Top Posts Tagged with #arda x reader

Makeup Voice-over

Madrid Boys x Influencer!Reader

Summary: You ask your boyfriend for help to record the voice-over of your makeup routine.

Warnings: cursing.

A/N: Hi guys! Many of you asked me to do a version of Barca Boys but with Madrid guys. I took the most mentioned in the requests, hope you like it, love you 🙂‍↔️❤️

Jude

"So, I just have to do say what you are doin'?" He asks, confused while you place the airpods on his ears.

"Yes, baby." You smile at him.

"What if I don't know the name of the product?" He asks, worried. "Or the name of the tool?"

"Jude, just do it your way, call it whatever."

"Alright, boss." He smiles.

•18+ Adults Only

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it’s difficult to communicate with a cute boy when you don’t speak each other’s language fluently

arda güler x jude’s younger sister

A/N: missed writing so much! based on this request, thank you babes! ❤️ (physical features are not specified!)

W/C: 1.574

#arda güler imagines #arda güler x reader #arda x reader #arda guler #arda güler #real madrid fc #real madrid #jude bellingham #jobe bellingham #football imagines #football blurb #footballer x reader #football fanfic #football imagine #football

Under the Santiago Bernabéu Lights

Pairing: Arda Güler x Reader

Word Count: 1665

Request open!

You signed the contract because it felt like the smallest, most sensible thing in a row of wild decisions.

“Real Madrid,” your agent had said over coffee, as if the name had no weight. You had smiled and signed on the dotted line and reminded yourself this was still photography,light, lens, patience. It was work. It was a job you loved.

Except it wasn't just light anymore.

The first time you met Arda Güler in person, he ruined a perfectly framed shot.

You were crouched by the dugout, telephoto lens aimed at the empty pitch as the sky folded into the copper of an impending sunset. The team had begun warmups and the stadium hummed,less a crowd than a living thing rising, filling the outline of the stands.

Arda jogged into view, a dark silhouette at first, the movement catching the last gold of the sun. You tracked the motion, waiting for the swing of a boot, the expression before a sprint. He glanced at the camera,maybe because you were very obvious, or maybe because the universe had a wicked sense of timing,and then, smiling like someone who had already decided the joke, he kicked the ball straight toward you.

It wasn't a hard kick. It didn't need to be. The ball rolled at your feet like a question.

You snapped reflexively, and the photograph caught him in mid-laugh,hair damp, eyes crinkled, that wide, careless grin. It was a shot you would have deleted later for composition or lighting. Instead you kept it. You kept it and you noticed how the rest of the session fell into soft focus.

He introduced himself later, as players do,hand offered, charm dialed down to something approachable.

"Arda," he said, and when you told him your name he repeated it like it fit better with his accent. "You take the photos?"

You told him yes, because saying anything else would have been ridiculous. He asked if you were new to Madrid. You said you had been in the city long enough to be lost with confidence. He laughed and asked if you liked tortilla.

" Sure," you said. "Only if you promise to make it better than the ones at the press center."

He tilted his head. "Deal. But you must teach me how you take those photos."

After that, Arda managed to appear in every other assignment like a recurring motif.

Matchday close-ups: he caught you adjusting the aperture and gave you a thumbs-up right when the shutter fired. Training grids: he walked between drills, dragging your attention like gravity. Team portraits: you wanted a composed, stoic lineup and he planted himself at the edge, peaceable and disruptive, leaning on the shoulder of a teammate and making an awful face just behind the captain.

You complained once, half-joking, while editing in the darkroom beneath the stadium.

"You know," you said, scrolling through a grid of near-identical images, "if you keep photobombing me like this, my editor will think I'm unprofessional."

Arda sat on the counter, the light from the monitor ghosting across his face. "Then I will be your secret unprofessionalism."

You told him you needed concentration. He offered coffee. You wanted coffee. You told him to stop talking about the coffee and start telling you where the best tortilla in Madrid was.

He told you, honestly, that he liked the noisy neighborhood places. He said the woman who owned a tucked-away bar used to scold him because he ordered too many churros as a kid. He said it like a fact and an apology.

When he wasn’t saying anything you could file, he watched the way your hands moved,precise, patient, as though you were composing with fingers more than with a camera.

"You take like you keep things safe," he said once, the doors to the locker room clapping shut behind him. "Like you're trying not to let anything fall out of the picture."

You laughed. "Maybe because I always forget to hold my own things in place."

He frowned like he meant to argue,like it was a charge against you,but instead he reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was quick, nothing showy. But your chest learned the pattern of his fingers as if by rote.

