Take Me Back To This Time

Hi I saw you’re Arda angst ff and I fucking loved it!! I wanted to request a Kenan Yildiz angst fanfic where the reader and Kenan had to get arrange married. But he hated her. He always brought other woman home and she really got sad because she never had the chance to experience real love. Not even from her parents.

He always kept her hidden from social media because he was embarrassed of her. She always went alone and done things alone. The reader is a quite person she an introvert she doesn’t really talk that much or express feelings so she always stays quiet. And she had a really bad childhood, got be@ten up and ignored. She never had a normal childhood. By the time Kenan never knew he starts to see her alone at restaurant or pic nics alone and started to feel guilty but never brought it up.

So one day the reader thought she’s alone at home and Kenan told her that he’ll be away.

So she wanted to sleep without a shirt. And that night Kenan appears there because the game got cancelled and when he approached her he saw her scars on her back that were caused by her parents. He starts to regret treating you like that and starts treating you better and spends time with you.

You can make a fluff or bad ending doesn’t really matter but I always prefer bad endings hehe I would really love for you to make this a story !!

💓💓💓

SAD GIRL • KENAN YILDIZ

( pairing ) kenan yıldız x reader

warnings - trigger warning, violence and abuse, a lot of angst. I tried my best and i hope this meets your expectations 💞

In your eyes, the marriage had been perhaps the best thing to have ever happened to you. It provided you with the opportunity to escape the clutches of your dysfunctional family, and finally find some semblance of normalcy in your life.

Knowing that it had been Kenan had made you feel exhilarated, a feeling that you weren’t quite used to.

Kenan had been reputable for being a rather charismatic gentleman, and his polite, sweet demeanour had been all the talk on your wedding day. You hadn’t met him yet, but the idea of him had made you fall in love.

You couldn’t be blamed, because to you this concept of genuity was so foreign to you, that daydreaming about it had made you feel as if you were on cloud nine.

That was until you truly got to know Kenan behind closed doors. Except you never truly got to know him.

Unlike you, Kenan found this marriage an unappealing burden that had chained him down to a person he could not care less for.

He was incredibly indifferent to your presence, and continued on about as if your marriage had never happened. After the ceremony had occurred and you’d been driven off to a fancy villa, Kenan had behaved as if you didn’t exist.

He never acknowledged your presence until absolutely necessary, and it felt as if you were a ghost living inside this empty house, begging, yearning to be noticed, but never spared a single glance.

For you this marriage had ignited a flicker of hope, of learning to love, and for building a meaningful relationship, a turnabout from the life your parents had imposed on you. You hadn’t imagined anything would hurt more than the scathing words and harsh treatment that they had inflicted upon you, until you were faced with the brutal rejection from Kenan. Atleast, at your parents house, you were never ignored, but with Kenan, you didn’t feel like a person, you felt like a soul in purgatory, suffering endlessly and without anyone to turn to.

This marriage with Kenan broke you in ways that you hadn’t thought possible. How could a rejection from the man you had been promised to have hurt so agonisingly when you didn’t even truly know him?

You couldn’t explain the stark difference in his behaviour from what you’d heard to what you’d experienced, and thus, the only person you had to blame was yourself.

Some nights, when the house is quiet and Kenan’s side of the bed is cold and empty, you lie awake and wonder what it is about you that makes you so unlovable. It’s a question that haunts you, clawing at the edges of your mind until it’s the only thing you can hear. You think back to your childhood, to the years spent trying and failing to earn your parents' love. You tried to be good, to be perfect, to be everything they wanted, but nothing was ever enough. Every cruel word, every slap, every moment of their disdain etched itself into your soul, carving out the belief that you were broken, unworthy, fundamentally flawed. You remember having gone through lengths, making sure you were academically on top, and when that wasn’t enough, pushing yourself towards sports to prove that you were capable, but despite these achievements, your parents refused to acknowledge any of it. You remember once, sitting at the edge of your room, if the tiny space could even be called that, your cheeks red from the stinging slaps and your arms littered with bruises, and not a single tear in your eyes. You felt hollow, the one question rotating over in your head, again and again and again.

“What is wrong with me?”

Your marriage with Kenan has only made this thought return full force, from when it just lingered to the back of your mind, to now always on the forefront of your thoughts, on the tip of your tongue, as if any moment you’d ask the question, say it out loud, but no matter.

