Kenan wasn’t expecting you for another hour, which is why he’d tossed his hoodie on the floor and kicked his sweatpants off with zero hesitation.
The living room was dim, the soft hum of the AC the only sound until a low, breathy moan echoed off the walls.
His moan.
Deep and throaty.
Your name on his tongue like it physically ached to stay there.
“Fuck… Y/N…”
You froze in the doorway, keys still dangling from your fingers, mouth half open in shock.
There he was.
Sprawled on the couch, head tipped back, golden curls a little messy, one arm draped lazily behind him… the other wrapped around his hard, glistening cock.
You hadn’t even taken off your shoes.
Your brain short-circuited.
Was it wrong that you didn’t move? That you stood there, hidden just enough in the shadows to pretend you weren’t invading his privacy… while also completely invading it?
You’d never seen him like this. Not exactly like this.
Kenan was always so composed, he loved having control. Even when things got hot between you two, he liked pulling the strings, liked hearing you beg for more. But now?
Here he was, completely lost in the thought of you.
“God, baby… just like that,” he muttered under his breath, voice all grit and gravel. His hips flexed up into his own hand like he was imagining you straddling him. “I’d fuck you so good. You’d be so fuckin’ full of me…”
You gasped. Quietly. But not quietly enough.
Kenan’s eyes snapped open.
And landed on you.
His chest heaved.
He blinked once. Then smirked. Smirked.
“Well, well, well…”
“Kenan,” you breathed, flustered. “I–I didn’t—”
“You weren’t supposed to be home yet.”
“You weren’t supposed to be doing that on our couch!” you hissed, eyes darting between his flushed face and his, well. The problem in his hand.
He didn’t move to cover himself. Didn’t even flinch.
Just kept stroking slowly, lazily, like this was the most normal thing in the world.
“You’re the one who left me all wound up,” he murmured. “Wearing that little dress to lunch yesterday, all that lip gloss, acting like you didn’t know what you were doing.”
You swallowed thickly. “I didn’t.”
“Yeah?” He tilted his head, eyes still on yours, wicked. “Then why are you still staring, tatlım?”
Your cheeks burned, but you couldn’t stop looking. He was… breathtaking. The kind of obscene beauty that made your thighs press together.
“You can join me, you know,” Kenan said, voice dropping. His free hand curled over the back of the couch. “Or you can keep watching. Either way, I’m not stopping now.”
“You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.”
His hand was slick around himself, slow and confident. Watching you watch him made him even harder.
You licked your lips, heart racing.
“Kenan…”
“I think you like it,” he murmured, voice teasing but rough with need. “You’re still in the doorway. Still staring like a little perv.”
You flushed. “Am not.”
“Then why are your legs shaking, baby?”
Your knees were wobbly.
Your body was betraying you. He looked so good like that. Dark eyes burning into you, the edge of a moan still stuck in his throat, precum glistening at the tip of his cock like he was aching for more.
You stepped inside slowly. Door clicking shut behind you.
He raised an eyebrow, still pumping himself, just a little faster now.
“You gonna help me out, beautiful? Or just stand there like a shy little mouse?”
“You’re so cocky,” you muttered, cheeks flaming.
“I’m horny,” he corrected, hand squeezing around the base. “And I’m thinking about you riding me ‘til you cry.”
Oh god.
You nearly stumbled. Your bag dropped to the floor with a soft thud.
Kenan grinned. He loved how flustered he made you.
But he also loved breaking you out of that flustered little shell.
“You’re not saying no,” he said, eyes flicking to your lips. “You’re not running away.”
“Because you look like a goddamn painting right now,” you blurted. “And I’m.. really overwhelmed.”
That made him chuckle, deep and warm. He finally let go of himself and leaned back into the cushions, spreading his thighs wider. The head of his cock rested against his abs, thick and throbbing, the skin flushed red.
“Then come here,” he said softly. “Let me help you with that.”
Your legs carried you forward before your brain caught up.
One step. Then another. Until you were standing right between his knees.
His eyes locked on yours. Dark. Heated. Possessive.
“You ever seen me like this, baby?” he asked, voice low. “So fuckin’ desperate for you I can’t wait?”
You shook your head. “Not like this.”
“Do you like it?”
You nodded. “Way more than I should.”
He smirked, reaching for your hips. His thumbs brushed under your shirt, lifting it just enough to expose your stomach.
“I like it when you catch me. I wanted you to.”
“You said I wasn’t supposed to be home yet…”
“I lied,” he whispered, pulling you into his lap. “You always come early when I pretend I forgot something.”
You stared at him, heart racing.
“Wait. You planned this?”
Kenan leaned in, lips brushing your jaw.
“I planned to come,” he murmured, voice smug. “With you, preferably.”
And that was the last thing you heard before your lips crashed into his. hands tangled in his hair, his hands under your shirt, and all thoughts of embarrassment melted into heat, hunger, and the promise of much more.
Your lips crashed against his, messy and desperate, all that tension boiling over the second your mouths met. Kenan growled softly into the kiss, one large hand sliding up your back and tangling into your hair. He tugged, just enough to tilt your head and deepen the kiss and god, the way he kissed you.
Like you were the only thing anchoring him to the planet.
His cock, still painfully hard, pressed up against your stomach. You shifted instinctively, wanting to feel more of him, needing friction, but Kenan grabbed your hips tight and held you still.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he muttered against your lips.
You smirked. “Who said I won’t finish it?”
That lit something in his eyes.
“Oh?” he murmured, and then his grip shifted. He pulled you straight into his lap in one fluid motion, letting your thighs straddle his, his cock now pressed perfectly between you. Your breath hitched.
His hands trailed under your shirt, fingers rough and warm, dragging slow paths along your waist as his mouth brushed against your neck. “You’re shaking,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous. “You like seeing me like that, baby?”
You nodded breathlessly.
“Say it.”
“I liked it. A lot.”
“Liked watching me stroke my cock to the thought of you?” he purred, sucking just below your ear. “Liked hearing me moan your name, wishing it was your tight little pussy instead of my hand?”
Your whole body jolted. “Kenan—”
“Mhm. That’s what I thought.” He grabbed your chin, turning your head so your eyes met his. “Look at me when you say that shit. Don’t hide.”
You blinked down at him, lips parted. “You’re insane.”
“No. I’m pissed,” he said darkly, leaning closer until your noses touched. “You walked in, stared at me with those big innocent eyes, and just stood there like you weren’t getting off on the view.”
You gasped. “I wasn’t—!”
“Liar.” He gripped your ass, dragging you forward just enough to grind you along the length of him. You let out a shaky moan. He did it again. Slower. Harder.
“Look how worked up you are and I haven’t even touched you properly.”
Your hands scrambled to grip his shoulders, nails digging in as you bit your lip hard.
“I think you liked watching so much, you want me to put on a show again.”
You tried to regain control. “Maybe I do,” you teased, rolling your hips experimentally. “You looked so pretty falling apart.”
Kenan stilled.
A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. “Oh, you wanna play that game, huh?”
You didn’t get a chance to answer.
Suddenly his hand wrapped around your throat. not tight, just a firm hold as he pushed you back a bit, making you sit up straighter on his lap. His other hand slid down your back, under the waistband of your leggings, grabbing a handful of your ass without warning.
“You wanna act like a brat?” he growled, jaw clenched. “Then you’re gonna take what I give you. No whining. No squirming.”
You whimpered, arousal pooling low in your stomach.
“You’re mine,” he snarled. “You don’t get to just walk in on me jerking off and then act like it didn’t affect you. You’re not sweet and shy, baby. Not when you’re soaking through your panties right now.”
You shuddered. “I hate you.”
“Liar,” he said again, smirking.
And then he kissed you again. harder this time, hungrier. His tongue slid into your mouth like he owned it, and you let him take it. His hands didn’t stop moving, either. One slid up under your shirt, palming your breast, thumbing over your nipple until you gasped into his mouth. The other stayed where it was, fingers flexing against your ass as he rocked you against him.
The pressure between your legs was maddening. Every time your hips moved, his cock pressed right where you needed it. And he knew. He could feel how desperate you were.
“Keep grinding on me, baby,” he whispered. “Look at how messy you’re getting my stomach. You want it that bad?”
“Kenan—”
“Say it.”
“I want it.”
He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Then beg.”
You groaned. “No.”
His eyes gleamed. “You sure?”
He ground up against you once, slow and deep. You whimpered.
“Still sure?”
You squeezed your eyes shut. “Please.”
“Please what?”
You swallowed hard. “Please touch me. Please fuck me, Kenan.”
He hummed, satisfied. “That’s better.”
And with that, he stood. Lifted you off the couch like you weighed nothing, hands under your thighs as your legs wrapped around him instinctively.
“You had your little fun watching,” he said as he carried you toward the bedroom. “Now it’s my turn.”
Kenan didn’t even bother switching on the light. He kicked the door open with his foot, hauled you into the room, and tossed you gently onto the bed like you weighed nothing.
You landed with a gasp, breath catching as the mattress dipped under his weight.
“Strip,” he ordered.
You stared up at him, heartbeat thunderous. “You gonna help me?”
His eyes darkened. “You’re testing me again?”
You bit your lip, eyes twinkling. “Maybe.”
He was on you in half a second. One knee pressed between your thighs, hand around your throat. not tight, but enough to pin you. His body hovered above yours, radiating heat, dominance dripping from every muscle.
“You liked watching me lose control?” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “You liked hearing me beg for you?”
Your breath hitched. “Yes.”
“Well now it’s my turn.”
He kissed you, hard. devouring, claiming, filthy. His hand slid under your shirt again, this time yanking it up until your chest was bare, cool air hitting your heated skin.
“You’re mine,” he growled against your lips. “Say it.”
You gasped. “I’m yours.”
“Again.”
“I’m yours, Kenan.”
He tugged your leggings down so fast it made your head spin, his hand dragging along your inner thigh. “You came home early for this, didn’t you?” he muttered. “Wanted to see what I do when you’re not around.”
Your head thudded back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut. “You sound so hot when you say my name,” you admitted.
That made him freeze.
“Yeah?” he whispered, rough thumb brushing your lower lip. “You liked hearing me moan for you?”
You nodded helplessly. “It drove me insane.”
“Good. Because now I want you like that.”
He dragged your panties down, slow now, too slow. Teasing. Eyes locked on yours as he tossed them aside. “Look at me,” he said. “Keep your eyes on me.”
Then he ducked down and kissed his way up your thigh, biting lightly just above your knee, making you squirm.
“Be still,” he said calmly, gripping your waist to hold you down. “I haven’t even started.”
“Kenan—” your voice cracked.
He chuckled darkly. “Already whining?”
He moved up, settling over you again, cock hard and leaking against your stomach. You reached for him, but he grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head.
“My rules tonight,” he whispered. “You watch. You take it. And you thank me when you cum.”
Your thighs squeezed around his waist. Your body begged. But he wasn’t rushing.
He kissed you again, slower this time. Deeper. His mouth dragged across your jaw, down your neck, and his tongue teased over your collarbone while his hand slid between your legs.
One thick finger slid through your folds and you gasped, back arching.
“Already soaked,” he muttered proudly. “I didn’t even touch you yet, baby.”
“You’re touching me now,” you breathed.
He pressed a little deeper, rubbing slow, lazy circles that had your hips bucking. “That’s nothing,” he warned. “That’s me being nice.”
“What if I don’t want nice?”
That earned you a growl. Low and sharp and deadly.
“You really want to be ruined right now, huh?” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “You want to cry a little when I make you cum? Let everyone know who you belong to?”
“Y–yes,” you gasped.
He kissed you again, biting your lip hard enough to leave a mark, then let go of your wrists and flipped you onto your stomach.
“Hands on the headboard,” he said. “Arch your back.”
You obeyed instantly.
Kenan’s hand dragged down your spine, firm and possessive. “Look at you. Perfect. My girl.”
You moaned when you felt him settle behind you, dragging the head of his cock between your folds. Teasing. Taunting.
“You were so smug standing in that doorway,” he murmured. “Now look at you. Begging. Dripping. Waiting for me to split you open.”
You whimpered into the sheets.
He grabbed your hair, tugging gently until your back arched even more. “Use your words.”
“I want it,” you whispered. “I want you. Please.”
And that’s all it took.
He slid in deep, slow, and your whole body tensed.
“Good girl,” he groaned. “Good fucking girl.”
His hands gripped your hips tight as he set a pace. deep, punishing, perfect. Your moans filled the room. Every thrust knocked a breath from your lungs. Your legs shook.
“Kenan—too much—!”
“You can take it,” he snarled. “You will take it.”
His hand reached around to rub your clit in tight circles, and that was it, you snapped. Your whole body convulsed as pleasure crashed through you like a wave. You cried out his name, tears pricking at your eyes from the sheer intensity.
He didn’t stop.
He held you tight and kept going, riding you through it, pressing kisses to your spine. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you. That’s my name you’re screaming.”
You trembled in his arms, still twitching.
Finally, finally, he pulled out and flipped you over again, kissing your cheeks, your lips, your forehead. You blinked up at him, dazed and breathless.
“Mine,” he whispered again, stroking your hair. “Every fucking inch.”
You nodded weakly, hands still shaking.
Kenan smirked. “What are you doing coming home early, baby?”
You smiled, voice hoarse. “Apparently… asking for trouble.”
He leaned down, kissed your neck, and whispered in your ear..
you don’t remember falling asleep in his hoodie, but you wake up in it.
the sunlight is just starting to slip through the curtains when you feel it: the softest brush of lips against your forehead. kenan’s already up, already dressed in something simple, probably one of his too-many gray sweatshirts. you barely open your eyes before he’s murmuring, “sleep a little more, i’ll start the coffee.”
you hum, half-asleep, and curl into his pillow. it smells like him—clean, warm, safe. somewhere in the distance, you hear the coffee machine hum to life. it’s always ready when you get up. he never says anything about it, but you know—he sets it up the night before, even when he’s tired after training.
by the time you shuffle into the kitchen in mismatched socks and his hoodie draped over your frame, he’s sitting at the counter with your mug ready, just the way you like it. no sugar, a splash of oat milk. he doesn’t ask anymore. he just knows.
he hands it to you with a quiet smile and a kiss to your temple.
“morning, baby.”
it’s a sunday, and that means laundry.
well—kenan does the laundry, you just… help.
sort of.
you're sitting cross-legged on the bed, folding towels with a technique he claims is "inefficient but adorable." he's across from you, folding his jerseys and your sweaters with that soft, methodical patience he has for everything. he doesn’t rush. he doesn’t complain.
he folds your favorite pajama shirt carefully, then tucks it into the drawer where he knows you always forget to check. he notices the hole in your sock before you do, and without a word, it disappears into the “bye forever” pile on the floor.
at some point, you toss a hoodie at him.
“mine now,” you say with a smug little smile.
he catches it, raises an eyebrow. “you’ve already stolen three.”
you just shrug and pull it on over your head anyway. it drowns you, sleeves past your hands, and he just watches you for a second with this ridiculously fond look on his face, like you’re the most precious thing in the world wearing his name in cotton and comfort.
then he leans forward, kisses you on the nose, and goes back to folding.
it’s raining out, the kind that taps soft against the windows and makes everything feel like a lullaby.
you’re lying on the couch, head in kenan’s lap, a half-watched movie playing quietly in the background. his fingers run gently through your hair, not really thinking about it, just doing—like it’s second nature to soothe you like that.
you look up at him.
“do you ever get tired of just… this?”
he glances down, confused. “of what?”