The stadium had a way of shrinking and growing with the seasons. In winter it was a glass dome of breath and steam, in spring it opened like a promise. Under the floodlights one late autumn night, after a win that smelled like mud and victory, he found you packing up in the press room.

You were packed in tiredness,legs buzzing with adrenaline you couldn’t place. He leaned against the doorframe in a hoodie, hair still damp, the day’s exertion flatting his usually energetic face into something more sincere.

"Do you want to," he began. "Do you want to see the city at night with me? Just for a little,no cameras, no interviews. I know this great place."

You surprised yourself by saying yes.

You met him at the players' exit and the city welcomed you with a hush that felt like permission. Madrid was quieter away from the arteries of tourists and you and Arda walked through open-air cafés and under terraces of orange trees. He bought you a slice of tortilla from a stall, and you admitted, after one bite, that it was the best you’d had in months.

"I told you," he said, feigning wounded pride. "I told you anybody could cook a good tortilla, but only some people give them the right attention."

He spoke like he was teaching and like he was learning at the same time. You kept stealing glances at his profile,strong, youthful, the face of someone who had become famous before the world had taught him how to be careful with himself.

"You know a lot of photographers," he said after a while. "I see your work. You make things look like stories."

"I just try to notice," you said.

"You notice me a lot," he said, and when you looked at him, he smiled without hiding anything this time. "Maybe more than the others."

You pretended not to blush.

Your relationship folded itself into the small hours and the small spaces in between assignments. It was a kinship of late coffees and editing sessions where he would lean over your shoulder and point at a frame like he’d discovered a constellation. It was the way he would slip you his headphones on bus rides so you could hear what he’d been listening to before a match. It was the reckless thing where he learned to say your name softly in Turkish, and the gallant thing where he learned a few of your favorite English phrases to make you laugh.

There were complications, of course. Fame had a perimeter. Photographers were supposed to be impartial. You were supposed to be objective.

There were nights you spent apart because he had appearances and you had deadlines. There were afternoons when you read tabloids that tried to sell a story about how focused he was on his career and how that had no room for romance. Each whisper in print felt like something you had to photograph away: a rumor you wanted to catch mid-fall before it became truth.

"Ignore it," Arda would say when the headlines tasted bitter. "They will write whatever looks good on paper. You know the truth."

"The truth looks better through a lens," you said once, and he reached for your hand without a word and squeezed.

The night of the winter friendly, with the crowd like a low tide of sound, you were meant to take portraits by the pitch for an editorial. The lights were higher than usual, throwing halos around the players, making the grass a luminous field. You set up, adjusted, and waited for the moment you’d rehearsed in your head a hundred times.

Arda walked out last, as if on cue, hair shining with the floodlights. He caught your eye before the line formed. He winked,something quick and utterly deliberate,and instead of taking his place, he walked slowly toward you.

The manager barked into a radio. A teammate hissed at him. You heard the edge of annoyance in someone's voice, but Arda kept coming. He stopped in front of you where the world narrowed down to camera glass and breath.

"Take it," he said softly. "Take whatever you want."

You looked through the lens and you saw every flake of truth you had learned to keep. There was the boy who kicked a ball at your feet in a sunset and the man who had learned to be more careful with hearts than headlines.

You pressed the shutter.

He closed the distance, slow enough that it felt like the warmest eternity. Your hands trembled,even though you had trained them not to,and you lowered the camera. He cupped your face, thumb grazing your cheek, and kissed you as if it were the most natural thing in the world to have your world tilt toward him.

It was a quick kiss at first then softer, then certain. The stadium around you roared with applause and you laughed because that felt like the most honest noise you’d ever heard.

When you finally stepped back, he rested his forehead against yours. "You make everything look beautiful," he whispered.

"You make everything hard to photograph," you said, breathless.

He smiled.

"Then maybe I'll stop trying to keep you in the frame," he said, "and just keep you in the darkroom with me."

You thought of all your photographs: the frames that held moments like specimens, the prints you kept like small, bright truths. You thought of the way his laughter disturbed the order of a shot and how you had learned to prefer the disruption.

"Promise?" you asked.

He kissed you again, under the Santiago Bernabéu lights, and the city seemed to hold its breath.

"Promise," he said.

we don't talk about it ────── you don't have the time — arda tries convincing you to come to his game.

♡ ────── pairing : arda güler x reader ♡ ────── tags : reader's gender, ethnicity, nationality, and appearance is not specified. situationship!arda guler. reader speaks turkish n is speaking turkish with arda in this. angsty i guess??? i keep asking myself why i keep on giving him these stressful situationship scenarios omfg ♡ ────── wordcount : 715 ♡ ────── notes : more situationship arda i literally dc. also sorry for not posting in a while im tiiiired with work and my intern!! >:(( title is from august by flipturn!! ♡ masterlist.

