always nice to see you around”
His words make you pause, maybe you misheard him, nonetheless you find your cheeks growing hot. Before you can respond, Rodrygo finally emerges from the locker room, his face breaking into a wide grin when he sees you. “Y/N!” he calls out, jogging over and pulling you into a quick, sweaty hug. “Did you see that goal? Pretty good, right?”
You laugh, pushing him back playfully. “Amazing, as always. But you’re going to stink up my clothes if you keep hugging me like this.”
He grins, then notices Arda standing beside you, watching the exchange with an amused smile. “Oh, hey, Arda! Didn’t expect to see you out here. Thanks for helping set up that goal tonight, by the way.”
Arda nods. “No problem, man. Great finish.”
You’re still standing there, feeling a little out of place but also strangely comfortable. There’s something about Arda that’s easy and natural, like you’ve known him longer than just the few minutes you’ve been talking.
Rodrygo, always the social one, looks between you and Arda, raising an eyebrow. “You two met already?”
You smile. “Sort of. We bumped into each other.”
Rodrygo laughs, clapping Arda on the back. “Well, Arda’s a good guy, Y/N. One of the best. If I had to trust someone to look after you around here, he’d be the guy.”
Arda blushes a little at that, and you feel your cheeks grow warm too, again, but you quickly cover it with a smile. “I’m sure he is.” Something about both of their behaviours is a little odd, like they’re in on a secret that you’re not aware of.
There’s another pause, and for a moment, you think about saying goodbye, but Arda speaks up first. “Hey, if you’re not rushing off, would you like to grab a coffee or something? There’s a great café just around the corner. I mean… if Rodrygo doesn’t mind,” he adds quickly, shooting your brother a glance.
Rodrygo looks between the two of you, a grin spreading on his face. His eyes glint mischievously at you and the look he and Arda share makes you feel that they’ve talked about you before. “Oh, I don’t mind at all. Go ahead, have fun. I’m going to catch up with a few guys from the team.”
You feel a flutter in your stomach—unexpected but not unwelcome. “Sure,” you reply, looking at Arda with a smile. “Coffee sounds nice.”
He smiles back, his eyes bright, and offers his arm. “Great. Let’s go.”
As you walk toward the café, the stadium lights gradually fading behind you, you feel a sense of excitement bubbling in your chest. The streets are alive with people celebrating the win, and you can’t help but feel that you’re part of something special tonight.
Arda seems a little more relaxed now, a bit more confident as he leads the way. “So, do you live here in Madrid, or are you just visiting?” he asks, genuinely interested.
“I’m just visiting,” you reply. “I come whenever I can to see Rodrygo. I live in Lisbon right now, but I travel a lot for work.”
“What do you do?” he asks, holding the café door open for you.
“I’m an art curator,” you say, smiling as you step inside. “I organize exhibitions, work with galleries… that sort of thing.”
He looks impressed. “That’s really cool. So you must love creativity—just in a different field than Rodrygo and me.”
You chuckle a little. “Exactly. I think maybe that’s why I enjoy watching you guys play so much.” Your eyes gleam a little as you subconsciously lean closer to him, “There’s an artistry to it, a rhythm and creativity that’s kind of like painting or, kind of like- you know curating an exhibition?”
His eyes light up at your words, and he too, leans closer, as it to hear you better, even though you aren’t whispering. “I’ve never thought about it that way, but it makes sense. I guess we’re all trying to create something beautiful, in our own way.”
You both order your coffees, and as you sit down by the window, you find that the conversation flows effortlessly. He tells you about his journey from Turkey, the challenges of adapting to another language, atmosphere and culture entirely, the excitement of playing at such a high level, his dreams for the future. He even voices out his disappointment that playing in a club like real madrid with so many great players, while it has helped him, often creates doubt in himself. Especially when he’s not the one that’s brought out on the field. Your heart cracks a little at his words, and you can’t help but empathize with him, the fact that there are people who give up so much of their life, childhood and leave behind their families for this sport, it’s a double edged sword. Nonetheless, Arda makes his appreciation transparent at your obvious concern.