Kenan never hears you anyway.

You sit in the spacious lounge of this house, Kenan is home, but you are alone. He’s with someone, another girl who doesn’t share the misfortune as you do, who’s laugh echoes around the house and to you, feels like nails on a chalkboard, pinching at your ears and leaving the heart you have in your chest aching worse as the clock ticks by.

Once again, you sit there and contemplate for perhaps the umpteenth time, the same question that oppresses you.

You see the same disappointment in Kenan’s eyes, the same coldness, the same quiet contempt that tells you what you’ve always feared, there’s something wrong with you. You’ve begun to believe it must be true because why else would Kenan treat you this way? Why else would he refuse to look at you, to touch you, to acknowledge that you’re anything more than an inconvenience he’s forced to endure? Why else would he parade other women in front of you, each of them more beautiful, more captivating, more everything than you’ll ever be?

The more Kenan pulls away, the deeper you sink into yourself, convinced that his indifference is a reflection of your worth. You’ve searched for answers in every mirror, scrutinizing your face, your body, every part of yourself that feels inadequate. You pick apart every flaw, every imperfection, as if solving the puzzle of your own ugliness might finally explain why you are so impossible to love. You try to change, to smile more, to be kinder, quieter, less of whatever it is that pushes people away. But no matter how much you give, no matter how much of yourself you twist and bend and break to fit into the shape of someone deserving, it’s never enough.

The rejection feels like a knife to the heart, twisting deeper each time Kenan walks past you as if you’re nothing. You wonder what it would feel like to be touched by him in kindness, to have him hold you like you mattered, just once. You’ve replayed it in your mind a thousand times, trying to imagine the warmth of his hand in yours, the weight of his arm around your shoulders, the sound of your name spoken with something other than disdain. But that warmth never comes. All you get is the chill of his absence, the searing pain of knowing that you are invisible, unwanted, unloved, and that’s all that you’ll ever be.

Despite all this endless questioning, you never get any closer to understanding why you’re in this predicament.

It hurts, like you’re drowning in a sea of sorrow, and every breath is a struggle against the relentless waves of the ruthless ocean. It’s the taste of salt on your lips—the bitter residue of tears that never seem to end—and the weight in your chest that sits like a stone, heavy and immovable, pressing down with a quiet, unyielding ache.

You have long since given up on hope, that maybe one day it will get better, the pain will decrease, but it never does.

Today, you don’t stay inside, the chattering of the girl twists a little deeper into your poor heart than usual, and you decide to step out.

You somehow make it to a cafe and settle down, in a spot. You’re so attuned to the feeling of loneliness that it doesn’t bother you as people glance at you, some with curiosity and most with pity, preoccupied with your heartache.

You realise just how pathetic, pitiful you must appear. Your face permanently stained with tear marks and eyes so red, your figure frail from negligence on everyone you’ve known, including yourself.

You don’t realise however, that it is enough to warrant headlines.

The next morning you’re going viral on the internet,

“Kenan Yildiz’s wife spotted, lonely and sombre. What could be the cause?”

You can’t help yourself as you look through the comments.

“lol how do we even know if she’s his wife, we’ve never seen a single photo of them together”

“oh please, she’s probably a lying attention seeking white trying to get Kenan’s attention, bet she’s never met the guy. Yawn.”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“Kenan is not married what in the fake news”

You’re not surprised by it, but still it stings. You knew Kenan never made it known that he had been married, the night of your wedding day had become news to the world, but it had been buried away by Kenan’s refusal to acknowledge it.

It wasn’t as if you ever accompanied Kenan anywhere either, you went out alone, he never invited you to his games or any award ceremonies, he ignored you just as much on the outside as he did at home.

The only people who actually acknowledge this news are your parents, they come knocking on your door while Kenan is out, not at all pleased by your act that had so perfectly tarnished their reputation, and then the very night they make it very abundantly clear to you just how much displeasure you bring to them.

The pain is sharp and jagged, like shards of glass lodged deep inside, cutting with every thought, and every word your mother hisses at you, and every hit your father directs at you tears you down further.

When they leave, you’re all by yourself on the floor, like broken china that no one cares about or ever will bother picking up.

That night you cry yourself to sleep, so incredibly tired, and you think to yourself about how much of an abomination you are, if only you didn’t ever exist at all.