“So you can’t come?”

#໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა : 𝑬𝑼𝑷𝑯𝑶𝑹𝑰𝑨 𝑺𝑶𝑳𝑨𝑹𝑰𝑨 #arda guler #arda #arda x reader #arda guler x reader #real madrid #real madrid x reader #real madrid fic #football fic #football x reader #arda güler #arda güler x reader #one-shot

i just saw ardas photo dump on insta and let me js tell you im NOT well oh my god😭😭🥀 him and his girl made me crash tf out like why r they so underrated :((

im CRAVING a story about going out on a date with him and doing silly stuff like just having funn and at the end going home together UGHH🙏

IN WHERE : date with your boyfriend

THIS ONE SHOT IS : fem!reader x arda güler

note: idon't speak english, only spanish n a little portuguese. any errors are the translator's fault.

arda and his gf are so cute 😭

w: fluff n romantic.

request open!

Tonight wasn’t some elaborate plan. There was no fancy dinner or tickets to an event. Just you, Arda, and the idea of doing anything that could make you laugh.

“What should we do first?”, he asks, getting out of his car and stretching his arms.

“I want to beat you at bumper cars”, you say with a little smirk.

“Oh, you came to humiliate me?”

“Always.”

“I’m in. But first, I want to take you somewhere.”

You ended up at a small outdoor fair on the outskirts of Madrid. One of those local neighborhood ones, small but packed, full of colorful lights and the smell of cotton candy.

Arda guided you through the stands until you reached a kind of elevated ride, a little train that went all around the fair above everyone’s heads. It wasn’t scary or extreme, but it had that childlike amusement park vibe.

From the top, you could see the entire fair lit up—balloons, couples hugging, kids with balloons bigger than themselves.

“Should we go on that first?”, he asks, pointing to the train.

“Seriously? That baby ride?”

“Yes. I want to see the whole fair with you from up there. Plus, I can scout which stand has the biggest stuffed animals”, he adds, sticking out his tongue for a second.

You end up in the last car, which, conveniently, is the most secluded and quiet. As soon as you sit down, Arda settles next to you, letting his leg touch yours and placing his hand on your thigh.

When the train starts moving, you rest your head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around your back and rests his hand right at your waist, gently rubbing his fingers against you.

From above, the fair looks like a tiny fantasy world. The lights reflect in his eyes, and he keeps glancing around, wide-eyed.

“This is so pretty”, you whisper.

“Yeah…”, he replies, and when you look at him, you realize he wasn’t talking about the view.

For a few seconds, you both fall quiet, just listening to the soft creaking of the train and the distant laughter. Arda leans in to kiss you.

“I could stay here all day”, he murmurs.

“Only if you agree to lose at bumper cars afterward.”

He chuckles and kisses you again, this time at the corner of your lips.

When the train ride ends and you return to the ground, the energy shifts.

You walk hand in hand, sharing a stick of cotton candy Arda insisted on buying “even though it’s as sugary as you”, and between jokes and silly races to different stalls, you head straight for the game stands.

The first challenge was the classic: knocking down cans with a ball.

“I’m going to destroy you”, Arda said, completely focused.

He throws.

He misses.

Three times in a row.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing as he pulls a dramatic face.

“That was rigged, right? The balls were deflated. No way I miss unless that’s the reason.”

“Sure, champ. Let me show you how it’s done.”

You throw once, twice, again… and the cans fall like dominoes.

“WHAT?”, he yells as the stand guy claps. “WHEN DID YOU TRAIN FOR THIS?!”

“Maybe I have a hidden talent. Or maybe I’m just better than you.”

The prize was a kind of ugly stuffed animal—a blue rabbit with bulging eyes. Arda grabs it and holds it up in front of you.

“I hereby crown you the Can Queen. And this is your trophy.”

“Are you going to sign it for me?”

“Only if you let me win something.”

Then came more challenges: ring toss, rubber duck fishing, balloon darts. He didn’t win any of them. You started to suspect he was letting you win.

“Are you throwing the game?”, you ask as he throws a dart badly and fakes surprise.

“No. I’m distracted.”

“Distracted by what?”

He shrugs, fiddling with the sleeve of your hoodie, eyes on your lips.

“Because you look way too pretty when you win.”

You lightly shove him, which turns into a hug. You laugh. He hugs you back.

Eventually, you reach the stand with the giant stuffed animals. A white bear, a pink one, and a massive shark that clearly wouldn’t fit in his car.