“of the quiet. of us just… being boring.”
kenan’s eyes soften. he shakes his head, leans down to press a kiss to your forehead. “this isn’t boring,” he says quietly. “this is peace.”
you close your eyes at that.
this is peace.
that’s exactly what it is.
you’re brushing your teeth in the bathroom when kenan pads in behind you in socks and boxers, sleep in his eyes and hair a mess. he wraps his arms around your waist from behind, rests his chin on your shoulder. you smile around your toothbrush.
he hums into your neck.
“you smell good,” he mumbles, barely awake.
“you’re clingy.”
“you love it.”
you do.
later, in bed, you roll over to face him. the room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing, and his thumb brushes gently across your cheek. you reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.
“good day?” you whisper.
he nods. “best day. you were in it.”
your heart does a quiet little somersault.
he leans in, presses his forehead to yours. neither of you says anything more.
because you don’t have to.
with kenan, love is never loud. it’s not shouted from rooftops or written in the sky.
it’s in mugs of coffee and folded laundry. it’s in the way he looks at you like you hung the stars, and the way he never lets your hand go when you walk together. it’s in the mundane, the familiar, the quiet moments no one else sees.
and that’s what makes it feel so real.
taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, lmk if you want to be added!
Heyy! Can you make a kenan x reader imagine?? So reader gets kind of ignored by kenan because of his full schedule and when she finds him relaxing at their living room she is all happy to see him and he gets annoyed that she's super clingy but he's actually angry because of a bad day at training. So she changes a through time, she's less around and less talking. Kenan later realises the mistake he made and tries to to be forgiven.
Silent Regrets~Kenan Yildiz
・❥・prompt list
・❥・masterlist -> part 2
・❥・who I write for
Kenan walked through the door, his shoulders slumping with exhaustion.
She had been waiting for this moment all day, eager to see him after weeks of barely spending time together. The excitement bubbled in her chest as she hurried to the living room, but when she saw his face—tired, irritated—she hesitated.
Still, she couldn’t stop the soft smile that crept onto her face. "Kenan," she said, her voice filled with warmth. "You’re home early."
He tossed his bag onto the couch and let out a heavy sigh, not meeting her gaze. "Yeah."
"how was training?" she said, her tone still light.
"Long," he muttered, sitting down and leaning back against the cushions, his eyes shutting briefly.
She bit her lip, unsure whether to push further. He had been distant lately, and the silence between them had grown unbearable. Maybe tonight could be different.
"I made your favorite for dinner," she said softly, trying to gauge his mood.
"Not hungry," he replied, his voice flat.
The rejection stung, but she swallowed the lump in her throat, determined not to let it show. "Do you want to talk about your day? Or maybe—"
"Can you just stop?" His words sliced through the room, sharp and sudden, and it felt like a slap.
Her heart sank. "Stop what?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
He opened his eyes, his jaw tight as he stared at her. "This. Hovering. Trying to talk when I don’t want to. You’re always… there. I just need some peace, okay?"
She stood frozen, the weight of his words crashing down on her. "I… I’m just trying to be here for you, Kenan," she said, her voice trembling.
"Well, maybe I don’t need that right now," he snapped, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe I need you to give me some space."
The words hit harder than than expected, and she took a step back, her arms wrapping around herself as if to shield from the sudden cold between them. "Space," she repeated, the word catching in her throat.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. "I’m just tired, okay? I’ve had a terrible day, and I don’t have the energy for this."
She nodded slowly, blinking back tears. "Okay," she whispered. "I’ll… give you space."
Without another word, she turned and walked away, her heart heavy with all the hurt she kept in.
She could feel his gaze on her back for a moment before the sound of the television filled the room, drowning out the silence that screamed louder than any argument ever could.
Days had passed and she pulled back. It wasn’t intentional at first—it was self-preservation.
Sue stopped waiting at the door for him, stopped trying to talk to him when he came home. She became quieter, less present.
Where once she filled the silence with stories and laughter, now she simply jusy existed.
Kenan noticed. At first, he thought he had finally gotten what he wanted: space. But as the days stretched on, the emptiness began to gnaw at him. The house felt cold, her absence glaringly obvious even when she was just a room away.
He came home one evening to find her sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at her untouched dinner. She didn’t even look up when he entered.
"Hey," he said softly, his voice hesitant.
"Hey," she replied without emotion, her gaze fixed on her plate.
The lifelessness in her voice hit him like a punch to the gut. "Did you eat?"
She shook her head. "Not really hungry."
He frowned, stepping closer. "Is everything okay?"
She laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. "I could ask you the same thing."
He hesitated, the guilt bubbling to the surface. "I’ve been a jerk, haven’t I?"
She didn’t respond immediately, her fingers tracing the edge of her fork. "You told me I was too much," she said quietly. "So I decided to be less."
His heart sank at her words, the weight of his actions crashing down on him. "I didn’t mean it," he said, his voice breaking. "I was angry and frustrated, and I took it out on you. But I never meant that."
She finally looked at him, her eyes filled with hurt. "You said it, though. And it’s all I’ve been able to hear since."
He knelt beside her, reaching for her hands. "I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I’ve been so caught up in my own stress that I didn’t see how much I was hurting you. You’re not too much—you’re everything I need. And I’ve been pushing you away like an idiot."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "Do you even realize how hard it is to feel like you’re a burden to the person you love most?"
His grip on her hands tightened, his own tears threatening to spill. "You’re not a burden. You’re my world, and I’ve been too blind to see how much I was taking you for granted. Please, give me a chance to fix this. I’ll do anything."
She searched his face, looking for the sincerity she needed to see. When she found it, the tears she'd been holding back finally fell. "You really hurt me, Kenan," she said softly.
"I know, I'm sorry" he whispered, pulling her into his arms. "I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you."
my taglist: @barcapix @paucubarsisimp @spidybaby @mxryxmfooty (lmk if you want to be added!!)
I was wondering if you could write something with kenan in which his friend casey backhaus is recording him ect. And kenan has a wife who's also friend with casey and the fan are just so in love of how kenan treat his wife and their proximity in the video.
Thanks xx
Unscripted Love
Pairing: Kenan Yıldız x Reader
Word Count:2440
Request open!
Kenan Yildiz Masterlist | Football Masterlist | Football Masterlist II
The first thing you see when you open the door is a camera,even before you see Casey’s face.
“Good morniiiing, Mrs. Yıldız,” he sings, poking the camera around the doorframe.
You blink, still half-asleep. “Casey, it’s 8 a.m.”
“Exactly,” he says. “Prime content hours. Also, your husband told me you’re cuter in the mornings, so I had to verify.”
From the hallway behind him, Kenan’s voice floats over. “Don’t scare her on the first frame, man.”
You step aside, letting Casey in. He kicks off his shoes and walks backwards, camera already pointed at you and the hallway.
“So, this is the famous apartment,” Casey narrates. “We’ve got the hallway, the shoes, the very, very patient wife…”
You roll your eyes and glance behind him at Kenan, who’s leaning against the wall in sweats and a hoodie, hair still messy, a lazy smile on his face. The second your eyes meet, his whole expression softens.
“Morning, aşkım,” he murmurs, pushing off the wall and coming straight to you like you’re the only thing in the room. He presses a kiss to your forehead, one hand automatically finding your waist. “You sleep well?”
You nod, sinking a little into his side. “Would’ve slept better if I knew we were having a whole film crew.”
“It’s just me,” Casey protests. “I’m small. I don’t count.”
“You’re loud,” you shoot back.
Casey laughs. “You love me.”
“Unfortunately,” you say, but you’re smiling.
Kenan squeezes your waist. “She does. I can confirm.”
Casey zooms the camera slightly closer. “Ladies and gentlemen, the softest man alive.”
Kenan rolls his eyes but doesn’t move his arm from around you. In fact, he pulls you a bit closer, turning you slightly so you’re half in front of him, his chin resting on your shoulder.
“You started already?” you ask, nodding at the camera.
“Day in the life,” Casey says. “The people want to see how you survive with this guy.” He tilts the lens at Kenan.
“I’m very easy to live with,” Kenan argues.
You snort. “Okay, tell them about the sock situation.”
“You married one of us,” you remind him, patting his chest.
“Big mistake,” Casey mutters, but he’s grinning.
Kenan just laughs and leans down to kiss your cheek, right in view of the camera. “Best decision of my life.”
You feel your face heat, and Casey lets out a delighted sound. “Oh, fans are gonna EAT that up. Do it again.”
“No,” you say instantly.
Kenan ignores you and kisses your cheek again, slower this time. “Good morning, kameraya da,” he jokes.
You shove him lightly. “Stop.”
“Never,” he says, and he looks so annoyingly sincere about it that you have to look away.
Ten minutes later, you’re in the kitchen, trying to fix your hair at the counter mirror while Kenan fusses with the coffee machine.
“Do you want your usual?” he asks, opening the cabinet where your favorite mugs live.
“Yeah, please,” you mumble, fingers working on a stubborn knot.
Casey says from somewhere near the fridge, “I’d like to formally request my usual too. Which is being ignored.”
“You can drink tap water,” Kenan replies calmly.
You laugh. “Be nice.”
“Fine,” Kenan sighs theatrically. “Casey, what do you want?”
“Love,” Casey says.
Kenan snorts. “I can offer coffee.”
“Deal.”
You watch as Kenan pulls out your mug first,the chipped one he hates but you refuse to throw away,and carefully fills it. He adds exactly the amount of milk you like, then the sugar. He doesn’t measure; he just somehow knows. He grabs a spoon, stirs, then walks it over to you.
“Here,” he says softly, putting it into your hands. “Taste.”
You take a sip and hum. “Perfect.”
“Of course,” Casey mutters behind the camera. “He makes it with his heart.”
Kenan flips him off with one hand while the other gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is so automatic you almost don’t notice it,until Casey lets out a little sound like he’s watching a baby panda.
“Oh my God,” he whispers dramatically. “The way he looks at you. We need a warning label on this video.”
You swat at Casey’s arm. “Shut up and drink your coffee.”
Kenan passes him a mug, then leans against the counter next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. Every time you shift, he unconsciously shifts closer.
“So,” Casey says, camera trained on the two of you. “Today’s video is ‘Day in the life of Kenan Yıldız,’ but I’m pretty sure it’s just ‘Day in the life of Kenan being obsessed with his wife.’”
Kenan grins unabashedly. “Can’t help it.”
You nudge him with your hip. “Focus, superstar. Don’t you have training?”
He checks the oven clock. “We have time. I wanna eat with you.”
“See?” Casey mutters to the camera. “Sickening.”
In the car, Casey takes the backseat, still documenting. You sit in the passenger seat while Kenan drives, his hand casually resting on your thigh.
“It’s a safety feature,” he explains when Casey zooms in. “Keeps her from flying away.”
“Because I’m a hazard,” you say dryly.
“Exactly.”
You glance over at him. “Eyes on the road, Yıldız.”
He smirks but complies, squeezing your leg once before looking ahead. “I know the way even with my eyes closed.”
“Don’t say that on camera,” you hiss. “People will take your license.”
Casey laughs from behind you. “No, they’re too busy writing fanfics about how he keeps a hand on your leg the whole ride.”
You twist in your seat to stare at him. “Do they really?”
“Oh, absolutely,” he says. “And half of them are like, ‘If my future husband doesn’t treat me like Kenan treats his wife, I don’t want him.’”
Kenan’s ears go pink. “People write that?”
“Bro,” Casey says. “You have no idea. They’re obsessed with you two.”
You feel Kenan’s thumb stroke absentmindedly over your leg. “Good. They should know how she deserves to be treated.”
You stare at him for a second, heart stuttering. “Stop saying stuff like that when I can’t kiss you properly; you’re driving.”
“Later,” he promises quietly.
Casey zooms in on your face. “I’m actually third-wheeling in 4K.”
At the training ground, you follow them out of the car, hugging your coat tighter against the chill. Kenan immediately notices and shrugs off his hoodie, draping it over your shoulders before you can protest.
“Kenan, you’ll be cold,” you say.
“I’ll be running around,” he shrugs. “You’re just standing. Wear it.”
Casey swings the camera between you two. “He does this all the time, by the way,” he tells the invisible audience. “Like she doesn’t own jackets. Walking, talking hoodie dispenser.”
Kenan adjusts the hoodie around you, fingers lingering to zip it up. “Looks better on you anyway,” he says softly.
“You say that with all your clothes,” you remind him.
“Because it’s true.”
You glance away, cheeks warm despite the cold. Casey pans down to show you drowning in the oversized hoodie, then back up to your face.
“Fans are gonna screenshot this,” he cackles. “This is going straight to Pinterest.”
You spend the next couple of hours with Casey, watching training from the stands. Every time Kenan glances your way, Casey’s camera is ready.
At one point, during a water break, Kenan jogs over to the railing where you and Casey are standing.
“You good?” he asks, ignoring Casey completely, eyes only on you.
You smile. “I’m literally just sitting, babe.”
“Still,” he says. He reaches up to touch your fingers where they rest on the railing. “Text me if you get cold. I’ll tell them to train faster.”
You laugh. “I’ll survive. Go, before your coach murders you.”
He presses a quick kiss to your knuckles, then jogs back, leaving you to endure Casey’s dramatic gasp.
“That was disgusting,” Casey declares. “Do it again next break.”
By the time you’re back in the car, the sun’s lower and you’re tired, but a good kind of tired. Kenan climbs into the driver’s seat, then immediately twists to look at you.
“How are you?” he asks quietly, rubbing his thumb over your hand.
“I’m okay,” you assure him. “You played well.”
He shrugs. “Could’ve been better. But you were there, so… it was good.”
Casey leans between the seats. “Say sappy stuff like that louder, I need it on audio.”
“No,” Kenan and you say in unison, then glance at each other and laugh.
Back at the apartment that evening, Casey is sprawled on your couch with his laptop open, importing footage. Kenan sits beside you at the dining table, your chair pulled close to his, your legs tangled under the table.
“Look at this part,” Casey calls. “Come here, come here.”
You and Kenan shuffle over, and Kenan stays close behind you, hands resting lightly on your hips as you lean over the back of the couch.
On the screen, there’s a clip from the morning: you in the kitchen, yawning, holding your mug with both hands, hoodie too big, hair messy. Kenan walks into the frame, kisses your temple, and absentmindedly adjusts the strap of your tank top that’s slipping off your shoulder, like he doesn’t even realize he’s being filmed.
You hadn’t noticed he’d done that.
“See?” Casey says smugly. “You guys don’t even know how soft you look.”
Kenan’s chin comes to rest on your shoulder. “I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
You turn your head slightly. “I wasn’t. But… thank you.”
Casey skips to another clip: Kenan covering you with his hoodie at the training ground, hands steady as he zips it up.
“He’s like… constantly aware of where you are,” Casey says, a little more serious now. “Even when I was focusing on other stuff, he was always, like, checking,‘Is she cold? Is she okay? Did she eat?’ I’m not even saying this to roast him, it’s actually kind of crazy.”
Kenan chuckles softly against your shoulder. “Wow. Betrayed by my own best friend.”
You tilt your head to look at him. “You really do that?”
“Of course,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re my wife.”
The way he says it,simple, certain,makes your chest tighten.
Casey mimes wiping a tear. “Okay, that’s going in the video.”
A few days later, the vlog is live.
You’re curled up on the couch with Kenan, your legs over his lap, his hand circling your ankle. Your phone is open to the comments section as the numbers climb.
“Look at this one,” you giggle, reading aloud. “‘If my future husband doesn’t look at me the way Kenan looks at his wife, I’m staying single.’”
Kenan laughs, tightening his grip on your ankle. “Smart.”
“Smart?” you repeat. “Why?”