You find yourself captivated by his stories, by the passion in his voice and the way his eyes light up when he talks about the game.
And you talk about your work, your love for art, the joy of discovering new talent and bringing it to the world. He listens attentively, asking questions that make you feel like he really cares, like he genuinely wants to know you.
By the time you finish your coffee, it feels like hours have passed, yet it’s only been a short while. You realize you don’t want the evening to end, and judging by the way he keeps looking at you, neither does he.
As you leave the café, walking back toward the stadium, Arda turns to you with a hopeful smile. “This was… really nice. I’m glad we ran into each other.”
You smile back, your heart fluttering in a way you haven’t felt in a long time. “Me too, Arda.”
And as you say goodbye, you know that this is just the beginning of something unexpected, something wonderful—something you never saw coming but are more than ready to explore.
fin.
—brothers best friend • ky10
( pairing ) kenan yildiz x reader
where kenan’s girlfriend is the sister of his best friend
random images from pinterest
liked by kenanyildiz_official, brotheruser, and others
ynusername - he’s half german so his hiking skills are subpar
@kenanyildiz_official
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kenanyildiz_official - are you sure my skills are subpar and not yours 🤔
ynusername - read the caption again, hope this helps!
kenanyildiz_official - so you weren’t the one who had to be carried half way through this“hike”
ynusername - nope i have no clue what ur talking about
user13 - HELP HE CARRIED HER??? I NEED A MAN LIKE KENAN ASAP
user32 - they’re so cute i can’t
user21 - the first pic omg 🥹
user88 - @user88bf why can’t u be like kenan 😞
user88bf - bruh
brotheruser - bro can you stop stealing my best friend
ynusername - no he likes me more than you 🫶🏻
ynusername posted a story!
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kenanyildiz_official
—you did kiss my stupid face
user81
—THE WAY HES LOOKING AT YOU????
brotheruser
—ew what the fuck stop posting this shit
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kenanyildiz_official - First game wearing the iconic number 10 - Proud and Thankful 🤍🖤
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ynusername - so proud 🥹
❤️ by author
ardaguler - 🔥🔥🔥
brotheruser - super 💪🏻
user12 - future of number 10
user13 - ❤️🥹🔥
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ynusername - can’t wait to see you become one of the greatest to wear the number 10 🤍🖤
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kenanyildiz_official - wouldn’t be here without you ❤️
ynusername - ily
brotheruser - ig yall are cute 🙄
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ftblwags - cutest
user92 - she’s so supportive 🥹
brotheruser posted a story!
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kenanyildiz_official
—send this to me
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user11
— thirdwheel
kenanyildiz_official posted a story!
beautiful performance
IL DIECI 🤍🖤
hii, i really liked your last work that was inspired by a song, so i was wondering if you could write smth thats inspired by “one of the girls” from the weeknd?💘
ONE OF THE GIRLS • KENAN YILDIZ
( pairing ) kenan yıldız x reader
thank you for this request i didn’t see it so im sorry it took so long 🥲
18+ mdni (i tried but it’s barely anything)
The city buzzes like a living thing outside, neon lights flickering in the distance as the bass-heavy music spills from every corner of the streets. It’s one of those nights where the air feels thick with the promise of something more—something just out of reach. Something in the air makes you feel restless tonight, charged with the kind of energy that hums beneath your skin and makes every light seem brighter, every shadow deeper. It’s one of those evenings that feels suspended in time, where the air is thick with anticipation and everything seems poised on the edge of something you can’t quite name. You find yourself in a dimly lit lounge downtown, a place where the music pulses softly against the walls and the conversations are low, like secrets whispered in the dark. It’s the perfect place to get lost, to disappear into the rhythm of the night and let the noise drown out whatever’s been weighing on your mind. The Weeknd’s voice hums softly over the speakers, the lyrics to “One of the Girls” cutting through the noise, dripping with seduction and blurred intentions.