You’re mentally exhausted to the point that you fall asleep right there on the floor in your mess. And for the first time, Kenan takes notice of you.

He has always been aware of your presence, but had blatantly rejected it, even though guilt had begun to seep into this facade of pretending that he was indifferent to you.

He had noticed how you were always alone, no friends to tag along with when you went out to a restaurant, and barely anyone to talk to. He noticed how you tried your very hardest to make yourself as small as you could in the home that was supposed to be both his and yours. You never spared any expense on yourself from his money, to the point that all the groceries in the house went untouched by you, never eating the food that was there, as if you felt unworthy of sharing the same stuff he did.

His conscience had fought with him a lot, but then his pertinacity had won out.

Kenan comes home late that night, the weight of his usual indifference wrapped around him like a heavy coat. The house is quiet, too quiet, but it doesn’t feel unfamiliar, because that is how you are, yet as he steps inside, he feels a strange sense of unease. The lights are dim, casting long, flickering shadows across the walls, and for a moment, he almost calls out for you, but stops himself—old habits of pride and detachment still holding him back. As he walks through the hallway, his footsteps echo softly on the wooden floor, and that’s when he sees you, crumpled in the corner, lying there as if the world itself had thrown you away.

He freezes, staring at the scene that steals the breath from his lungs. You’re curled up on the cold, hard floor, your fragile frame barely shielded by the thin shadow that frames you. The soft glow of the lamplight reveals a tapestry of dark, angry bruises spreading across your arms and face, fresh and vicious, like cruel brushstrokes on pale canvas. Your cheeks are stained with dried tears, and your breaths come in shallow, ragged bursts, as if each inhale is a battle against the pain you carry. The sight of you, so small, so vulnerable, hits him like a punch to the gut, and for the first time in a long time, something shifts in him.

Guilt seeps in, thick and suffocating, wrapping around his heart like a vice. He kneels beside you, his hands trembling as he reaches out, hesitant and unsure. He touches your shoulder, lightly at first, afraid of causing you more pain, and when you stir, blinking up at him through swollen eyes, he feels the weight of his neglect crash down on him. He’s been blind to your suffering, wrapped up in his own resentments, his own desires, never once considering the cost of his actions—or inactions—on the person he promised to protect, however unwillingly.

Your own eyes widen a little, surprised at seeing him so close to you, for the first time since your wedding, and you aim to move away, but an egregious amount of pain has you stopping, and you try to keep the groan from escaping out your mouth.

"Who did this to you?" His voice is low, and there’s a vulnerability there, breaking, a far cry from the coldness you’ve grown accustomed to. You don’t answer, still in shock from seeing him so close. That is when you notice the freckles of golden in his green eyes, or perhaps you have a concussion that’s making you see things.

Kenan’s eyes run over your body, the bruises tell a story he can’t ignore, and for the first time, he sees you—not as the burden he’s resented, but as someone who’s been hurt far too many times, someone he’s failed in the worst possible way.

Kenan helps you up, his touch gentler than it has ever been. He wraps his arms around you, careful not to press against your bruises, and for the first time, you feel his warmth—real, unguarded, like he’s trying to shield you from the world that’s been so unkind. He guides you to the bedroom, the one he’s kept so meticulously separate from you, and tucks you into the bed as if you’re something precious. He sits beside you that night, eyes never leaving your face, and vows silently to himself that he will be different, that he will be better. For you, it all feels as if you’re on an alien planet, an alternative reality where everything feels so foreign, unaccustomed to having anyone, not just Kenan, actually look at you beyond the same gaze of disdain that you’ve known your whole life.

In the days that follow, Kenan is not the man you remember. He wakes early to make you breakfast, though he’s clumsy in the kitchen, burning toast and fumbling with the coffee machine. You watch him from the table, wrapped in a blanket, still wary, but there’s something different in his eyes—softer, almost pleading. He sits with you as you eat, quiet but present, as if his mere company might patch over the wounds he’s spent so long ignoring.

He starts to notice the little things—the way you flinch when someone speaks too loudly, the way you keep your head down as if expecting another blow. He learns how sometimes you don’t answer, assuming that he isn’t speaking to you, and it fills him with regret. He learns to be gentle, careful with his words, speaking to you with a softness that feels foreign on his tongue. He doesn’t bring anyone home anymore; the house is yours, a sanctuary he’s determined to protect. Slowly, he starts to open up, telling you about his own struggles, his own fears, the reasons he’s built walls so high around his heart. It’s not an excuse, but it’s a start, and you find yourself listening, inching closer with each shared truth.