“Because they deserve that,” he says. “Everyone does. This is basic.”
You shake your head, scrolling. “Here’s one: ‘The way he automatically gives her his hoodie without thinking… I’m unwell.’”
Kenan leans over your shoulder to read, his chest pressed to your back. “That’s just… I was warm.”
“Yeah, but you also zipped it up and fixed the hood and tucked my hair out of the zipper,” you point out. “People notice that.”
He shrugs, unconcerned. “Good. I’m glad they see how much I love you.”
The words are so casual, but they hit you like a wave. You pause, then lock your phone and twist around so you’re facing him.
“You know they’re obsessed with you because of that, right?” you say softly. “Not just because you’re good at football. Because you’re… like this.”
He considers you for a moment, eyes warm. “If they see me treating you well and think, ‘I should expect that too,’ then that’s perfect,” he says. “Maybe some guys will watch and learn something.”
You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. “Kenan the relationship influencer.”
He makes a face. “No, no. I play football.”
“And love your wife,” you add.
“That too,” he says, smiling.
Your phone buzzes with a new notification,another flood of comments. You unlock it and scroll.
“‘POV: you’re Casey trying to third-wheel these two and failing.’” You snort. “‘Casey deserves a raise for documenting this love story.’”
Kenan sucks his teeth. “I’m not paying him more.”
“You don’t pay him at all,” you remind him.
“Exactly,” he says. “He gets paid in vibes.”
You laugh and nudge his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”
He shifts, guiding your legs off his lap just long enough to pull you closer, until you’re practically halfway in his seat. His arm goes around your shoulders, and he kisses your temple.
“Look,” he murmurs, nodding at your phone. “Read that one.”
You follow his gaze to a fresh comment.
“‘The little things he does for her without realizing… that’s real love. I want this one day.’”
You’re quiet for a moment, feeling your throat tighten.
“That’s… sweet,” you say softly.
Kenan studies your face. “Hey,” he says gently, finger under your chin, tilting it up. “You okay?”
You nod, trying to smile. “Yeah, I just… I’m happy. That’s all.”
He searches your eyes, then smiles, slow and fond. “Good,” he says. “You’re supposed to be.”
Another comment pops up as you watch: “‘They’re not even doing anything crazy, just existing next to each other, and I can feel the love through the screen.’”
Kenan laughs. “We’re very powerful, apparently.”
“You, mostly,” you argue.
He shakes his head. “No. It’s us.”
He takes the phone from your hand and sets it on the coffee table, completely ignoring the growing pile of notifications.
“Comments can wait,” he says. “You, however,” He pokes your side. “,need more attention.”
You yelp and grab his hand. “Kenan!”
He grins, eyes crinkling. “What? Fans wanted more proximity, right? I must deliver.”
You roll your eyes but melt against him anyway, fitting into that familiar space between his chest and shoulder. His arms wrap around you, secure and easy, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Maybe Casey should film this too,” you mumble into his hoodie.
“No,” Kenan says immediately, pressing a kiss to your hair. “This is just for us.”
You smile against him, heart steady and full. And somewhere out there, a video is playing on repeat, comments piling up,people falling in love with the way he looks at you, the way he reaches for you, the way he treats you like you’re the most important thing in the room.
But here, right now, it’s just you and him.
And you don’t need a camera to know how loved you are.
You were convinced your back was plotting against you. No chair, no sofa, not even the bed you shared with Kenan was safe anymore. You shifted once more, groaning, hand pressing to the small of your back.
From the kitchen, you heard a wooden spoon clatter and quick footsteps approaching.
“Again?” Kenan asked gently, already crouching beside the couch. His hand found your swollen belly first, then your face. “You should’ve called me, baby.”
You gave him a tired smile. “You were cooking.”
“And you’re carrying our whole child.”
That always made your heart squeeze. You weren’t used to how casually he said ours, like it was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t know it was possible to love someone so much until you saw how Kenan looked at you now, like you were a miracle wrapped in oversized pajamas and stretch marks.
“You need the pillows again?” he asked, already reaching behind you without waiting for your answer.
You let out a sigh as he adjusted the couch cushions with practiced tenderness, then helped you ease into a more comfortable position. “You’re gonna be a pro at this,” you mumbled, eyes half-closing.
Kenan smiled and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I already am.”
⸻
Later, after dinner (which he refused to let you help with), you were half-asleep on the couch, your swollen belly rising like a hill beneath your shirt. Kenan sat at your feet, carefully massaging your ankles.
“I’m disgusting,” you said suddenly, looking down at him.
Kenan frowned. “Don’t say that.”
“My feet are literally swollen balloons, Kenan. This is not cute.”
“You’re carrying my baby,” he said simply, like it was a trump card. “You could be green and leaking slime and I’d still kiss you.”
You laughed despite yourself. “Ew.”
He shrugged, smug. “You’d like it.”
You threw a pillow at him. He caught it one-handed and leaned forward to kiss your belly instead. “You’re still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. And this,” he rubbed slow circles against the side of your bump, “makes you even more beautiful.”
You blinked back a rush of emotion, caught off guard by how softly he was speaking.
“Kenan…”
He looked up at you, all warm brown eyes and sleepy curls. “You okay?”
You nodded. “I just… I didn’t think I’d ever get this. Someone like you. This much love.”
Kenan tilted his head, confused. “You didn’t think I’d fall for you?”
“Footballer with a god complex falls for the waddling, hormonal girl who cries over dog videos? Doesn’t sound very realistic.”
Kenan crawled up beside you on the couch and tucked his hand underneath your belly. “You’re my girl. And that’s the most realistic thing in the world.”
⸻
The next morning, he tried to leave early for training without waking you but you stirred when you felt the dip of the mattress.
“Going already?” you croaked, voice thick with sleep.
He cupped your jaw and kissed your cheek. “Didn’t mean to wake you, liebe.”
You wrapped your arms around his neck, refusing to let go. “Five more minutes.”
He hesitated. He really should have left. But one look at your sleepy pout and he was kicking off the duvet again.
“You’re evil,” he muttered, settling back beside you and placing his hand against your belly again. The baby kicked.
“She agrees,” you whispered.
He grinned and rubbed the spot gently. “You hear that, little one? Mama’s bossy. Just like I said.”
You elbowed him. He caught it and kissed your knuckles.
“Fine,” he said dramatically, “I’ll stay a few more minutes. But only because you’re hot when you’re round and hormonal.”
“Kenan.”
“Like a goddess,” he added, just to make you smile.
⸻
A week later, you were crying over the fact that there were no strawberries left in the fridge.
“Baby,” Kenan said gently, crouching down in front of you. “I’ll get you more, okay? Don’t cry.”
You sniffled. “You ate them.”
“I didn’t know you wanted them!”
“They were the only thing I wanted today.”
Without hesitation, he stood up, grabbed his keys, and said, “Stay here. I’m getting you all the strawberries in Turin.”
You blinked up at him. “What?”
“Every. Single. One.” He leaned down and kissed your head. “Back soon.”
He returned with three containers of strawberries, a pack of whipped cream, and a single rose he bought from an old woman outside the store.
You started crying again, this time for a different reason.
⸻
Later that night, you were curled up in his hoodie, head against his chest. He was rubbing your belly with one hand and scrolling TikTok with the other.
“We need to pick a name,” you mumbled.
He paused. “I thought we were doing that after.”
“I want to call her something other than little one or the kicker.”
Kenan grinned. “You called her the kicker?”
“You started it.”
He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Okay. What about Yasmin?”
“Too sweet.”
“Lina?”
“Too… I don’t know. Soft.”
Kenan chuckled. “You want a baby name with bite?”
You nodded. “She’s gonna be loud. Like you.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Loud?”
“You literally yell when you score.”
“That’s different. That’s passion.”
You gave him a look.
He leaned down and kissed the curve of your belly again. “Okay, what about Mira?”
You smiled. “I like that.”
He grinned, pleased. “Then it’s settled. Mira it is.”
⸻
At 3am, you woke up needing to pee again, and Kenan woke up with you, even though you insisted he didn’t have to.
When you came back to bed, groaning and holding your back again, he shifted without a word and let you lay across him like a pillow.
“Better?” he mumbled sleepily.
“Yeah.”
He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “You’re doing so good. I’m so proud of you.”
You didn’t answer right away because your throat was tight.
“I love you,” you whispered eventually.
“Forever,” he murmured.
You fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat and the baby kicking softly against your ribs.
can you write someone about kenan being shirtless after the game because he switched shirts and everybody sees the scratches on his back from his girl
Marked Him Up Real Good
Pairing: Kenan Yıldız x Reader
Content Warning: Post-match thirst, visible scratch marks, teasing teammates, possessive & smug Kenan, implied smut, dominant/submissive tension, mutual obsession
Word Count: ~2k
Kenan hadn’t meant to cause a scene.
But the second he peeled off his shirt after the final whistle and handed it to the defender he’d just danced circles around, everything shifted. Cameras didn’t just follow him; they stayed on him. The whole stadium seemed to take a breath as his bare back came into view.
And so did the scratches.
Red, raw, and unforgiving, they curled over his shoulder blades and dragged downward, clear and brazen under the floodlights. Angry, perfect lines left by someone who had no interest in being gentle. Someone who had dug her nails into him as he fucked her slow and deep, like she wanted the whole damn city to know who he belonged to.
The silence didn’t last.
“Yo!” One of the subs called out from the sideline, already grinning. “Someone’s girl got claws.”
Kenan didn’t turn. Just kept jogging down the tunnel, heat still thrumming through his veins from the win, his lips curving into the laziest smirk imaginable.
Another voice, closer. “You sure you don’t need the medical team for that, bro?”
He shrugged as he walked, jacket slung over one shoulder but still not on. Let them look. Let the world see what you did to him. He liked the sting. Liked remembering your thighs locked around his waist, your voice cracking as you pulled him closer and begged him not to stop.
It wasn’t the first time you’d marked him up like that. But it was the first time the cameras caught it.
And he didn’t regret it for a second.
The teasing kept going in the locker room. Players made mock scratching gestures. Staff offered him ointment. Someone even tried to hand him a bandage. Kenan just laughed them off, towel slung low around his hips as he scrolled through the early social media reactions.
Screenshots. Zoom-ins. TikToks with slow-motion replays of the exact moment he turned and the scratches appeared. Thirst tweets and edits that would make your face burn. He found one that captioned the clip with “he’s not single. she owns him.” and saved it to his camera roll.
They weren’t wrong.
He got home past midnight, exhausted but still buzzing, and you were on the couch in one of his oversized hoodies, phone glowing in your hand. The second you saw him, you bit your lip.
You didn’t even say hi.
“They saw,” you whispered, voice small.
He closed the door behind him and locked it. “Everyone.”
You buried your face in your hands. “I didn’t mean to scratch you that bad. I really didn’t.”
“You did.” His voice was amused, low and rough in the best way. “And it was perfect.”
You peeked through your fingers. He was still shirtless, just his jacket hanging open, faint red marks still angry and visible on his back.
Your face flushed. “They’re gonna talk about it all week…”
“I want them to.”
You blinked. “What?”
He crossed the room in two slow steps, kneeling in front of the couch and pulling you into his lap like you weighed nothing. His hands slipped under the hoodie, warm and heavy on your waist.
“I want them to see what you do to me.”
You couldn’t breathe. His voice was that low, that sure, that possessive. Like he didn’t care about anything else but letting the world know who had their hands on him the night before.
“I saw the tweets,” you said quietly, heart racing. “They’re going feral.”
“Good. Let them wonder what you sound like when you put those marks on me.”
Your whole body lit up.
“I want them to look at me,” he whispered, “and know I belong to someone who ruins me.”
You squirmed against him, and he didn’t hesitate. His grip tightened, his mouth brushed your neck, his breath hot against your skin.
“You gonna scratch me up again?” he murmured.
You nodded fast, eyes fluttering shut.
“When?”
You swallowed. “Now.”
He picked you up without a word and carried you to the bedroom, hoodie slipping higher with every step. He tossed you gently onto the bed, eyes dark and gleaming.
No lights, just the hallway glow. Just enough to see your flushed cheeks and bare thighs as he stripped off his sweatpants and climbed over you.
Hands up, he ordered softly.
You obeyed.
He peeled the hoodie off you slowly, like unwrapping something he’d been craving for hours. His lips found the bruises he’d left the night before, kissing each one like a thank-you.
He worshipped you for hours.
And you left new scratches. Deeper ones. Ones that would still be visible next week.
The next morning, you sat on the bathroom counter brushing your teeth while he stood shirtless at the sink beside you. Your eyes drifted to his back.
He caught you in the mirror.
Proud of yourself? he asked, smirking.
You pretended to roll your eyes, but you were grinning.
So when he walked into training that afternoon still refusing to wear an undershirt and letting the new marks peek out again, no one was surprised. Not even the cameras.
summary: going on a road trip with pedri gonzalez, marc bernal, pau cubarsi, ferran torres, pau victor, eric garcia, pablo gavi, marc casado, marc guiu, hector fort, and marc guiu.
a/n: i've been wanting to do another one of these for ages, and i was so happy to finally get another one done! unforunately pookie lamine and dro aren't included because they can't drive lol. and noni isn't either because i'm still angry with him for going to arsenal >:(
masterlist requests
genre: fluff.
warnings: none.
You wake up to the sound of the car keys jingling and Pedri humming softly under his breath. He’s already got your bags in the boot by the time you shuffle out the front door in your hoodie and slides, still blinking sleep out of your eyes.
“Morning,” he says, grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Happy anniversary.”
You smile, stepping into his arms and letting him press a kiss to your temple. Two years. You’d never really planned to be this soft for someone for this long, but somehow, Pedri’s always made it easy.
The early morning sky is still pale, casting a golden haze across the quiet streets. The roads are nearly empty as you hit the motorway, a thermos of coffee balanced in the cup holder, your playlists alternating between lazy indie and the occasional reggaeton track Pedri sneaks in with a grin.
"You know," he says a couple hours in, one hand resting loosely on the wheel, "I still remember that café we found the first time we went to Valencia. You ordered that disgusting green smoothie and tried to act like it wasn’t horrible."
You laugh, nudging his knee. "It had spinach and kale, okay? I was trying to be healthy."
He raises an eyebrow. "And then you ate a whole churro with me five minutes later."
You roll your eyes, but there’s a warmth in your chest that doesn’t fade, even as the roads stretch on. It’s not about the destination, not really. It’s about moments like these, quiet and unhurried. Just him, you, and the road.
Pedri insists on taking detours, little scenic routes he’s read about online or spotted on Instagram. You stop at a roadside stall where he buys a paper-wrapped sandwich and a peach that tastes like summer, that the two of you share for lunch. You take photos with your head resting on his shoulder, the sun behind you both, lens smudged and smiles real.
He sings to the radio without knowing all the words, dancing in his seat, fingers tapping the wheel, and you can’t stop looking at him. Even when he’s doing nothing much at all, Pedri makes everything feel like it matters.
At one point, you pass a beach just off the motorway, and Pedri pulls over without a word. He tosses you his hoodie and drags you down to the sand barefoot, jeans rolled up. You wade ankle-deep in the waves, the breeze tangling your hair, his arm slung around your shoulders. No cameras, no interruptions. Just the sound of water and laughter.
“Two years,” he murmurs later, when you’re back in the car, salt still on your skin, fingers intertwined. “And I still get nervous sometimes.”
You glance at him. “Why?”
He shrugs, smiling sheepishly. “Because I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to lose us.”
You squeeze his hand. “You won’t. We’re not that easy to break.”