“Which one do you want?”, Arda asks, pulling out his wallet.

“The shark. The one that takes up a whole bed.”

“Obviously.”

“You’re not gonna win that”, you laugh. “You have to land rings on bottles. No one ever does.”

“Trust me.”

And he does it. Not on the first try. Not the second. But on the fifth, when he was just about to give up, the ring lands perfectly on the bottle’s neck.

The game guy stares. Arda stares. You freeze.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. FINALLY.”

“I just won a war.”

“And I won a shark”, you squeal, hugging him tight as he laughs into your neck. “How are we going to fit this in the car?”

“No idea”, he says, kissing you again. “I’ve never had a day so dumb and so perfect at the same time”, he whispers, resting his forehead on your shoulder.

“And you still haven’t lost at bumper cars”, you remind him, winking.

He sighs.

“I’m so screwed, huh?”

“Totally.”

And just like that, you’re running again between the stands, dodging kids and couples, the giant stuffed shark under Arda’s arm like a third wheel on your date.

You reach the bumper cars with flushed cheeks and breathless from laughing. The ride’s mostly empty now, and the guy running it gives you both a tired smile as you climb in.

“One each or together?”, he asks.

“Separate”, you say quickly.

The cars start, and the chaos begins. Arda tries to act serious, but it’s impossible. The moment he sees you coming, he speeds off like crazy, yelling:

“NO! DON’T TOUCH ME! I HAVE A FAMILY!”

“Coward! Face me like a man!”

You chase him around the whole track, making him spin, missing him by inches, crashing into him from behind. At one point, you trap him in a corner and hit him head-on. He throws his hands up in surrender.

You both laugh so hard it’s hard to steer. You keep crashing into each other, into other cars, screaming like kids on a sugar high.

When time’s up, you stumble off, hair messy, smiles stuck on your faces.

“Who won?”, he asks, voice hoarse from yelling.

“You know the answer.”

“…Yeah. I’m completely humiliated.”

“But you look adorable when you lose”, you say, reaching over to brush his hair back.

“Let’s go home”, he murmurs.

“Yours or mine?”

“Wherever you are.”

You hold hands again. Walk through the parking lot with the giant shark dragging behind, your fingers laced with his.

The drive is quiet. There’s soft music on the radio. Arda drives with one hand, holding yours with the other. At red lights, he glances at you and smiles. Sometimes he squeezes your hand like he’s making sure this is real, that you’re really here.

When you get home, it’s almost midnight. Your shoes are dirty from running, your hair’s a mess, and he’s got soft little under-eye circles—but none of it matters.

You go up. The shark barely fits through the door, almost breaking the frame. You laugh as Arda shrugs off his jacket and tosses it on the couch without looking. He heads straight for your room like he’s done it a thousand times before, and you follow him.

You throw on comfy clothes. He lies on his side on your bed, watching you, head resting on his arm. He wiggles his fingers at you.

“Come here.”

You crawl into bed with him, wrapping your legs around his waist, your nose buried in his neck, breathing in his scent and warmth.

“Wanna know what the best part of today was?”, he asks, eyes already half-shut.

“Winning the shark?”

“No. You. It’s always you.”

❝ justageekk, 2025 ❞

#real madrid x reader #arda güler #arda güler x reader #arda guler #arda x reader #arda guler x reader #arda guler x you

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions

Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming

GQ Couple Interview

Summary: You and your boyfriend got invited to do a GQ interview.

Warnings: cursing

A/N: Doing this while I eat dinner 😔 is very short, but I hope you like it ❤️🥺 also I'm working on more than just these. So be patient with me, pleaaaaaseeee ❤️❤️❤️❤️

Madrid Boys x Actress!Reader

Jude

"Just be yourselves, read the questions, and have fun!" The manager of GQ says.

You two nod, you squish Jude's hand. The makeup girl was finishing retouching your powder.

"Done!" She smiles. You give a small thank you.

I know people voted for Barca boys but I NEED more real madrid content

Cloudy Night | Real Madrid Boys

Summary: You accompany them during this rough patch they're experiencing.

Warnings: cursing.

Kylian

"I was horrible." He says, throwing his toiletry bag on the coach.

"Ky-"

"A fucking failure." He yells.

meeting your boyfriend’s parents

arda güler x turkish! reader

A/N: based on this request, thank uu 🤍 my first arda fic!!

W/C: 2.175 (yes, I got ahead of myself)

#arda güler x reader #arda guler #arda güler #arda x reader #arda güler imagines #real madrid fc #real madrid #football blurb #footballer x reader #football imagines #football fanfic #football imagine #football