Kenan begins to take you out on walks in the park, away from the stifling walls of the house that holds too many memories. He holds your hand, tentatively at first, but when you don’t pull away, he squeezes a little tighter, as if to say he’s here now, and he’s not going anywhere. He surprises you with small gestures—your favorite flowers on the table, a book you mentioned once, a soft touch on your shoulder when you seem lost in thought. It’s awkward and unsure, but it’s real, and each day, the distance between you shrinks just a little more.

One evening, as the sun sets and paints the room in hues of gold, Kenan sits beside you on the couch, holding your hand. He’s nervous, you can tell, but his eyes are earnest. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice cracking under the weight of everything he’s kept buried. “For all of it. For not seeing you, for not being what you needed. I know I’ve hurt you, and I can’t take that back, but I want to try. I want to be better—for you.”

For a moment, you say nothing, the words catching in your throat. But when you look at him, really look at him, you see someone trying, someone who’s finally willing to let you in. You nod, squeezing his hand back, and though the road ahead is uncertain, for the first time, it feels like it’s yours to walk together.

fin

him 🫠😩

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.

Red Bull’s car isn’t built for Max Verstappen—it’s built for pure aerodynamic efficiency. It’s a wind-tunnel-perfect machine, designed with a razor-sharp front end and optimized by the team’s aerodynamicists (formerly Adrian Newey, for example) to maximize performance and tire management.

The difference with Max is that he adapts better than anyone to a car in its purest, fastest form. While most drivers require adjustments—less aggressive front-end response, softer rear stability, or reduced tire wear—Max thrives with minimal changes. The car that is theoretically fastest in the wind tunnel? He can drive that as is.

That’s why the idea that Red Bull “designs the car around Max” is misleading. Every team develops cars suited to their drivers, but Verstappen simply demands less compromise. When Alex Albon said, “The car is what it is,” this is what he meant. The Red Bull is not built for Max—it just so happens that Max is the one who can extract its full potential without needing it tamed.

THE ALCHEMY • KENAN YILDIZ

( pairing ) kenan yildiz x reader

based off a request on taylor swift’s “the alchemy”

warnings - a little angst, toxic relationship (?)

When Kenan and you had first started dating, just a few months before he made his official debut for Juventus under Series A, your relationship had been nothing short of perfect.

Despite the hectic schedule that kept Kenan occupied more often than not, and your own commitments, he was devoted to showering you with his love and affection.

After every training session, he’d find the time to pick you up in his Jeep, ensuring that both of you spent at least an hour together at the very least. On the days when he couldn’t , he went out of his way to make sure that he facetimed you.

More than that, your phone never lacked a notification from ‘Kenan 🌟’ and almost weekly, a bouquet of the gladiolus flower and foxgloves, would find its way to your doorstep, a single note attached, labelled ‘love kenan ’

His love for you had been overwhelming, all consuming. It enveloped you like a blanket, caging you in with sweet little whispers and alike.

When Kenan made his big debut, things changed. He took you to dates to High end restaurants, candle lit with a black tie dress code, and although you enjoyed your carefree nights munching through drive through fast food, you couldn’t deny the appeal of luxury that Kenan showered you in.

Instead of the sweet smelling bouquets, a chanel bag or a bracelet from cartier, wrapped in expensive leather made its way to you, and a little note signed with his name.

Yet the time you spent together dwindled, his training sessions dragged on and took longer, drained him to deep exhaustion and your facetime calls shortened in numbers and time, but you accepted it. Understanding that this life didn’t come without repercussions.

You were more than happy to support him, wearing his jersey number with immense pride, you tried your hardest to show up at every match he played, screaming your throat raw from the grandstands.

The moment when Juventus had won the Italian cup would be engraved in your memory forever, burned in your mind.

The euphoria on Kenan’s face was ardent, and you couldn’t help but beam at him, he had raced across towards you, cradling you in his arms as if you were the trophy instead, and had kissed you so fervently.

Your heart wanted to burst apart at the seams, the emotions drowning you wholly, that you felt your body would shut down from the enormity of it.