Valencia welcomes you in the late afternoon with golden light and bustling streets. Pedri’s booked a quiet little hotel just a few blocks from the beach - nothing flashy, just soft white sheets, a balcony with a view, and a mini fridge stocked with your favorite snacks.
You spend the evening wandering the old town, stopping at whatever catches your eye. You have tapas at a corner restaurant where Pedri insists on feeding you with his fork, grinning when you roll your eyes but open your mouth anyway.
Later, when you're lying on the bed, shoes kicked off and the balcony door open to the warm air, Pedri shifts closer and presses a kiss to your shoulder.
“Thanks for coming with me,” he says, voice quiet. “For still choosing me.”
You turn your head to look at him. “There’s never been anyone else I wanted.”
He smiles, slow and genuine, like he believes you. Like he’s never doubted it.
And maybe that’s what the road trip was really about. Not the sights or the snacks or even the beach. Just the drive. The journey. The comfort of knowing that for every mile ahead, every twist and turn, you’ll keep choosing each other.
The car ride starts early, just after sunrise, with Pau reaching over to buckle your seatbelt before starting the engine. He’s already got a little grin tugging at his lips, even if he’s pretending to focus on the road ahead.
“You’re sure you’re ready for this?” he asks for the third time, and you roll your eyes.
“Pau, I’ve met your parents before.”
“Yeah,” he says, glancing at you with a laugh in his voice, “but never like this. Now they know we’re serious.”
You don’t say anything, but the way your hand finds his and stays there tells him everything.
The drive to Bescanó is scenic in a way only his part of Catalunya can be. You pass olive groves and rolling green hills, sleepy towns with stone houses and clotheslines flapping in the breeze. Pau keeps the music low, soft enough for you to talk over. He tells you about growing up on these roads, about bike rides and childhood friends and sneaking out to the river in the summer.
He slows the car at one point to point out a trail on the left.
“That’s where Irene pushed me into a bush because I wouldn’t give her the last one of the lollies out the bag we were sharing,” he says, like it’s a core memory.
You laugh. “Trauma.”
He’s more relaxed the closer you get, his voice more animated, hands gesturing as he tells you a story about his papá trying to build a barbecue pit and accidentally setting the grass on fire. You love this version of him - the home version, the family version. The one who’s not in a Barça kit, not under pressure. Just Pau.
You stop once, halfway through the drive, at a small roadside café that he swears makes the best pastries in all of Girona. You’re skeptical until you taste it. Then you make him go back in and buy two more. He comes back with four.
As you approach Bescanó, he starts pointing out familiar houses, waving at a couple of locals who recognise him even from the car. There’s a small-town warmth to it - the way everyone seems to know his name, the way no one makes a fuss. Just proud smiles, like he’s still their boy no matter how far he’s gone.
His house sits a little back from the road, shaded by old trees. When he pulls into the gravel driveway, the front door’s already opening. His mamá’s waiting in the doorway, apron on, and his papá’s stepping off the porch with a wide grin.
You barely have time to get your seatbelt off before Pau’s out of the car, grabbing your bag from the back and reaching for your hand.
“They’re gonna love you,” he says under his breath.
“They already do.”
You follow him up the steps, welcomed in with warm hugs and the smell of something cooking. Lunch is already half-prepared, and Pau’s mamá keeps trying to feed you snacks while you’re setting the table. His tells stories that Pau groans at but you quietly love, and his younger cousin won’t stop staring at you like you’re the most interesting person he’s ever seen.
Pau never lets go of your hand for long. When his mamá brings out old photo albums, he drops his head onto your shoulder in protest but still ends up laughing at every embarrassing haircut. You find one of him at twelve with bright braces and wide ears, holding a muddy football and scowling at the camera.
“Stop,” he groans, burying his face in your neck.
“You were adorable,” you say, grinning.
He turns his head slightly, presses a soft kiss just below your ear. “You’re biased.”
You stay the night in the guest room, though his mamá insists you could’ve shared if you wanted. Pau falls asleep instantly, stretched out with his arm slung over your waist, breathing steadily. Out the window, you can see the soft lights of his hometown, still and familiar.
You wake up in the morning to birdsong and fresh coffee, and Pau’s hand tightening around yours like even in sleep, he doesn’t want to let go.
The car windows are down, music is blasting, and Ferran is dramatically singing into an empty water bottle like it’s a mic. You’re somewhere just past Zaragoza, and your cheeks ache from smiling so much.
“This is peak performance,” he announces, voice hoarse from the previous song. “You’ll never see better showmanship.”
“You say that after every song,” you laugh, reaching over to flick his sunglasses down onto his nose. “Also, you missed the exit.”
“No, I didn’t,” he says confidently, then checks the GPS. “Okay, maybe I did. But only because your beauty distracted me.”
“Original.”
He grins and takes the next exit, looping back on track. The trip to Valencia had started with a vague plan, offseason break, some time in the sun, maybe a few parties. Then Ferran suggested stopping in Foios to visit his family, and that sealed it. The idea of seeing him in his element, at home, surrounded by the people who raised him, made your heart squeeze.
When you finally roll into Foios that evening, the sun is low and golden, casting a warm glow over the sleepy town. Ferran drives like he knows every turn with his eyes closed, pulling up to a familiar little house with peeling paint and pots of herbs on the windowsill.
“Mamá’s,” he says softly.
The front door swings open before either of you can knock, and Maria rushes out in her apron, arms open wide. She kisses Ferran’s cheeks over and over, then turns to you with a smile so warm it knocks the air out of you.
“Por fin,” she says, pulling you into a hug.
Dinner is loud and delicious. Ferran’s sister Aranxta and her husband Jimmy arrive with a bottle of wine and wild stories about the neighbors. You’re caught up in the chaos, laughing until your sides hurt, watching Ferran slip effortlessly into his role as brother, son, favorite uncle.
After dessert - Coca de Llanda, made by María herself - you slip out onto the porch with Ferran. The night air is cooler now, full of cicadas and the faint smell of rosemary.
“This place is so… you,” you say, watching him lean back on the old porch swing. “It feels like your childhood still lives here.”
He nods, kicking off his sandals. “Every time I come back, it’s like I shrink a little. Not in a bad way. Just… I remember being four years old, chasing Aranxta around this very yard.”
“She says you cried when she tackled you.”
“I did not,” he insists, then pauses. “Okay, maybe once.”
You stretch out beside him, resting your head on his shoulder. His arm curls around your waist like it’s meant to be there, like this moment, quiet and warm, is the reason you came in the first place.
“You know,” he says after a while, “I always hoped one day I’d bring someone here. Someone who didn’t just love the parts of me under stadium lights.”
Your heart stutters.
“You’re the first,” he adds, turning his head to kiss your temple.
The next few days blur into sunshine and siestas. Ferran takes you through every corner of Valencia, coffee spots he swears are underrated, little beach bars only locals know, old streets where he learned to ride a bike. One night, you find yourselves at a rooftop party with his friends, dancing until 3 AM, only to wake up late the next morning and race to catch a breakfast paella with his dad.
You meet his father at a different house across town. He’s quieter than Maria, but kind in the way he pours you coffee and remembers how you take it. Ferran is softer here, more careful in his phrasing, and afterward he admits, “It’s a little weird sometimes. Them not being together anymore.” But he shrugs with a half-smile and adds, “They both love me. That’s enough.”
By the end of the trip, the car is messy, your camera roll is full, and your heart feels about five sizes too big.
On the drive home, Ferran glances at you from behind his sunglasses.
“So,” he says, voice playful. “Next time we do this… maybe your hometown?”
You laugh. “Only if you promise not to miss the exit.”
“Deal.”
You’re barely five minutes into the drive and Pau’s already singing along (badly) to the radio. You’ve heard him carry a tune before, but now he’s just purposefully off-key, trying to make you laugh, tossing grins across the console every time your shoulder shakes with quiet laughter. The playlist is chaotic at best: a mix of old Catalan songs, Spanish pop, and your favorite English throwbacks that he insists are only there because he loves you.
Sant Cugat isn’t far, maybe twenty-five minutes from where you live now, but he planned this little road trip like it’s a cross-country adventure. He packed snacks, loaded the car the night before, even printed a list of places to stop, half of which are just sentimental nonsense like “spot where I fell off my scooter when I was six.”
Still, you let him take the lead. He’s buzzing with excitement.
When you arrive, he pulls into a tree-lined street and parks outside a small café with ivy climbing the walls. You don’t even need to ask, he’s already halfway out of the car, grabbing your hand to tug you inside.
“They have the best croissants here,” he tells you, like it’s a universal truth. “Not just in Sant Cugat. Like… in Spain.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Bold claim.”
But you take a bite and he’s right. Annoyingly right.
The rest of the day rolls out slow and soft. He walks you through his childhood neighbourhood, pointing out houses that once belonged to friends or teachers or old teammates. There’s a low wall outside the primary school he used to climb, and when he tries to do it again to impress you, he nearly slips. You laugh so hard your stomach hurts.
He takes you to the old monastery, too. Not because he’s religious, but because it’s peaceful. You sit on the low stone steps out front, sipping iced drinks from a local shop while he tells you about coming here on school trips and hiding from his classmates behind the columns.
He keeps glancing over at you, smiling every time your eyes meet. There’s something boyish about him today - nostalgic and open, like bringing you home peels back a layer he doesn’t show often.
“You’re quiet,” he says eventually, nudging your arm with his.
“I’m just listening,” you say, nudging him back.
There’s a beat, and then he exhales through his nose, soft and almost shy. “I used to picture bringing someone here. I mean, not in a dramatic way. Just… if I ever had someone. You know?”
You nod. “I’m glad it’s me.”
His ears go a little pink.
Later, you stop by his parents’ place - not to go in, just to wave from the car. His mum steps outside and lights up when she sees him, waving enthusiastically until Pau gives in and rolls the window down.
“Only for a minute,” he says under his breath.
But the minute turns into twenty. His dad brings out drinks, his mum insists on giving you a box of homemade treats, and Pau somehow ends up promising to bring you both over for a proper dinner next week. You don’t mind. It’s sweet, and you like seeing how he melts around them - less cool, more soft. Familiar.
When you finally get back in the car, the sky is bleeding gold across the hills.
You lean your head on his shoulder while he drives. The sun filters through the window, catching in his lashes, lighting up the content curve of his mouth.
“This was a good idea,” you say.
He squeezes your hand on the gearstick. “I told you.”
It’s a short trip. Nothing fancy. But it feels big, somehow. Like being let in deeper. Like a promise he didn’t have to say out loud.
You don’t expect Eric to be the type to get giddy about a road trip. He plays it cool, hands on the wheel, sunglasses on, one elbow propped on the door like he’s starring in an indie music video. But then the turnoff sign for Martorell appears and he perks up like a little kid.
“There it is,” he says, pointing like you might miss the big white letters. “We’re almost home.”
“You’ve been acting like we’re crossing continents,” you tease, stretching your arms out. “It’s thirty minutes from Barcelona.”
“Still counts,” he mutters, but his smile gives him away.
The town is quiet and clean. Low buildings with red tile roofs. Shops with old wooden signs. The air smells like fresh bread and dry pine. He slows down without needing to say anything, like his whole body knows the speed limit here is different, not just on the road, but in life.
Your first stop is a tiny bakery with cracked walls and a crooked awning. He points at it proudly.
“They used to give me free cookies when I came in after school.”
You blink at him. “Because you were cute?”
He shrugs. “Probably because I was annoying. I’d always ask for the biggest one.”
He buys two now, one for each of you, and insists you sit outside on the plastic chairs even though they wobble every time you move.
From there it’s a slow stroll through his childhood. He shows you the park where he played fútbol with kids twice his size. The fence he jumped and ripped his shorts. The supermarket he worked at one summer, stocking shelves and hiding from customers who asked for help.
“I got fired after a month,” he confesses.
“What’d you do?”
“I told a lady the milk aisle was closed because I was too lazy to walk her there.”
You choke on your laugh. “Eric.”
“I was fifteen,” he says, mock-defensive. “I had dreams.”
Eventually you end up outside his family home. You don’t go in, this isn’t a visit-your-parents kind of trip, but he slows down walking past the driveway, his thumb absently brushing the inside of your wrist.
“My old room’s still the same,” he says. “Posters and all.”
“Cringe?”
“Extremely.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Was there a Messi shrine?”
He gives you a look. “Obviously.”
You sit on the hood of the car later, parked on the edge of a hill that overlooks the whole town. The sky’s turning peach. Lights are blinking on below you, windows glowing warm.
Eric hands you a drink and climbs up beside you. His shoulders brush yours.
“This place looks so small now,” he says quietly. “Back then it felt huge. Like the whole world.”
You look over at him. “You miss it?”
“Sometimes,” he admits. “Not the drama. Not the weird neighbours. But the quiet, yeah.”
You nudge his knee with yours. “We can come back whenever. Martorell doesn’t seem like it’s going anywhere.”
He smiles, but doesn’t say anything. Just leans into you a little, like that’s answer enough.
As the sun dips lower, he slips his arm around your waist. Not for warmth. Just to feel you close. Just to keep this moment still for a little longer.
The car was already packed when you came downstairs, half-asleep and gripping a travel mug like it was your lifeline. Pablo looked far too awake for someone who insisted on leaving at sunrise. He was already leaning against the driver’s side door, hoodie sleeves pushed up, sunglasses perched in his hair like he’d forgotten they weren’t necessary yet.
“You ready?” he asked, tilting his chin up. You responded with a yawn.
“Barely.”
He grinned and opened the passenger door for you. “You can nap. I’ll drive till Ciudad Real.”
It wasn’t a bad deal. He insisted on doing most of the driving anyway, claiming you got distracted too easily by signs for churros and roadside fruit stalls. Not entirely untrue, but still a little rude.
The roads were quiet that early. You leaned your head against the window as Barcelona gave way to open stretches and the kind of golden sky that only existed at stupid hours of the morning. Pablo drove with one hand on the wheel, the other alternating between fiddling with the aircon and turning the volume up. His music taste hadn’t changed much since you met him, a stubborn mix of old Spanish tracks, reggaeton, and whatever moody English songs he'd picked up from you.
You didn’t sleep for long. The nap turned into more of a drowsy haze, and when you opened your eyes again, his hand was resting on your thigh like it had been there for ages. He didn’t even glance over.
“You snore,” he said casually.
“I do not.”
“Not loud. Just… enough.”
You smacked his arm without much force. “You literally snore like an ancient abuelo every night.”
That finally got him to laugh. He glanced at you, hair moving slightly as he shook his head. “No way.”
“Swear on it. Sounds like a chainsaw.”
Pablo rolled his eyes but reached for your hand anyway, fingers slotting through yours without needing to look. It was always like that with him, wordless little gestures, subtle but sure.
The next couple of hours passed in that road-trip rhythm you’d both settled into: half-talking, half-listening to whatever song he queued up next, occasionally arguing about his speed, occasionally pulling over for him to dramatically yawn and say “this is so boring,” even though he’d refused to let you drive. He perked up again once you hit Castilla-La Mancha, pointing out old castles in the distance and guessing which one Don Quixote might’ve tilted at. You teased him for acting like a tourist when he was technically Spanish too.
“But I’m Andalusian,” he argued. “Different breed.”
You gave him a look. “You’ve lived in Barcelona for years.”
“And my family’s in Los Palacios.”
“That doesn’t make you immune to being annoying.”
It earned you another playful glare, and then he cranked the volume of the music just high enough to drown you out. But his fingers never left yours.
You reached Ciudad Real late in the afternoon. The plan was to stop overnight, grab dinner, and avoid the torture of doing the full drive to Seville in one go. The hotel wasn’t anything fancy, but it was clean, had air conditioning, and a decent view of a small plaza. Pablo dropped the bags inside and immediately flopped face-down on the bed.
