I Just Exploded - Tumblr Posts

guys

a home in your mind ────── academic pressure. you are crying. arda tries calming you down.

♡ ────── pairing : arda güler x reader ♡ ────── tags : reader's gender, ethnicity, nationality, and appearance is not specified. reader is a university student stressed out over some assignment!!! hurt-comfort. jude mentioned!!! ♡ ────── wordcount : 812 ♡ ────── notes : struggling doing my thesis proposal... here's some arda lol i so desperately need a study date with him!!!!! title is from on the drive home by niki, but it's not based on the song ♡ masterlist.

“Baby…”

Contrary to popular belief, a lot of footballers are actually not meatheads. Arda knows that it seems easy to equate physical advantage to a generally empty head, but football requires the same amount of mental exertion as it does physical. And, including him, not a small number of his football friends were overachievers when it comes to academic validation.

Arda understands it all too well—the gripping feeling before a test, the anxiety coursing through your veins increasing as the clock ticks by. He understands staying up late before an important presentation, and he understands trying to absorb verses and information into your brain like a sponge, only for it to dry out when left unattended for too long.

“...how can I help?”

He likes to think that his presence will somehow ease your head—that’s what you do to him, anyway. Knowing that you are watching his every move on the field, whether in person or on a screen, eases him. It graces him with confidence, filling him with a sense of force only a romantic would recognise.

But he doesn’t know if you would feel the same thing.

Doing an essay is, after all, different from trying to score a goal.

It’s different from racing past opponent players, it’s different from scanning the entire field for an opening. Football uses your brain more than any other part of your body, yes, but the adrenaline would more often than not make it feel like he is running on autopilot.

He sits next to you, trying not to take in the way your shaky fingers hover above your laptop’s keyboard; trying not to see that even as you are regulating your breath, some quivering sobs would sliver out between your lips.

“I’m fine,” you try brushing his concerns off, and though your eyes are welling up with water, you still insist on reading the same paragraph you’ve been reading for the past ten minutes.

“‘lright,” he mutters, leaning forward to take a look at your face before slipping his hand in one of yours, pulling it to his lips. You don’t resist.

“I just,” you begin after a sigh, “y’know, like none of this is making sense.”

“Uh-huh,” he nods, pressing the back of your hand against his cheek, fully facing you.

“This guy says one thing,” you gesture at the screen of your laptop, “and then says a completely different thing three paragraphs later. I mean” — you cut yourself off with another sigh.

Arda rubs his thumb against your hand.

— “I know he’s probably making sense, this paper’s in the syllabus for a reason, but, shit. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just stupid.”

Arda makes a disgruntled noise, frowning as he kisses your knuckle again. “Hey, don’t say that,” he murmurs, using his other hand to trace his fingers on the high of your cheeks, “you’re just frustrated, right? Don’t say cruel things to yourself.”

The moment he makes contact with your skin, the tear that you have been holding back spills over your cheeks.

“God,” you blow a shaky breath, looking away for a moment, embarrassed at your vulnerability. “I don’t know, I’m just stupid.”

“Come on,” he encourages, keeping his knuckles against your face. “You’re just frustrated. We’ve been at this for so long now, I think it’s time for a break.”

The sun has set hours ago, and Arda’s been there in your apartment since it hadn’t even risen yet. His chest is beginning to feel heavy from being cooped up in your room, but also from seeing you so defeated.

He leans in to press a small peck to your cheeks before standing up, gently tugging on your hand, trying to get you to stand too.

“Let’s get something sweet from the coffeeshop down the street.”

“People are gonna see me cry,” you whine, tugging your hand back to yourself. “And people are gonna think we had an argument.”

Arda laughs, letting go of your hand and then cupping your face in both of his, leaning down as he presses his nose against yours. “What? Who’s gonna say that?”

“I don’t know,” you sniffle, also giggling with him. “Some gossip accounts on TikTok. Remember what they said about Bellingham?”

He rolls his eyes playfully. “No one’s gonna say anything about us. We’re basically perfect.”

“Huh,” you close your eyes. “The perfect couple—a Real Madrid football player and a loser who can’t read.”

“Baby,” it’s his turn to whine. “You’re just tired, I swear. I’ll get you a cake, and you’ll feel better in no time. Come on.”

He stands, tugging you along with him, and you weakly go along. “Fine,” you murmur, “but you’re paying.”

Arda rubs both his thumb under each of your eyes. He leans a kiss on your lips for a moment and let your arms drape over his body.

"Anything for my baby, right?”