And then, everything fell apart.

You couldn’t understand how it had happened or who was to blame, but there was something that had started to poison the sweetness that laced your relationship with Kenan.

The dates you went on with him became shorter with fans invading the personal moments between Kenan and you, invading the time that you’d needed to unwind. You couldn’t blame them, it was heartwarming to see Kenan as someone people admired and looked up to, it felt nice for others to recognize the potential he had the same way you had done, but on the occasion, you needed it to be just you and him.

Sometimes, Kenan showed up too late, or you had to leave too early, there was an abruptness that appeared.

Your patience began to dwindle with every date, every call answered too late, and every text message ignored due to training.

Kenan too began to grow irritable with every complaint you made, every argument you started.

You talked less, and fought more, but along with every fight, an undercurrent of tension lay there, aggressive yet alluring, and instead of ending the night with gentle kisses and whispered affirmations, you engaged in tantalizing activities fueled by heat and hostility.

It had been fun at first, but a heart wasn’t meant to to be thrown around, rather it should be cradled.

Yet you couldn’t leave, and it was clear that neither could he. You were addicted to one another, each other’s heroine, and perhaps it didn’t matter that you cried more than you laughed with him, because at the end of the day, his kisses kept you incarcerated next to him.

You were branded already, his jersey on your body indicated that to the entire world.

fin.

love to see more requests for kenan, i’m open to writing for other footballers as well!!

@extrology467 thank you for this request, i hope it meets your expectations!

also i hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!!

few things to add, based on my interpretation of the song, she starts with depictions of infatuation, and then cracks begin to appear, but there’s an addiction here that keeps her caged!

i tried to use the flowers to depict the theme of infatuation and illusion, and a lot of the words would typically be used more in a negative light , idk if it came across but i hope so!

KENAN YILDIZ SCORES IN HIS FIRST GAME OF HIS UCL DEBUT OMGGG

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.

Heellooo

I request where kenan and yn is dating and have for 2-3 months but keeping it secretly, cuz of his career, and kenan and his friend cubanito doing a livestream, and kenan gets spammed if he’s seeing someone, but he tries to keep it private and try to dodge the questions, cuz its rumored he’s dating someone that is not YN that the people suspect, but he is seeing YN, and his friend try to confirm he’s not seeing that girl, but kinda seeing someone else? which is YN

❤️

THEY DONT KNOW ABOUT US • KENAN YILDIZ

( pairing ) kenan yıldız x reader

i love this so much i rlly hope i’ve written it to your liking

ps i used karlotta as the rumoured girl

liked by karlottafan and others

footballwags - kenan yildiz in the likes of this model 👀 is she his new beau?

comments

user86 - who uses the word beau 💀

karlottafann - they’d look so cute together 🥹

user86 - those posts are from ages ago tho?

user09 - another one bites the dust

user97 - footballers and models what’s new 🥱

user98 - someone confirm this asap

user02 - he def slid into her dms

user037 - dating for sure

The apartment feels quiet without him, the kind of quiet that settles deep, filling every corner with the absence of his laughter, his low voice, the warmth of his presence. You’re curled up on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling through the endless stream of notifications that come with dating someone like Kenan. It’s been three months now—long enough that you know the feel of his hand on the small of your back, the way his thumb traces idle patterns against your skin when you’re watching movies, the little half-smile he gives when he thinks you’re not looking. But still early enough that everything feels new, each touch a rush, each shared glance a secret you’re both savouring.

It’s also long enough that the rumours have started, circling like vultures around your little bubble of privacy. You both agreed from the start to keep things quiet, at least for now. His career is always in the spotlight, scrutinised by fans, tabloids, and everyone with an opinion. And then there’s you—part of his world but never quite fitting into the neat little narratives they want to create. So you’ve kept it hidden, the two of you slipping through back doors, stolen moments in between his rehearsals and public appearances, and late-night drives through empty streets where the rest of the world doesn’t matter.

Tonight, he’s across town, sitting in Cubanito’s sleek, minimalist living room, the kind of place that’s made for being on camera. You know this because you’ve been there—laughing, sprawled out on the couch with Kenan’s arm around your shoulders, out of view of the lens. It’s where they do their live-streams, just the two of them bantering about everything and nothing, their easy chemistry drawing thousands of viewers every time they go live. You usually like to watch, listening to the sound of Kenan’s voice through your phone, letting it fill the space when he’s not with you.