“We’re old,” he mumbled into the pillow. “I used to be able to do 10-hour bus trips without dying.”
You sat beside him, pulling off your shoes. “That’s because you were a teenager with a spine made of rubber.”
He rolled over enough to see your face, then tugged your hand until you laid down next to him. Neither of you said anything for a bit. The room was cool and quiet, and Pablo looked softer than usual with his cheek pressed against the pillow, curls messier than before.
“Thanks for coming with me,” he said eventually, voice low.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
He shrugged, eyes half-lidded. “Could’ve stayed in Barca. Had your own weekend.”
You leaned in to kiss his temple. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Dinner that night was easy, some little tapas place a few streets over. He insisted on ordering three types of croquetas and finished them all. You made him share dessert. On the way back to the hotel, he wrapped an arm around your waist and kissed the side of your head without saying anything.
The next morning, you took over driving. He was too full of toast and orange juice and insisted his back still hurt. He gave dramatic commentary from the passenger seat while you crossed into Andalusia, but he didn’t complain when you stopped for strawberries from a roadside vendor, and he didn’t let go of your hand for most of the drive.
By the time Los Palacios came into view, the sun was already low and golden. You could tell he was getting nervous, even though he tried to hide it. Seeing family always did that to him, even the ones who adored you. You reached over and brushed your fingers through his hair, and he glanced over with that look, the one that said everything he didn’t feel like saying out loud.
“Home stretch,” you said.
He nodded. “Let’s go home.”
You’d never driven through this much forest in your life.
Not even five minutes past the highway exit and the world had already turned quiet. The road narrowed, curling around the green slopes of the Montseny, shaded by oaks and pines and trees Marc had tried to name before giving up halfway through. The window was cracked, letting in air that smelled sharp and clean, like bark and something earthy that didn’t exist in Barcelona.
Marc leaned his arm against the door, elbow up, face turned slightly toward the open glass.
“You good?” you asked, glancing sideways.
He nodded once. “Yeah. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“My mum’s croquettes,” he said, deadpan. “I’ve been dreaming about them since Tuesday.”
You huffed a laugh. “You said that already.”
“And I meant it. They’ve been haunting me.”
His voice was dry, teasing, and you shot him a quick grin before turning your focus back to the road. The GPS said you’d be there in twenty-five minutes. You’d left Barcelona mid-morning, stopped halfway to grab overpriced coffee and a sandwich that had way too much mayonnaise, and now it was just you, Marc, and the trees.
He hadn’t visited Sant Pere in a few weeks, the schedule was too packed, and the last international break he’d just wanted to sleep, so when he suggested you drive up together this time, you didn’t hesitate. You hadn’t met his family properly yet. They knew about you, obviously, but this weekend would be the first time you were more than a voice on the other end of a phone.
“How nervous should I be?” you asked lightly, glancing at him again.
Marc turned his head. “They’re not scary.”
“That’s not a scale.”
He rolled his eyes. “Alright. Two out of ten. Max. My mum’s already obsessed with you and my dad’s just happy I’m not alone.”
You blinked. “She’s never met me.”
Marc shrugged. “She follows you on Instagram.”
That earned a groan. “Marc.”
“What?” he said, fighting a smirk. “She sends me screenshots. ‘Look at what they’re wearing today.’ ‘So cute.’ ‘Ask them if that recipe works.’ You should’ve seen her during the Euro qualifiers. She was more stressed about whether I’d kissed you goodbye before the flight than the match.”
You hid your face behind one hand. “This is your fault.”
“Totally,” he said, proud.
He reached across the middle console, fingers finding yours where your hand rested near the gearstick. His touch was light, thumb brushing slowly across the back of your hand in that absentminded way he always did when he wasn’t thinking about it. It calmed you more than you’d admit.
A comfortable quiet settled between you for the next few kilometers. Trees blurred by outside the windows. The road curved gently, and the small villages you passed felt like the kind of places Marc would point out and say, “That’s where we used to have tournaments,” or “I had a school trip there once.”
Eventually, you found the words to ask, “Do you miss it?”
He turned his head again. “What? Home?”
“Yeah. This. It’s pretty different from Barcelona.”
Marc took a second to answer.
“I do, sometimes. I love the city, I love playing there - obviously. But here, everything’s just... slower. You know? It makes sense. People take their time. You go into town and see like five people you grew up with, and your neighbour still brings tomatoes over the fence even though you haven’t lived here full-time in three years.”
He gave your hand a gentle squeeze.
“And now you get to see it too.”
Your heart softened at that. He said it so simply. So unceremoniously. As if it was the most normal thing in the world that he wanted you in this part of his life.
You followed the road signs into the town proper. It was small, like he’d said, with pale houses and tiled roofs, green hills in every direction, and the mountains just visible beyond the trees. A few kids biked past the car, one of them waving, and Marc raised a hand automatically in return.
“You knew him?”
Marc snorted. “No. But he probably knows my parents.”
The final turn came sooner than expected. A sloped driveway, a familiar front gate, and a house that looked like it had stories packed into every corner. You parked, engine off, but didn’t move to get out straight away.
Marc unbuckled his seatbelt and looked at you, quiet for a moment.
“They’re going to love you,” he said, not joking now.
You met his gaze. “I hope so.”
“They will.”
His hand found yours again, grounding you with that one little touch. And you believed him.
(a/n: this one is set when marc is still living in spain/playing for barca)
Marc’s got one hand on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. It’s barely 10 AM, the highway is wide open, and the car is filled with the kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling, soft music in the background, windows cracked just enough for fresh air, and his fingers occasionally tapping against your jeans in rhythm with whatever’s playing.
“You sure you packed everything?” he asks, glancing at you briefly before focusing back on the road.
“I’m not the one who almost left without shoes,” you reply, amused.
“That was one time,” he groans, laughing. “And it was slides.”
“Still counts.”
He doesn’t argue. Instead, he just smiles, the kind of smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth but never quite goes full. The kind you’ve learned means he’s relaxed. Happy.
The drive to Granollers isn’t long, maybe 35 minutes out of Barcelona, but he insisted you make a little day of it anyway. You’d been busy, both of you, and the idea of getting out of the city for even a few hours was too tempting. He hasn’t stopped talking about showing you where he grew up, where he used to play footy in the streets with his cousins, and where his abuela still keeps a stash of your favorite cookies because she’s “just got a feeling” you’ll be coming back soon.
He turns down the volume on the playlist, letting silence settle again. “Can I be honest?”
You tilt your head. “Always.”
“I was nervous about this,” he admits, a little sheepish. “Not ‘meet-the-family’ nervous, just… I don’t know. I haven’t brought anyone back to Granollers before.”
You smile gently. “Not even a friend?”
He shakes his head. “Not like this.”
Your heart softens. His fingers are still absentmindedly drawing little circles on your leg, and you cover them with yours.
“Well,” you say, “if your abuelita’s cookies are part of the deal, I’m all in.”
Marc laughs, low and easy. “You’re just using me for the snacks.”
“Obviously.”
You both fall quiet for a moment. He leans forward, squinting toward the highway sign overhead.
“Exit’s coming up,” he says. “You ready?”
“I’ve been ready.”
The turnoff leads into the outskirts - green patches, industrial corners, and then slowly, bit by bit, it starts to feel like someone’s childhood. The kind of place where everyone knows everyone. You spot kids on bikes, a man walking his dog in slippers, and rows of houses that look lived-in, like they’ve grown up with the people inside them.
Marc points things out as he drives. “That’s the bakery where I used to get croissants before school. That playground’s new, we had to make do with a rusted swing set. That corner store still has the best peach iced tea.”
He’s lit up in a way you don’t get to see very often, not even after scoring, not even when he’s celebrating. This is different. It’s simpler. It’s joy without pressure.
You arrive outside a cream-colored house with potted plants out front and laundry drying on a line stretched between the balcony and a tree. A woman is already standing at the door, waving.
“There’s my abuela,” he says, putting the car in park. “You ready to be absolutely smothered?”
You grin. “I can handle it.”
But before you can even reach the front step, Marc’s abuela has pulled you both into a hug. She says something fast in Catalan, mostly to Marc, but you catch the word “guapa” directed at you and smile.
Marc translates later, once you’re sitting at the kitchen table with a plate of cookies and juice you didn’t even ask for. “She said I’ve finally brought someone who doesn’t look scared to be here.”
You bump your knee against his. “Told you I was ready.”
You end up walking around the town later, just the two of you. He takes you past his old school, points to a graffiti-covered wall where he and his friends used to hang out, and finally leads you up to a quiet hill overlooking the town.
You sit in the grass, shoulders pressed together.
“This feels good,” he says simply.
You nod. “It does.”
Marc pulls out his phone, lifts it, and gestures for a photo. You both lean in, smiling. Click.
“Gonna post that?”
“Not yet,” he replies. “I want it to be just ours for a little while.”
And somehow, that feels more romantic than anything he could’ve written in a caption.
You wake up before the sun’s even touched the skyline, arms tucked under your pillow, eyes still heavy with sleep. But there’s a buzz in your chest, an excited flutter that only grows louder when Héctor walks into the room holding two takeout cups of coffee and a wide, boyish grin.
“Happy anniversary,” he says, dropping a kiss to your forehead and then to your nose, making you scrunch it.
“Happy anniversary,” you murmur back, sitting up and stretching. “Is it too early to say I love you?”
He grins. “It’s never too early.”
The plan is simple: a couple days away in Zaragoza, a little hotel, good food, new sights - nothing fancy, just the two of you. The real treat, though, is the drive. You’re not flying or training it like other times. You’re driving. Together. Windows down, playlists loud, snacks stocked.
By the time you’re throwing your bags in the backseat of his car, the sun’s beginning to peek over the city. The Barcelona traffic hasn’t started yet, so it’s smooth sailing as Héctor merges onto the highway, fingers already tapping the wheel like he’s in rhythm with the day.
“Alright, first game,” he says. “Guess the first song.”
You smirk. “Is it one of your sad indie boy ones?”
He fake gasps. “Excuse you. It’s anniversary road trip morning. We start with classics.”
He presses play. Blank Space by Taylor Swift fills the car.
You both sing terribly off-key, Héctor’s strong accent not helping.
It’s golden.
A few kilometers out, the city fades into flatter land, small towns rolling past in blurs. You’ve got your legs propped up on the seat (after he teasingly told you off for putting your shoes on his leather, of course) and a pack of gummy worms between you.
He steals one every time he waits at a traffic light.
“Did you know Zaragoza was, like, a Roman city?” you ask, scrolling through facts on your phone.
Héctor glances at you. “You’re gonna be the annoying tourist who tells me facts the whole trip, huh?”
You grin, unbothered. “Absolutely. For example, it’s the only major city in Spain that starts with a Z. Bet you didn’t know that.”
He chuckles. “We’ve been on the road for 45 minutes, and I already learned something. You’re basically a tour guide.”
“I should charge.”
“You already do. In snacks and kisses.”
The kiss he leans over to press to your cheek is quick, but soft.
You rest your hand on his thigh for a while, just feeling the warmth of him there. The road hums beneath you.
Halfway there, he pulls off at a quiet service station. The kind with a tiny café and an old vending machine. You stretch your legs while he fills the car, then the two of you grab pastries and juice boxes and sit on the hood in the rising sun.
It’s peaceful. Like the world’s still sleeping except the two of you.
He looks over at you, eyes warm. “Thanks for doing this with me.”
You nudge his knee. “You mean thanks for letting you drag me out of bed at dawn for a three-hour drive?”
He grins. “Exactly.”
The rest of the drive is quieter. More music. More little things. You fall asleep for twenty minutes with your cheek against the window and wake up to his hand in yours, thumb brushing lazily over your knuckles.
When you finally see the Zaragoza city sign, you both cheer like you’ve driven across the whole country. He rolls down the windows, lets the wind rush in.
You turn to him. “We should always do this. Every anniversary. New place. Same car.”
He looks over at you, smile soft. “Same person.”
Your heart thuds. “Yeah. Same person.”
And even though the trip’s just starting, you already know it’s one you’ll always remember - three hours in a car, the windows down, your favorite person behind the wheel.
You don’t even remember who said it first. Maybe it was you, brushing your teeth, mumbling something about how you missed the sea. Or maybe it was him, draped upside down across the sofa, flicking through his phone like every single app was boring.
Either way, you blinked, and now you’re halfway to Genoa with the windows down, sea air just beginning to carry itself inland.
Kenan taps the steering wheel to the rhythm of whatever soft indie playlist is humming through the car speakers. His sunglasses are perched low on his nose, the early afternoon sun catching the edge of his jaw every time he turns to look at you.
“You comfy?” he asks, nudging your knee with his knuckle. “We can stop if you want.”
You shake your head, kicking your shoes off to curl your legs up onto the seat. “I’m good. Unless you’re tired.”
He scoffs. “You think I’d let anyone else drive this car?”
“Okay, relax, Schumacher.” You toss a piece of gum at him. He catches it one-handed, throws it back, and grins like he’s already on vacation.
The A26 opens up wide ahead of you, dipping between hills, and you feel that familiar tug in your chest, like maybe this is what peace feels like. No flashing cameras, no crowds shouting his name, no last-minute training sessions or canceled plans. Just a full tank of petrol, a bag full of half-folded clothes in the back, and him.
You glance at him again. He’s got one hand resting lazily at the bottom of the wheel, the other out the window catching the breeze like he’s five years old again.
“Do you remember how to get to that beach we liked?” you ask.
Kenan hums. “You mean the one with the weird little café and the stone steps?”
“Yeah. That one.”
“Course I do.” He shoots you a look. “Best beach we’ve found so far in Italy. You think I’d forget?”
You smile. Of course he wouldn’t.
An hour later, he pulls off the autostrada and stops at a petrol station, not because you need fuel, but because he insists on getting “proper” road trip snacks. You stand in the shade, sipping a lemon soda while he deliberates over crisps and biscuits like he’s choosing stocks.
When he comes back with three bags of food and a ridiculous pink slushie, you don’t even ask. You just shake your head and let him squish everything between the seats.
Back on the road, you’ve got salt on your lips from the chips, and Kenan’s trying to convince you that his slushie is delicious despite it being violently neon and obviously terrible.
“You just don’t understand flavour,” he says, eyes on the road.
“You don’t understand shame,” you reply, watching him take another mouthful like it doesn’t hurt his pride.
Eventually, the hills start to flatten out, and you know the coast isn’t far. The car grows quieter, the music dipping lower, and Kenan reaches over, fingers wrapping around yours without needing to say anything.
There’s always something about summer that makes him a little softer. He’s less guarded like this, with his shoulders loose and his thumb stroking the back of your hand on instinct. Like he forgets to keep up the cool, press-ready version of himself.
You watch him drive, his brows furrowed slightly even though he knows exactly where he’s going. His voice is low when he says, “You know, I kind of hate how short this drive is.”
“Why?” you ask, eyes half-lidded from the warmth and the sway of the road.
He squeezes your hand gently. “Because it feels good to go somewhere with you. Feels like we’ve got time.”
Your chest aches in that full, fizzy kind of way. You don’t say anything. Just lean over and kiss the side of his jaw while he drives, letting your nose rest against his shoulder for the last stretch of road.
By the time you reach the coast, the sea is glittering like a secret between you. The air smells like salt and sunscreen. He finds a spot to park high above the beach, and neither of you get out immediately.
“Few days of this,” he says quietly, “just us.”
You nod. “Perfect.”