That’s when your eyes land on him, Kenan. He stands at the far end of the bar, leaning casually against the counter with a half-empty glass of redbull in his hand, no alcohol. There’s something magnetic about him, something in the way he carries himself with a quiet confidence that seems to draw every gaze in the room. He’s tall, dressed in a sleek black shirt that clings to his frame, something he wouldn’t normally wear. Special occasion, you think to yourself as you observe sharp features set in an expression that hovers between amusement and something darker. Kenan’s presence has always been commanding, forcing everyone’s attention towards him, and the way he’s dressed makes it all the more obvious, his presence understated but impossible to ignore.
But, he’s not alone. There’s a girl with him, one of those effortlessly beautiful types who looks like she belongs in every magazine you’ve ever seen. She’s laughing, you can tell from the way her head tilts back, and she’s leaning into him, fingers grazing his arm in a way that’s too familiar, too easy. You watch the way he tilts his head down to listen to her, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips, and something tightens in your chest. It’s not jealousy—not exactly. But there’s a sting there, something sharp and aching, like watching a scene you’re not meant to be a part of. The feeling is something you’ve become all too familiar with, watching it happen too often, although the setting is usually starkly different from this one.
You try to shake it off, turning your attention back to the party, but the image of them lingers in the back of your mind, like a song you can’t quite get out of your head. You throw yourself on the stage, dancing around with a bunch of nameless bodies, yet you catch glimpses of them throughout the night, little flashes of Kenan’s dark eyes and her bright smile, and each time, you feel that same flicker of something you can’t quite name. You know this feeling—this mix of wanting and frustration, of being close but never close enough. It’s a game you’ve played before, a dance you know all too well, and still, you can’t seem to stop yourself from playing along. You can’t help it. His confidence is unwavering as he stands and you catch his eye. For a moment, it’s as if the whole room fades away, leaving just the two of you in a charged silence that says more than any words could. You can’t quite figure out what it is about him, but his demeanour has a gravitational pull to it that you always find yourself victim to.
The moment is over as quickly as it happened. His attention is back to the girl he’s been wrapped around and you turn back to the crowd you’re in.
Eventually, you find yourself near the edge of the rooftop, feet aching from the dancing you’d done in an attempt to forget, when Kenan approaches. He’s alone now, the girl nowhere in sight, and he leans against the railing beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the silence stretching between you, filled only by the distant sounds of the city and the faint thrum of music. Then he looks over at you, you meet his gaze head on, catching his green eyes that sparkle under the moonlight with something golden dazzling amongst them.
A beat passes, you don’t look away, and neither does he. There’s a boldness in his stare, a challenge that you can’t quite ignore. He doesn’t smile, not exactly, but there’s a flicker of interest in his green eyes that passes across his face—a slight tilt of his head, a subtle arch of his brow that feels like an invitation. There’s something charged in the way he watches you, a subtle tension that sets your nerves alight. It’s not flirtation, it’s something deeper, something that makes your pulse quicken despite yourself. You can feel the pull of it, the way his gaze settles on you like a weight, and you find yourself moving toward him without really thinking about it, drawn in by some invisible thread that winds tighter with every step. The way his gaze sweeps over you, as if he knows everything you’re hiding, knows everything about you.
“This isn’t your usual type of thing,” he says, his voice low, almost drowned out by the music. It’s not a question, it’s a statement, and there’s something about the way he says it that feels like he’s already drawn his own conclusions.
“What gave it away?” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady, but there’s an edge there—something between defensiveness and curiosity.
Kenan tilts his head, studying you with a gaze that feels heavy and knowing. “You don’t look lost, just… searching.”
The words hit you harder than they should. You weren’t expecting this, the sharpness of his insight, the way he seems to see right through you. It’s unsettling, this stranger who talks like he’s known you for longer than a few minutes and a few stolen glances, and yet there’s a pull there, an undeniable magnetism that keeps you rooted in place.
“you’ve got me all figured out huh?” your voice is lilting, amusement covering your tone but there's an edge of vulnerability underneath.