You open the app and the live stream is already buzzing with activity, the chat scrolling faster than you can read. Kenan is sitting on the left, relaxed in his usual way, hoodie pulled up just enough to shadow his eyes but not hide that familiar, lopsided grin. Cubanito is beside him, gesturing wildly as he talks, always the louder, more animated of the two, but Kenan’s calm presence keeps everything grounded.

You watch them for a while, smiling at the banter, the way Kenan leans back, completely at ease, laughing at something Cubanito says. But then the comments start shifting, and you notice the questions piling up, flashing bright and insistent:

*Who’s Kenan dating? Is it true about him and that model?*

*Kenan, are you seeing someone? Don’t dodge the question!*

*Kenan, blink twice if you’re with her!*

You feel your heart clench, fingers tightening around your phone. The rumours have been everywhere—screenshots of kenan in her likes, whispers and speculation that he’s dating her, even though you know better. But Kenan’s been careful, dodging the questions whenever they come up, brushing them off with a laugh or a change of subject. Tonight, though, it seems like they won’t let it go.

Cubanito squints at the screen, reading the chat aloud in his usual dramatic fashion, but this time there’s an edge to his voice, a hint of mischief that tells you he’s about to stir the pot. “Yo, Kenan, they’re really going off tonight. Everyone wants to know who you’re seeing, man. Spill the tea!”

Kenan chuckles, but you can tell from the way he shifts in his seat that he’s uncomfortable, his smile tightening just a little. “Nah, it’s nothing like that,” he says, trying to keep his tone light. “People just love to talk, you know how it is.”

Cubanito isn’t having it, though. He leans closer, elbows on his knees, eyes bright with the thrill of teasing his friend. “Come on, Kenan. Everyone thinks it’s that girl—what’s her name? The model? But I don’t know, man. Doesn’t seem like your type.”

Kenan’s smile falters just a fraction, a tiny crack in his usual composure. You know he’s trying to figure out how to handle this, how to keep your secret safe without feeding the rumours. He glances at the chat, then back at Cubanito, his expression caught between exasperation and amusement. “Nah, it’s not like that,” he says again, firmer this time. “I’m not seeing her.”

Cubanito leans back, throwing his hands up in mock defeat. “Okay, okay, you’re not seeing her. But you’re definitely seeing *someone*, huh? Come on, man. We’re all friends here.” There’s a playful edge to his voice, but also a knowing look—a hint that maybe he’s aware of more than he’s letting on.

Kenan shoots him a warning glance, but it’s softened by the faint smile tugging at his lips, the kind that always makes your heart skip a beat. He runs a hand through his hair, and for a moment, he looks right at the camera, right at you, like he’s letting you in on the joke. “Let’s just say… I’m happy,” he finally says, his voice low, almost lost beneath the noise of the livestream. “And that’s all that matters, right?”

The chat explodes, filled with questions and speculation, but Kenan doesn’t pay it any mind. He turns back to Cubanito, deflecting with a joke, steering the conversation back to safer ground, but there’s something in the way his gaze lingers on the screen—a quick, barely-there look that makes your chest tighten. It’s a look meant for you, and you alone, a silent reassurance that no matter what the world thinks, he’s yours.

You feel a rush of warmth, a quiet, private kind of joy that’s just for the two of you. It’s not easy, keeping things quiet, pretending in public that you’re not together when every time you’re alone, he’s the one who makes you feel seen in a way no one else ever has. But moments like this, where he slips you into his world without anyone else noticing, make it all worth it. The stolen kisses, the late-night texts, the whispered promises when no one else is around—it’s messy, and it’s complicated, but it’s yours, and it’s enough.

liked by ynusername, cubanito_official and others

kenanyildiz_official - mein einziger 🤍

comments

cubanito_official - nice 🔥

tarik.muharemovic - little lady is cool 😎

↪️ kenanfan - his friends have met her 🥹

user13 - bro really soft launched blondie to say that model ain’t his girl

user97 - he unfollowed the model 💀💀

user02 - ok but i need to know who she is and ask ab her hair care routine

user09 - couple of the year

fin.

max passing lando: 🎉🥳🎊

max being right behind the mercs: 😨👁️👁️

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