He turns to look at you then, all sun-streaked hair and warm brown eyes.
summary: taking care of eric garcia, kenan yildiz, pablo gavi, pedri gonzalez, pau cubarsi, pau victor, marc guiu, noni madueke, ferran torres, lamine yamal, marc casado and hector fort while they're either injured or sick.
a/n: to celebrate 5,000 likes!
masterlist requests
genre: fluff/comfort.
warnings: some of them are sick with stomach bugs, nothing graphic though.
Hair rumpled, hoodie sleeves covering half his hands, nose red from constant blowing, he sniffled from the couch and looked at you like a sad, flu-ridden puppy.
“I don’t remember what it’s like to breathe through my nose,” he mumbled, voice all stuffed up.
You set down the tea and tissues with a soft smile. “You’ve had a cold for two days, cariño. Not a decade.”
He pouted, pulling the blanket up to his chin. “Feels like forever.”
You sat down beside him and he immediately rested his head in your lap, like it was the only place he wanted to be. You stroked his hair gently as he let out a tired sigh.
“Do I look gross?” he asked, blinking up at you.
“No,” you said. “You look like someone who needs sleep, soup, and maybe a new box of tissues.”
He gave a weak laugh. “You really know how to charm a guy.”
You leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “You’re still cute. Just slightly germier.”
Pedri grinned, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers moved slowly through his hair. “You’re the best,” he mumbled. “Even when I’m disgusting.”
“Especially when you’re disgusting,” you teased, your voice soft.
He gave a hum of contentment, already half-asleep.
And even with the sniffles, the blanket cocoon, and his red nose, you still thought he looked like sunshine.
Just slightly... congested.
Pau had been glaring at his crutches for the last ten minutes like they’d personally assaulted him.
“I hate this,” he muttered, shifting on the couch for the third time in two minutes. “I feel like a grumpy old man in my nineties.”
You set the ice pack back on his knee gently. “You’re eighteen and healing. You’ll survive.”
He didn’t look convinced. Arms crossed, brows furrowed, bottom lip stuck out — he was one more day of forced rest away from a full tantrum.
“It’s just annoying,” he grumbled. “I was finally getting into rhythm. Now I have to sit here while everyone else trains.”
You crouched beside the couch and rested your chin on the armrest. “Yeah, but if you don’t rest now, you’ll miss more. It’s short-term pain for long-term gain, remember?”
Pau sighed and glanced at you, frustration fading just slightly. “You sound like my physio.”
“Maybe. But I’m cuter than he is.”
That earned the smallest small. Progress.
“You want me to stay and annoy you with bad TV and snacks?” you offered.
He nodded almost immediately. “Don’t leave. I’ll just get more in my head.”
You got up, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and handed him the remote. “Fine. But you pick the movie. I picked last time, and you complained the whole way through.”
Pau cracked a smile, settling back with his knee propped up and your hand in his.
“Deal,” he said. “Just don’t leave.”
You didn’t plan to.
Ferran was sitting in the darkened living room, one hand pressed firmly against his temple, eyes closed tight.
The world outside was bright and noisy, but inside, his head throbbed with a relentless, pulsing pain.
He didn’t say much. He rarely did when the migraines hit, just sank into himself, waiting for it to pass.
You moved quietly to his side, pulling a soft blanket around his shoulders. “Hey, I made the room darker.”
He barely nodded, jaw clenched, trying not to wince when even the faintest sound echoed inside his skull.
You grabbed a cool, damp cloth and gently pressed it to his forehead. “I’m here,” you whispered.
Ferran’s hand found yours, gripping it tightly.
“I hate this part,” he admitted quietly. “Everything hurts - the light, the noise, even breathing.”
You squeezed his fingers. “I know. But you’re not alone.”
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of his slow breaths and your heartbeat.
“You don’t have to talk,” you said softly. “Just let me take care of you.”
He finally opened his eyes, still red-rimmed but grateful.
“Thanks,” he murmured.
You kissed his temple and settled beside him, hands laced together in the quiet darkness.
Lamine lay on the couch, wrapped in a thick blanket, his face pale with streaks of flushed redness across his cheeks and nose. His usual energy was gone, replaced by a sluggish heaviness that made even the smallest movements exhausting.
He coughed softly into a tissue, then looked up at you with tired, glassy eyes. “This is brutal,” he muttered, voice rough and low.
You didn’t say anything right away. Instead, you moved over and carefully tucked the blanket more securely around his shoulders. His body shivered despite the warmth.
“You’ve barely moved all day,” you observed quietly, setting down a small tray with a mug of tea and some honey on the side table. “You need to rest.”
Lamine’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t argue. He reached for the tea, blowing on it gently before taking a slow sip. The steam curled against his face, and you could see a flicker of relief cross his features.
You sat beside him, keeping your movements slow and deliberate so as not to startle him. When he shifted uncomfortably, you reached out, your hand resting lightly on his back. You rubbed small circles, trying to ease the tension.
“It’s weird,” he said after a moment, voice soft, “how being sick makes everything feel so much heavier and slower.”
You nodded, eyes on him. “I know. It’s like your body’s forcing you to pause.”
He gave a faint smile, then coughed again, his voice hoarse. You pulled the blanket up a little higher, making sure he was comfortable.
The room grew quieter, except for the soft hum of the heater and his steady breathing. You stayed close, not saying much, just present, offering the kind of comfort that didn’t need words.
Lamine’s eyes fluttered closed. “Thanks for sitting with me,” he said quietly.
You squeezed his hand gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m not sick,” Pau insisted, voice hoarse and completely unconvincing as he rubbed at his nose for the hundredth time.
You raised a brow. “Your nose is red, your eyes are watery, and I literally watched you sneeze six times in a row.”
“Coincidence,” he said stubbornly, reaching for his water and missing the coaster entirely.
You sighed and took the glass from him, setting it down safely. “You’re sick, Pau. Just accept it so I can take care of you properly.”
He leaned back against the couch with a groan, dragging the blanket higher over his chest. “I hate resting. I feel like I’m wasting time.”
“You’re letting your body heal. That’s not wasted.”
He gave you a tired half-smile, eyes soft. “You always know how to make everything sound better.”
You kissed his temple and handed him a warm mug of tea. “That’s because I am better. Nurse of the year.”
He chuckled weakly and took a sip, eyes fluttering closed at the warmth. “Mmm. Okay, maybe I’ll let you take care of me.”
“Maybe?” you teased. “I already am.”
He rested his head against your shoulder and tugged you a little closer, his voice quieter now. “Don’t leave me to be sick and sad alone.”
You wrapped an arm around him gently, letting him curl in. “Never. You’ve got me until that sniffle disappears.”
And even then, probably longer.
Eric looked absolutely miserable. He was buried under two blankets, hoodie strings pulled tight around his face like a sulky little marshmallow, sniffling pathetically every five minutes.
Eric looked absolutely miserable. He was buried under two blankets, hoodie strings pulled tight around his face like a sulky little marshmallow, sniffling pathetically every five minutes.
“I think this might be it,” he croaked, voice barely above a whisper. “Tell the team I went out bravely.”
You raised an eyebrow as you set a bowl of soup down on the coffee table. “You have a cold, not the plague.”
He peeked out from his hoodie dramatically. “You don’t know that. It feels fatal.”
You tried not to smile, truly. But it was hard to take him seriously when he looked like a child playing sick to skip school.
You walked over and gently touched his forehead. Warm, but nothing scary. Just enough to explain the whiny, clingy behavior. He leaned into your palm like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
“Do you want to try the soup?”
“If I have the strength,” he sighed.
You rolled your eyes and picked up the bowl. “Shall I just spoon-feed you then?” you ask sarcastically.
He grinned, barely, and opened his mouth obediently. “You’re the best nurse I’ve ever had.”
“You say that every time you’re sick.”
“Because it’s true,” he whispered dramatically, before coughing into his sleeve.
You pressed a kiss to his temple. “You’ll survive, drama king.”
“I’ll try,” he muttered, snuggling deeper into the blankets. “Only because I still haven’t watched the last episode of that show with you.”
Pablo looked like death warmed over. Pale, sweaty, hair a mess, and still, somehow, he was arguing with you about staying in bed.
“I’m fine,” he croaked, trying to sit up straighter. “I just need a shower and some food. I’ll be good as new.”
“You’re literally shaking, Pablo,” you said, pressing a cool, damp cloth to his forehead. “You’re not going anywhere.”
He huffed and flopped back against the pillows, eyes fluttering closed. “I hate this. I hate feeling useless.”
You softened a little, running your fingers through his hair, brushing the damp strands away from his forehead.
“You’re not useless,” you said gently. “You’re just human. Even the great Pablo Gavi gets fevers sometimes.”
He cracked one eye open. “Don’t say that out loud. You’ll ruin my image.”
You laughed and leaned down to kiss his cheek, your lips cool against his warm skin. “Your image is safe. Nobody else sees this soft, whiny side of you.”
“I’m not whiny,” he muttered, but he didn’t fight you when you tucked the blankets tighter around him. He actually leaned into it, tired, vulnerable, a little boyish in the way he curled up when you sat beside him.
“Get some sleep,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I’ll be right here.”
His fingers found yours beneath the blanket.
“Good,” he whispered. “You make everything feel better.”
Noni was trying so hard to act like his injured shoulder was no big deal.
“Just a tweak,” he said, wincing as he tried to reach for the TV remote.
You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “You call that ‘just a tweak’? You’re barely moving your arm.”
He shrugged, flashing a grin. “I’m fine. It’s just a little sore.”
You weren’t buying it. You eased closer and gently lifted his arm. “Let me see it.”
He flinched but didn’t pull away.
“I’m glad that I’m here,” you said softly. “Otherwise, you’d probably keep trying to play through this and make it worse.”
Noni sighed, finally settling back into the couch cushions. “I hate being sidelined.”
“I know,” you said, wrapping your fingers around his. “But you’re not invincible, no matter how much you pretend.”
He looked at you with a mock glare but then smiled. “Fine. So what’s the plan?”
“First,” you said, reaching for the ice pack, “you’re going to stay right here and let me take care of you.”
He groaned dramatically, but you caught the smile that slipped through.
“You’re impossible,” he muttered.
“But I’m your nurse.”
He gave your hand a gentle squeeze. “Best nurse ever.”
Marc wasn’t the type to complain.
So when you walked into the living room and saw him sitting stiffly on the floor with a bag of frozen peas strapped to his knee, you knew it had to be bad.
“Marc,” you said slowly, setting your bag down, “what happened?”
He gave you a sheepish look and shrugged. “Collision in training. It’s not a big deal.”
“Then why are you icing it with frozen peas?”
“Because I couldn’t find the proper pack and I didn’t want to get up again.”
You blinked. “You’ve just been sitting here? On the floor?”
He nodded.
“For how long?”
Marc glanced at the clock, then winced. “...An hour?”
“Oh my god.” You crouched in front of him. “You big idiot.”
“I didn’t want to make it worse,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “I didn’t know if I should bend it or not. So I just... didn’t move.”
You couldn’t help the laugh that came out of you, even as you gently pried the peas off his leg. “You’re the most stubborn guyI’ve ever met.”
“I didn’t want to bug anyone.”
You looked up at him, heart softening. “You’re not bugging me. Ever.”
He looked almost relieved as you helped him up and guided him to the couch. When you tossed the peas aside and pressed a kiss to his cheek, he finally smiled.
“Thanks,” he murmured, resting back with a sigh. “Next time I’ll text you before I turn to frozen vegetables.”
Marc was curled up on the couch, his injured knee resting on a pillow beside him, leg brace on. He looked a bit restless, but when you settled next to him, his expression softened.
Without saying a word, you scooted closer and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He leaned into you, eyes closing for a moment as he sighed quietly.
“I don’t like being stuck like this,” he admitted, voice low.
You pressed a gentle kiss to his temple. “I know. But maybe it’s okay to slow down for a bit.”
Marc shifted carefully, then rested his head against your chest. You tightened your hold, fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns over his arm.
The room was calm, the only sounds the quiet hum of the heater and his steady breathing.
“You’re really good at this,” he murmured, half-smiling.
“Being your human pillow?” you teased softly.
He chuckled, the tension in his body easing. “Exactly that.”
For a while, you stayed like that, tangled up and warm, letting the rest of the world wait while Marc took the time to heal, wrapped safely in your arms.
The bathroom light was still on when you padded down the hallway. The door was open slightly, and you found Héctor hunched over the toilet, one hand gripping the edge of the porcelain bowl, the other pressed against his forehead.
You crouched beside him wordlessly, tying his hair back loosely with the band you'd kept on your wrist. He flinched when another wave hit, and you stayed beside him, steady, rubbing slow circles on his back as he threw up again.
When it passed, he slumped back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing shaky.
“I didn’t think it’d hit me this hard,” he mumbled, voice hoarse.
You grabbed a cool washcloth and pressed it gently to his neck. “Stomach bugs don’t mess around. Just breathe, okay?”
He nodded slightly, swallowing hard. You got up to fetch a glass of water and knelt again to hand it to him.
“Small sips,” you said softly, watching as he took one, then another, slow and careful.
After a few minutes, when the worst had passed, you helped him to his feet and guided him back to bed. He looked pale and drained, arms loose around your waist as you settled him under the blanket.
“You don’t have to stay,” he whispered as you sat beside him.
“I know,” you murmured, brushing damp hair off his forehead. “But I’m staying anyway.”
He didn’t respond, just shifted closer and let his eyes close, finally letting himself rest.
Kenan was the worst at sitting still.
He’d been injured for just a few days, a light ankle sprain, nothing detrimental, but you’d think someone had banned football forever by the way he sulked around the apartment.
“This sucks,” he mumbled, tossing the remote onto the couch as he shifted uncomfortably. “I feel useless.”
You walked in with a heat pack and a bowl of grapes, setting them both down beside him. “You’re not useless. You’re healing. That’s, like, the most productive thing you could be doing.”
He gave you a pout, tugging the hood of his hoodie up like he was trying to hide. “I’m so bored. I miss training. I miss the ball. I even miss the gym.”
You laughed as you sat down beside him and propped his leg across your lap. “Wow, it is bad if you miss the gym.”
“Tell me something to take my mind off it,” he said, turning toward you with his head against the cushions.
You hummed, brushing your fingers over his knee gently. “Did I tell you how hot you look limping around like a broody action hero?”
That got a chuckle out of him. “No, but keep going.”
You leaned in, kissed the edge of his jaw. “You’re the most annoying patient I’ve ever had.”
Hi! I know this is super cringe but could you do a reader x Kenan where she prank him by cleaning the fork after he eats (they sharing food) and when he get confused she says that she's cleaning his saliva, then he get annoyed and kiss her to prove that they already share
Obs: sorry for the writting, english its not my language
saliva.
masterlist requests word count: 700
a/n: this is like kinda cringe but oh well lol
genre: fluff/kinda suggestive
warnings: they kiss lol
summary: kenan gets annoyed by a prank you pull on him.
You’re curled up on the couch beside Kenan, both of you halfway through the pasta you made together, which mostly means you cooked while he stood behind you with his arms around your waist, pretending to help and stealing bites the entire time.
The plate is balanced between you two. One fork. That’s all you need.
Or so he thinks.
Kenan stabs another mouthful, twirls it around with way too much skill, and lifts it to his mouth. His focus is completely on the TV. You wait until he’s done chewing, grab the fork casually, and give it a long, dramatic wipe with a napkin.
He glances at you.
You wipe it again.
And then again.
He blinks, confused. “Did I get sauce on it?”
You sigh like you’re already tired of this conversation. “No, I’m cleaning it.”
Kenan raises an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because you just had your mouth on it.”