Kenan doesn’t answer, and there’s a stretch of silence that embraces the both of you, despite the loud music, it feels muted in each other's presence. Kenan stares at you, and you struggle to identify what he’s thinking.
It makes you feel on edge, the fact that he seems to have you all figured out yet you struggle to decipher the slightest gestures from him.
You’re almost lost in your own train of thought when his voice interrupts, “Not yet.” he says finally. Once again, you can’t tell what he’s truly hinting, a promise or a threat?
“She left?” you ask, before you can help yourself. The question has been at the back of your throat since the moment Kenan joined you. You try to keep your voice casual, like you hadn’t noticed at all.
Kenan shrugs, a slow, deliberate movement. “She’s not staying the night,” he says, his voice low and smooth, tinged with a hint of something you can’t quite place. “Not that kind of thing.”
You don’t know what to say to that, so you just nod, staring out at the city below, at the endless sprawl of lights that seem to go on forever. The Weeknd’s song comes on again , the lyrics floating through the air like a whisper, “We don’t gotta be in love no, I don’t gotta be the one, no, I just wanna be one of your girls tonight.”
“Do you ever get tired of it?” you ask suddenly, the question slipping out before you can stop it for the second time tonight. Kenan turns to look at you, his expression unreadable, and you feel the weight of his gaze settle on you like a challenge.
“Tired of what?” he asks, though you suspect he already knows the answer.
You gesture vaguely toward the rooftop, the party, the endless cycle of nights spent drifting through half-lit rooms and fleeting moments. “All of this. The pretending. The never really being… anything.”
For a second, you think he’s going to brush you off, make some clever remark that’ll deflect the question, but instead, he just sighs, a quiet, weary sound that you weren’t expecting. “I don’t know,” he says finally, and there’s a heaviness in his voice that catches you off guard. “It’s easier, sometimes, to just keep things simple. No expectations. No strings.”
For the first time, you feel as if you’re finally beginning to understand him, not just playing a game of guess, but rather truly knowing. You feel a pang of recognition, because you understand that logic all too well—the way it’s easier to stay on the surface, to keep things light and meaningless, rather than risk the messiness of something real. But tonight, with the city spread out below you and the song still echoing in your ears, it all feels emptier than usual.
“You’re not really like that, though, are you?” you say, quieter this time, your words barely audible over the music. “You like to pretend you are, but… you want more.”
It’s clear you’ve hit the mark, Kenan’s gaze sharpens, his eyes searching yours like he’s trying to decide whether or not to let you in. You can see the conflict there, the war between what’s easy and what’s real, and for a moment, you think he might turn away, might let the moment pass like all the others. But then he leans in, closer than before, so close that you can see the faint lines of tiredness around his green eyes, the shadows of everything he’s not saying.
There’s a weight to his stare that makes your skin prickle, and you feel exposed, like he’s peeling back all the layers you’ve carefully built around yourself, leaving you bare in front of him.
“You think you know me?” he finally says, his voice low, almost mocking. There’s a challenge in his tone, and it sends a shiver through you, a reminder of why you’re drawn to him in the first place. He’s dangerous in a way that doesn’t involve risks to your body but to your soul. The kind of danger that pulls you in and makes you want to give everything, even when you know you shouldn’t.
“I think we’re both more alike than you let on,” you say instead, and it’s more honest than you intended, the words slipping out like a confession. He doesn’t react right away, just keeps watching you, his expression shifting in that subtle, unreadable way that makes you feel like you’re on the edge of something you can’t control.
He steps closer, invading your space, and you can feel the heat of him, the pull of his presence like a gravitational force that draws you in whether you want it or not. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” he murmurs, and there’s something almost predatory in his tone, like he’s got you exactly where he wants you. “You like it. You like what I make you feel.”
You want to deny it, to pull back and put some distance between you, but you can’t. Because he’s right. You do like it. You like the way he makes you forget, the way he makes everything feel sharper, more vivid, like you’re finally alive in a world that’s constantly trying to dull you down. He has this way of stripping away the parts of you that don’t matter, leaving only the raw, unfiltered core of who you are—a side of yourself you’ve buried deep and only let out in the dark, away from everyone’s eyes.