He stares at you like you’ve personally offended him. “Yeah? And?”
“I don’t want your saliva on my fork,” you say sweetly, giving it one last, completely unnecessary polish.
“You’re joking.”
You shake your head.
Kenan turns toward you fully, mouth open. “We just kissed like twenty minutes ago.”
“Exactly,” you say, nodding seriously. “So I’ve had enough exposure for the day.”
“You literally kissed me before I brushed my teeth this morning.”
“That was love. This is hygiene.”
He blinks twice. “Love.”
“What?”
“We share food. All the time.”
“But now I’m thinking about your spit. It’s gross.”
He looks so deeply betrayed it almost breaks you. Almost.
“You know what?” he mutters, setting the plate down on the table. “Fine.”
You grin. Victory is sweet.
Or that is, until he suddenly shifts forward, grabs your face, and kisses you full on the mouth before you can even make a noise.
It’s not a soft kiss. It’s like he’s on a mission. A dramatic, petty, over-the-top mission. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to win something.
You shove at his shoulder, laughing into his mouth. “Kenan!”
He pulls back just enough to speak. “If we’re sharing saliva, we’re doing it properly.”
You try to squirm away, still giggling, but he holds you firm. “I’m proving a point,” he says, brushing his nose against yours.
“What’s the point? That you’re gross?”
He kisses you again. “That you’re mine. So fork rules don’t apply.”
“You’re so dramatic,” you mumble, slightly breathless.
He grins. “Only for you.”
You roll your eyes and flop back against the cushions, arms crossed, trying to hold your ground. “Fine. But now you’ve contaminated me.”
Kenan raises both eyebrows. “Contaminated?”
“I’ve been kissed by a mouth that was just eating garlic.”
He shrugs. “And you liked it.”
You cover your face with your hands. “You’re out to get me.”
“No,” he says, tugging your hands away gently. “This is your payback for making me feel like a walking biohazard.”
You pout up at him, dramatic as ever. “I was just teasing.”
“You wiped the fork three times,” he says, laughing now.
“It was funny.”
“It was disrespectful.”
You grin. “You kissed me about it.”
“And I’ll do it again.”
“Threat or promise?”
Kenan leans in until your noses touch. “Promise.”
You kiss him this time, soft and slow, letting the joke fade into something warm and familiar. His hands settle on your waist, steady and safe, and you both exhale at the same time like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.
When you finally pull away, he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear and says, “I’m still offended, though.”
“Want me to make it up to you?”
He smiles. “You can start by giving me the fork back so I can eat the rest of that pasta.”
You snort. “You want me to hand-feed you the food you just made me disinfect?”
“Obviously.”
“You’re such a diva, Kenan.”
You roll your eyes and grab the fork, twirling up a bite before holding it out to him like you’re feeding royalty. He leans forward and takes it happily, eyes locked on yours the whole time.
Would u be able to write something about Kenan and his turkish squad playing against the readers nationality squad (if u can just write x country). And Turkey wins, so now Kenan has to make up for it (maybe spicy). But also the reader supporting both teams!
thank you :)
For Tonight, You’re Mine
Pairing:Kenan Yıldız x Reader
Word Count:1918
Request open!
Kenan Yildiz Masterlist | Football Masterlist | Football Masterlist II
Juventus Masterlist
“You can’t expect me to sit here calmly.”
You turn your head from where you’re standing in the kitchen, half-wrapped in a Romania scarf and half in a Turkey one, and look at Kenan like he’s being ridiculous on purpose.
“I am sitting calmly,” you say.
He leans against the counter in your apartment, arms folded over his chest, still in his training hoodie from earlier because he had come over straight after the match. “You are absolutely not calm.”
You glance down at the mixed scarf around your neck and shrug. “I am supporting both teams. That is calm.”
Kenan gives you a look. “You had a mini panic attack when I walked into the room with my Turkey jacket.”
“That was not a panic attack.”
“It was a panic attack.”
“It was a moment of national confusion.”
Kenan laughs under his breath, but it dies quickly when he sees the expression on your face soften into that concentrated, game-finished disappointment you have been trying not to show since the final whistle.
Turkey had won.
He knew you were proud of him. He knew you had cheered for Romania too, because that was your team, your roots, your family, the part of you that would always beat in one language. You had watched the whole match with your hands clasped together so tightly your knuckles turned white, and when Turkey scored, you had gone silent for half a second before exhaling and saying, very politely, “Well, I hate that for us.”
Kenan had looked at you, then looked away, because if he had looked too long he might have started smiling in a way that would absolutely make you suspicious.
Now, back at your apartment, it’s quieter. The adrenaline is still there, but the noise has settled. The match is over. The stadium is far away. The result is real.
And Kenan is standing in your kitchen looking guilty in a way that is almost unfairly attractive.
You point a finger at him. “Do not start with the smug face.”
“I’m not smug.”
“You’re Turkish and you won.”
“That sounds like a reason to be smug.”
You cross your arms. “It does not help your case that you are smiling.”
He takes one step toward you. “You were cheering for both.”
“Yes.”
“And you were very sweet about it.”
“That’s called being emotionally mature.”
He hums. “Mm. Or conflicted.”
You throw a kitchen towel at him. He catches it with one hand and grins.
“You were adorable,” he says.
You narrow your eyes. “Don’t call me adorable after your team beat mine.”
“Our team.”
You give him a long, flat look. “I am aware you are trying to make that sound romantic.”
“It is romantic.”
“It is irritating.”
“Same thing,” he says.
You stare at him for a second longer, then your face breaks despite your effort not to let it. “I really do hate that you won.”
Kenan’s smile changes immediately. Softer now. Less teasing.
“I know.”
“You’re supposed to say you’re sorry.”
“I am sorry,” he says, though his tone is clearly not sorry enough to satisfy you.
You point at him again. “No. Try harder.”
He steps closer and lowers his voice. “I’m sorry Romania lost.”
Your eyes narrow. “That still sounds suspiciously like you’re enjoying this.”
Kenan’s mouth twitches. “Maybe a little.”
You gasp dramatically. “There it is.”
He laughs and reaches for your waist, but you dodge him and move around the counter.
“No,” you say, making a face. “You don’t get to touch me and celebrate the destruction of my happiness.”
“Destruction is a dramatic word.”
“It is an accurate word.”
Kenan leans on the counter and watches you with that expression that always gets you, the one that says he is listening to the argument but also enjoying every second of your attitude.
“You were very cute before the match,” he says.
You fold your arms harder. “I was stressed.”
“You kept bouncing your leg.”
“That’s a normal human response.”
“You bit your lip every time Romania had the ball.”
“I care.”
“You nearly screamed when they had that chance in the second half.”
You glare. “I did scream.”
“And then you apologized to the television.”
You freeze. “That is private information.”
Kenan’s grin widens. “You apologized to the television.”
“It was a respectful apology.”
He laughs fully now, and the sound softens the room around you.
For a second, you want to stay mad. You do. You want to hold onto your pride and your country and your annoyance that his team won and yours didn’t. But the truth is that you have always been weak for Kenan when he’s like this,half teasing, half warm, all attention on you.
You sigh and look away first.
Kenan catches it immediately. “Hey.”
You glance back.
His expression has shifted again. “You’re actually sad.”
“It’s not sad,” you say. “It’s just,” You shrug. “I wanted Romania to do well.”
“I know.”
“And I wanted you to do well too.”
“I know that too.”
You look at him for a long moment, then ask quietly, “Are you going to let me be grumpy for a little while?”
Kenan’s voice softens. “As long as I get to make it up to you later.”
That makes your pulse jump in a way you definitely do not want to discuss.
You narrow your eyes. “Define ‘make it up.’”
He looks at you steadily, now fully aware he has your attention. “I was thinking dinner. Maybe dessert. Maybe convincing you that I’m not the enemy.”
You huff a laugh. “You are absolutely the enemy.”
“I’m your enemy?”
“Tonight? Yes.”
Kenan steps closer until he’s only a few inches away, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip.
“That can be arranged.”
Your breath catches. “That sounded threatening.”
“It was supposed to.”
You stare at him, the room suddenly warmer than it was a minute ago.
Kenan lifts a hand and gently brushes your scarf aside where it’s falling off your shoulder. His fingers graze your skin. Small touch. Careful touch. But it still sends a little spark through you.
“You know,” he murmurs, “you looked so pretty watching the match.”
You swallow. “That sounds like you’re trying to distract me.”
“It is distracting you.”
“You’re being obvious.”
“I don’t care.”
The way he says it is so casual, so certain, that your knees almost feel weak out of sheer annoyance.
You tilt your head. “You don’t care that you won?”
He smiles slowly. “I care that you were watching.”
You hold his gaze, suddenly very aware of how close he is, how the apartment has gone quiet, how the only thing left between you is the tension that always seems to show up when you’re both trying not to give in first.
“Kenen,” you say softly, using the tone you know he notices.
“Yes?”
“Are you trying to flirt with a sore loser?”
He lets out a low laugh. “You are not a sore loser.”
“I am absolutely a sore loser.”
“No,” he says, leaning in just slightly. “You’re my girlfriend who was brave enough to support both teams even when one of them hurt her feelings.”
You blink at that.
His voice goes even softer. “That’s very attractive, by the way.”
Your cheeks warm immediately. “You are impossible.”
“Mm,” he hums. “And you’re still standing there.”
You open your mouth, but whatever argument you were about to make disappears when he gently hooks one finger under the scarf at your neck and draws you closer by it, carefully, like he’s not forcing anything, just inviting.
“Kenan,” you whisper.
He stops instantly. “Too much?”
You shake your head, your voice quieter now. “No. Just…”
“Just what?”
You look at him, then away, then back again. “You won and you’re being annoying about it.”
His smile turns devastatingly warm. “Yes.”
“And you’re very handsome for someone who’s acting like this.”
He exhales a laugh. “There you are.”
“You’re smug again.”
“I am,” he says. “A little.”
You sigh dramatically, but you’re smiling now too despite yourself.
Kenan catches it and looks almost triumphant. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“That you wouldn’t stay mad.”
“I can stay mad.”
“You can?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Because right now you’re looking at me like you’re considering whether to argue or kiss me.”
You freeze.
Then glare at him. “You’re unbearable.”
He tilts his head. “And?”
You stare for another second before the fight leaves you all at once. “And maybe I’m not that mad anymore.”
Kenan’s eyes soften immediately, like that was the answer he had been waiting for the whole time.
“Good.”
You point at him one last time, even though your voice has lost half its bite. “But Romania still deserved better.”
“Of course.”
“And Turkey got lucky.”
He smiles. “Absolutely.”
“And if you say anything smug,”
He leans in and cuts you off with a kiss.
It’s not rushed. It’s not hungry in the way you might have expected after the match. It’s slower than that, warmer than that, the kind of kiss that says he knows you’re still holding onto your pride and he likes that about you too much to tease it out of you any further.
When he pulls back, you blink at him, startled and suddenly very aware of the way his hand is resting at your waist.
“Was that your apology?” you ask.
Kenan’s mouth curves. “No.”
You squint. “Then what was it?”
He brushes his thumb gently along your side, eyes on yours. “That was me reminding you that you can be mad at me and still let me be nice to you.”
Your breath catches at how easily he says things like that, like he knows exactly what they do to you.
You try for sarcasm, but your voice comes out softer than intended. “And what if I don’t want you to be nice?”
His eyes darken just a little, enough to make your pulse jump.
“Then I’ll have to try harder,” he says.
You look at him, heart starting to beat too fast for a simple football argument.
“Kenan.”
He hums. “Yes?”
“You are very distracting.”
He smiles in that slow, reckless way that makes it clear he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“That,” he says, kissing your forehead this time, “was the point.”
You laugh despite yourself and push lightly at his chest. “You’re lucky I love you.”
His face softens at once. “I know.”
Then, with a look that is far too pleased for someone who just beat your team, he adds, “And I’ll make it up to you properly.”
Your stomach flips. “You already said that.”
“I mean it this time.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Dinner?”
He steps closer again, lowering his voice until it feels like it belongs only to the space between you.
“Dinner,” he says, “dessert, and whatever comes after that if you’re still feeling like punishing me.”
You exhale a shaky laugh. “You really are impossible.”
“Mm,” he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. “But you’re still here.”
And because he is right, and because you are weak for him at the best of times, you let him pull you closer.
Tonight, Turkey won.
Tonight, Romania lost.
But in your kitchen, with Kenan’s hands at your waist and his mouth against yours, it suddenly feels less like defeat and more like a promise that he is absolutely going to spend the rest of the night making up for it.
You just hadn’t realized how badly you were testing him until now, when your legs were trembling, your face was buried into the mattress, and Kenan was holding your hips like they were the only thing keeping him alive.
“Still want to be a brat?” he asked lowly, voice thick with that heat he only got when he was three orgasms deep into ruining you.
You moaned, no answer, just a shaky exhale and a handful of sheets in your fists.
He leaned down over your back, breath hot at your ear. “Didn’t think so.”
It had started with the teasing. All day long
Wearing his jersey with no bra under it when his teammates were over. Bending to grab the water bottle with a smile that was way too smug. Sitting on his lap with no warning and whispering “I’m not wearing anything underneath” while they were still watching TV.
And now you were like this.
Wrecked.
⸻
It started in the kitchen.
He had you up on the counter, legs spread, tongue working you over until you came twice, his grip never gentle, his mouth never soft. By the time he finally stood and undid his belt, you were already crying.
“Thought you could act like that all day and not get punished?” he asked, voice tight as he pressed the tip of his cock against your soaked entrance. “You were asking for this.”
You whined, thighs twitching. “Kenan, please—”
“No. You’re gonna take everything I give you.”
Then he pushed in. Deep. Slow. Purposeful.
You let out a choked sob at the stretch full, completely, from the start.
He was so deep, it felt like he was carved into your bones.
He gave you a moment, just one, then gripped your thighs and slammed into you again.
You nearly screamed.
“Look at that,” he growled. “Already crying for me. And we’ve barely started.”
⸻
He didn’t stop.
Not when he carried you to the bed and flipped you over, face-down, ass-up, back arched the way he loved you.
Not when he dragged your body back onto his cock like he couldn’t stand to be even an inch out of you.
“Feel that, baby?” he asked, voice hoarse. “How deep I am?”
You nodded helplessly, drool on your lips, eyes glazed.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect like this,” he muttered. “So tight. So wet. All for me.”
He grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled your head back, just enough to hear your little gasps.
“I’m gonna ruin you,” he promised. “You’re not walking tomorrow.”
You moaned. “Please.”
That made him growl. Actually growl.
“You want it rough? You want me to fuck you stupid?”
You whimpered. “Yes, Kenan—”
So he did.
He pounded into you with a rhythm that bordered on cruel, every stroke punching the air out of your lungs.
He didn’t let up, not even when your legs started shaking, not even when you sobbed out his name.
“Such a fuckin’ slut,” he panted. “You love it. Look at you, taking everything like a good girl.”
Your orgasm hit hard, thighs locking, toes curling, body arching as you came around him with a cry.
He didn’t stop.
“Again,” he growled. “One more.”
You shook your head, but your body betrayed you. again and again, until tears streamed down your cheeks and you couldn’t think straight.
And still he wasn’t done.
⸻
By the time he finally let you breathe, his hand was stroking your back, slow and steady. He was still deep inside you, warm and throbbing, panting against your neck.
“You took it all,” he whispered, voice suddenly soft, like the animal in him had finally been sated. “So good for me. My perfect girl.”
You whimpered, nearly boneless beneath him.
He kissed your shoulder. “I know. I know, baby. I got you.”