The words hit you harder than you expected, because he’s right—he knows exactly what to say to unravel you. You’re not used to feeling this exposed, this seen, and it’s terrifying and thrilling all at once. With him, every moment feels heightened, like he’s pulled you out of the gray haze of your everyday life and into something sharper, more real. It’s dangerous, the way he makes you feel like you could trade everything for these fleeting moments, where nothing else exists but this connection, raw and unfiltered.
“You don’t know what I want,” you say, but your voice wavers, betraying the defiance you’re trying to hold onto. He smirks, not cruelly, but like he’s already won. And maybe he has, because standing here, inches away from him, you feel like you’d give up anything just to keep feeling this way—this alive.
He brushes his fingers along your jaw, a light touch that makes your breath hitch, and you can’t help but lean into it, craving the contact. “I don’t need to know everything,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. He says that, but it feels like he is aware of every thought that has crossed your mind.
It scares you just as much as it excites you, and your eyes flicker from his eyes to his lips, but there’s a hesitancy that clings on to you, your fear more prominent than your desire.
He knows the parts of you that you keep locked away, the side that craves this—the thrill, the rush, the way he makes you forget everything else. It’s like he’s unlocked something in you, something you didn’t even know you were missing until now. With him, you don’t have to be strong, don’t have to be perfect or put together. You can just be. And it’s that feeling that scares you the most, because you know it won’t last, but you’re willing to risk it anyway.
Kenan watches you, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” he says, and it’s not gentle, it’s a little bit broken, a little bit like he’s speaking to himself as much as to you. There’s a crack in his composure, and it’s enough to remind you that underneath all his sharp edges, he’s just as lost as you are.
“You don’t have to either” You whisper at him, and you’re so much closer now, you can see the moles that dot his face, count every eyelash, and most importantly, you’re given access to the intensity behind his eyes, the same burning sensation in you is lit alight in his gaze.
You can feel his breath against your skin, hear the faint hitch of his breathing “You’re trouble,” he says finally, his voice quiet and rough, like he’s admitting it to himself as much as to you.
He’s close enough now that you can feel the heat of him, and it’s like every nerve in your body is on fire, every part of you screaming to pull him closer even though you know you shouldn’t.
The kiss is inevitable. It’s slow at first, hesitant, like he’s holding back, but it doesn’t last. The restraint melts away in an instant, and then it’s all heat and urgency, a clash of mouths and desperate hands as you pull each other closer, seeking something neither of you can name. His fingers tangle in your hair, his lips trailing down your neck, and you arch into him, losing yourself in the sensation, in the way he makes you feel like you’re the only thing that matters.
There’s a kind of desperation in the way you move together, a frantic need to forget everything but this moment. Clothes fall away, discarded carelessly, and you find yourself pressed against the cold glass of the window, opposite the railing of the roof, the city sprawling out on the other side of you like a sea of lights. It feels reckless, dangerous, but that only makes you want him more, makes you crave the feeling of losing control.
“You’re trouble too” You whisper when you’re both a mess of tangled lips, foreheads pressed together and breathing heavily.
Your words are tinged with something sad, and Kenan must recognise it, because he presses a soft kiss to your forehead that feels so different from the facade you’re so used to seeing him put up. His one action speaks a thousand words.
It’s enough to make you understand and for now, that’s all you need.
fin.
literally why is there such little kenan content on here
guys.... kenan yildiz is soooooooooo fine wdym he barely has any fics here😖😖 am i supposed to write those delusions by myself 😖😖⁉️⁉️
buy me one as well 🙏🏻🙏🏻
juve’s new kit looks so good
guys do any of you have good kenan yildiz fic recs pls 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻
I unironically want the old Victoria Secret Fashion Show back and I’m not even going to hide behind “it’s a joke”. Bring back the women who look unattainably beautiful so I can be in awe and totally jealous for an hour. I don’t need to see people who “look like me” on a runway we got people like me at home I’m here for a good time
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