He finally pulled out slowly, and you cried out again. empty, sore, wrecked.
He kissed your temple. “You okay?”
You nodded. Couldn’t speak. Just nodded.
He gently rolled you onto your back, then picked you up like nothing, carried you to the shower, ran the warm water, whispered praise as he cleaned you up, washed your hair, kissed your thighs.
He massaged your sore legs with that damn smug look still lingering on his lips.
“You’re gonna feel me for days,” he said proudly, rubbing slow circles into your inner thighs.
“I can’t even move,” you mumbled, barely able to keep your eyes open.
He kissed your knee. “That’s the point.”
⸻
You could barely stand when he helped you into his hoodie, and even that was slow.
Every step you took was shaky.
When you finally made it to the bed and collapsed into it, Kenan laid behind you, pulled you against his chest, and whispered,
“Tomorrow morning, when you’re sore and whining, just remember who made you like that.”
You elbowed him weakly.
He laughed and kissed your jaw. “Still love me?”
“Too much,” you whispered, already drifting off.
He pulled the covers over both of you, arms wrapped tight around your waist.
“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
content: , soft domestic boyfriend energy, gentle teasing, provocation, fluff, warm cuddles, explicit sexual content, passionate, time of quality and love words affirmation
She felt the saltiness of the sea water on her skin as she enjoyed the sun's tan on her body. It was a refreshing feeling, but not more refreshing than looking at Kenan and realizing how well the sun's kiss had fallen on him.
"Did you like it?" Her hands embraced the taller man's waist and her feet stood on tiptoe to rest her head on his shoulder. There was no answer, but she heard the sound of his laughter.
His body was warm and smelled of the sea, that was definitely her favorite sight. It was involuntary when her lips kissed his shoulders and her hands held him tighter.
He felt the warmth of her lips against his skin, it was so relaxing that he threw his head back just to enjoy them. Her kisses grew hotter and were not restricted to his shoulders, they moved up his neck, migrated to his throat and finally settled on his lips.
He loved the feeling his kisses caused in his body, he felt a flame ignite in his core and spread quickly throughout his body, and it would only be extinguished when you were satisfied with him.
Kenan's hands couldn't contain themselves and wandered over her body, the flame burning in him also burning her. It was so intense, she needed him now, her fingers ran down his neck to pull him closer to her, her touch was the permission he needed to make her his.
Her kiss tasted of desire with sea salt, your fingers drummed on him and your tongue danced with his.
"I know what you want." Her eyes may have been closed, but she felt him smile against her lips. She had memorized every detail of every expression he had.
"You know?" Her lips formed a smile and her hands reached for his neck.
When it came to her desires and longings, Kenan was a permissive man. Everything she longed for became a desire for him, so if she desired him, she would have him.
His hands caressed her legs and then pulled her up, where they clung to his hips.
You would be his through the night and into the early hours, and if you wanted, he would also be yours in the morning.
Your nails played with his short hair, which was difficult to pull but great to caress. Your lips desperately needed his, you wanted to bite them, deposit the most loving and wet kisses on them, and hear the most greedy moans from them.
Kenan's fingers played with the bottom of your bikini, it was so small and at the same time kept him so far away from you, he wrapped the side straps of your bikini around his fingers just to pull and see how much resistance there would be.
"Don't be cruel," you said, squeezing his cheeks and seeing that Machiavellian face contrast with the cheating hand that teased you.
"I would never be cruel to you," his tone was firm, which meant he could spend the night playing with you or fuck you right there, it all depended on how much you needed him. Your body was so exposed to him and yet so covered, he wanted you naked, dressed only in his desire.
His fingers ran down her back and untied the knot that held her top in place. He saw her breasts dance over his and her still damp skin touch his dry skin. He loved it, it was bigger than him, his lips couldn't resist her bare breasts right there in front of him. Kenan devoured them like a hungry man as he carried her to the bedroom.
You, dressed only in panties, were the sight of paradise for him and the same that would condemn him to hell. You were his sin.
It was fun to see her hands trying to pull his short hair while his lips feasted on her breasts, which were perfect for him. She tasted of the sea and lust. Her legs closed around his hips, wanting more, much more than just the sensitivity of her breasts.
Your breasts were completely hardened and extremely stimulated when the taller one finished. They ached from the excessive stimulation. You could feel a shock through your body just from the wind touching you, but Kenan's kisses didn't stop there. They went down even wetter on your belly. The further down he went, the more you felt your clitoris begging for him. It was inevitable.
Taking off her swimsuit bottoms with his mouth was what Yildiz had planned most during the day since he saw her wearing them. He wanted to go slow enough to make her squirm beneath him. His lips slowly moved up her feet and legs. It was like torture. She wanted him now. But when he reached her intimacy, she felt his hot breath against her, the provocative kisses on her groin. It felt so good that she was in heaven in no time.
Her nails scratched the wood of the bed frame while her legs rested on Kenan's shoulder, the only thing she could see were his greedy eyes, and they looked so good there. His fingers played with her clitoris, alternating between circular movements and squeezing it, and his tongue enjoyed her pussy. She felt her body combust with the sensation and her legs trembled until they lost strength. When Kenan climbed on top of her with that greedy smile and victorious look, she gave him the wettest of kisses, but his ambition didn't stop there. He didn't want just a kiss, he wanted everything she could give him. His left hand took your right hand and led it to his length. He knew exactly what he wanted, and you were a horny woman, making your desire to touch him there clear.
Your hands squeezed the taller man's member, causing him to let out a gasp of desire. That feeling of pent-up desire, of wanting to be inside you, soon made him even more excited, turning him into a needy man. Soon Kenan's kisses were sprinkling your neck as you touched him, your hands constricting his cock and feeling it harden. But you wanted more, you didn't just want to touch him, you wanted to kiss him where he needed it most, but your hands let go of his cock and its length missed the warm touch.
"Babe, please," the sound of his voice was drawn out, almost lazy.
You didn't answer, you just smiled, not a kind smile, it was machiavellian, almost bordering on lust. He knew that look, you were ready to make him know heaven, but first you would make him crawl.
Your lips played with Kenan's, and his hands ran down your back and caressed the nape of your neck, but you wanted more, you were greedy for desire. Your kisses trailed down his neck and your teeth scratched his stomach. Even before you touched him, your eagerness was already driving him wild, but when you reached the waistband of his shorts, Kenan's hands grabbed your hair in a ponytail. You wanted that.
Your nails scratched his skin as you pulled down his shorts, but there were still his underwear. You didn't seem concerned, though. On the contrary, you kissed his cock through the fabric. He loved that feeling. Soon he saw you pull down his underwear, and finally felt Kenan's length, hard and throbbing, in need.
When you kissed him on the tip of his head, Kenan leaned back. It had been barely 24 hours since he had been inside you, and his body begged for more. Your lips slowly descended on him and your tongue wrapped around him, his hands gripped your curls, he wanted more. Immediately your mouth teased his cock, those back and forth movements, your tongue wrapping around him and your eyes staring at him like a doe, how could you be so dirty and look at him with the sweetest eyes?
Kenan couldn't take it much longer, not when she was killing him with pleasure. He felt his cock touching her throat and his hand pulled her hair reflexively. He was going to cum. He felt his cock throbbing inside his mouth, it was too much, it tasted like sea water and citrus fruits, it was too much and he couldn't swallow, and then he felt his eyes water and his nails scratch his hips.
He had come, but his desire had not passed, nor had his cock softened. When your face rose to Kenan's height, he noticed her moist, reddened mouth, teary eyes, and rosy cheeks, which aroused him and increased his desire.
His hands pulled her by the waist and he could finally taste her in his mouth. It was so good, the feeling of lust grew inside him and his length yearned for her.
Their bodies were pressed together, lips on lips, her breasts against his chest, and most importantly, her hips against his, which meant her intimacy aligned with his. It was involuntary on her part, and she soon began to grind against Kenan. Her body was boiling, and her hair stood on end, but rubbing wasn't enough. She wanted him inside her.
However, Kenan had other plans. He wanted to go slow and deep, so he laid her down on the bed.
"Today, I'm the one who's going to drive you wild." Her hands spread her legs wider for him, and his lips played with the curve of her neck.
Kenan loved the classic style, mom and dad, it was his favorite when it came to passionate sex.
He didn't just want to fuck, it might sound silly, but he wanted to make love, he wanted to claim her for himself just like all the other times, but this time he wanted to leave more marks, make her come more. His fingers played with her hair while his cock sank into her and her legs wrapped around Kenan's hips. She felt the base of his cock rubbing against her clitoris every time he sank into her.
Her moans were sly, Kenan loved to hear them, especially close to his ears. He could also feel her back burning from the contact with his fingernail, but now the pleasure was greater, the marks would have to wait until tomorrow.
"Kenan, please," her voice was so drawn out that it was intense enough to make Kenan want to go deeper. "Please," he loved hearing her sound so needy for him.
"If you keep talking like that, you're going to make me come inside you." Kenan's naughty tone, along with her desire to excite him even more, made her moan more seductively in his ear. If the fact that he came inside her depended on her teasing him in his ear, then she would do it all night long. Her moans were louder, more seductive, and more needy for him. Kenan wasn't strong enough, not when he was being wrapped up in the heat of your pussy and suffocated by it, and your moans were driving him crazy. He could feel his cock throbbing inside you.
His length felt heavy inside you, compressed by your heat, and the curve of your neck seemed perfect for him to rest his head on as he neared climax. His hands weighed heavily on your hair for the second time that night, and your legs wrapped around him so tightly that it was impossible to pull away.
Your body tingled with every movement Kenan made, and soon you felt your intimacy ache with so much pleasure. Kenan's body was burning, he was so delirious with pleasure that he could barely speak, only guttural moans came out of his mouth, he was heavy, his body warning him that he would come soon.
"Babe," she said, sounding more slurred than the first time, drunk with pleasure. She felt her legs tremble around Kenan and her pussy cum.
He couldn't do it, her pussy was sucking his energy, he felt her contract around him and her legs tremble around his waist.
The feeling of being heavy and coming inside you was the best feeling of all, he weighed on you and you felt full.
Even tired, he still had the energy to kiss your lips, it was slow and even though he was exhausted, there was enthusiasm, it was a mixture of flavors: there was your flavor, Kenan's flavor, and the flavor of the sea.
It was warm, comfortable, and soft to be inside you “we could stay like this all night” it wasn't a question, Kenan wanted that, he wanted to spend the night inside you, not just sexually, but intimately, he wanted to be so inside you that he could feel your heart beating and your blood flowing.
"We need a bath, babe," you replied, holding his shoulders.
He didn't want to bathe, he wanted to enjoy you, he wanted to delight in you, he wanted to spend the night enjoying you.
Kenan lifted his head to look at her better, his eyes were tender, and his face was sweaty from the Mediterranean climate and sex.
"What?" His eyes were so warm that it scared you. It was the same Kenan who had been fucking you a few minutes ago, but now he was a different person.
"Just admiring you." The outside of his hand caressed her cheeks. She loved that touch, her eyes closed in response to that gesture, it was so tender. "You are so beautiful." The hand that had caressed her face now played with the strands of hair stuck to it. He couldn't stay away from her, nor could his lips stay away from her face. His mouth sprinkled her face with kisses, they were affectionate, almost bordering on adoration. "I love you so fucking much, you know." She would never get used to his "I love yous," they always made her heart race and her face flush.
“Me too” Kenan hated hearing "me too" when he said he loved you, and a frown immediately appeared on his face “I love you” and the grumpy expression disappeared from his face and a kind Kenan reappeared “I love you so much” he wanted to hug you, kiss you, and show you all the love he could
His lips sipped yours again. It was a kiss of love, not only that, but of all the good feelings he had for you. He wanted to convey that he was yours, but then you felt something stir inside you.
During the kiss, Kenan felt a smile spreading across his face, knowing that you had felt him harden again.
"That's what happens when you love someone," he said, trying to defend himself for his hard cock inside you again.
You didn't want to talk, you just wanted to feel Kenan pouring his love over you, and Kenan wanted to pour his love over you. It would be a long night.
Can you write one for Kenan Yildiz where he's obssessed with reader lips and always kiss her every time he can
obsessed.
masterlist requests word count: 1080
a/n: this is like kinda cringe but also kinda cute so we're just going with it lol
genre: fluff
warnings: i mean, they kiss a lot, but nothing graphic.
summary: kenan is obsessed with your lips.
You can feel him watching you again.
It's not new, not even surprising anymore. You’re used to the way his gaze always lingers on you like he’s trying to memorize every detail. But it’s different when it’s your lips. He stares with this quiet kind of intensity that makes it hard to keep a straight face.
You’re sitting on the couch in his apartment, tucked into the corner with a hoodie that definitely doesn’t belong to you. It’s one of his, oversized and worn soft at the sleeves, smelling like whatever cologne he spritzed on hours ago. You’ve got your legs pulled up, blanket over your lap, and you’re trying to focus on the movie playing on the TV.
Kenan is not helping.
At first, it’s subtle. His thumb traces along your hand, then your wrist, until his fingers are grazing your jaw. You glance at him, catching his eyes drop to your mouth again, and you let out a breathy laugh.
“You’re doing it again,” you tease.
His lips curve up into a slow smile, like he’s not even gonna try denying it. “Can’t help it,” he says simply, voice low, a little amused. “You make it impossible.”
You roll your eyes, though your cheeks go warm. “It’s just a mouth.”
He shakes his head like you’ve offended him. “It’s your mouth.”
“Oh, well. That explains everything,” you say dryly, but he just leans in like you’ve laid down an open invitation.
The kiss is soft. He always starts soft, like he wants to take his time, like he’s trying to savor something. And even though he’s kissed you a thousand times by now, each one still feels kind of sacred. Like he’s reminding himself that you’re real.
He pulls back after a moment, resting his forehead against yours. “I missed you today.”
“You saw me this morning,” you say, laughing a little, even though your heart does this dumb fluttery thing.
“Too long ago,” he murmurs, kissing you again, barely a brush this time. “And you wore that stupid lip balm that makes me think about you all day.”
Your laugh catches in your throat. “So now it’s the lip balm’s fault?”
“Mhm,” he hums with zero hesitation, and you bury your face into his shoulder to hide the smile threatening to take over.
This isn’t a one-time thing, either. You’ve caught onto his pattern.
Every time you talk too long, he ends up distracted, zoning out mid-conversation because your mouth moved a certain way. Every time you wear gloss, he kisses it off before you even leave the house. If you bite your lip out of habit, he stops whatever he’s doing to come over and kiss you like it’s urgent, like you’re some kind of problem he needs to solve with his mouth.
Even in public, he doesn’t hold back. A quick kiss before he heads to training. A longer one when he gets back, barely through the door before he’s pulling you close again. It’s like his lips have a magnetic field, and yours are the center of gravity.
You mention it one afternoon, curled up with him after he got home, legs tangled under the sheets and sunlight filtering in through the blinds.
“You’ve got an actual addiction,” you mumble, voice still sleepy.
Kenan grins, lazy and smug. “I’d say obsession. Sounds more romantic.”
“You kiss me constantly.”
“Exactly,” he says. “Romantic.”
You poke his chest. “Do I even get a say?”
“Too late,” he replies, dipping his head to kiss your collarbone. “You’re already mine.”
It’s even worse when he’s in a mood. After a good match, or a rough day, or any day that ends in y, really.
One evening, he comes back from a media event, looking exhausted, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly tousled from running his fingers through it too much. You’re sitting on the counter eating strawberries when he walks in and sees you. Something in him softens immediately.
He doesn’t even say hi. Just drops his bag, walks straight over, and stands between your knees.
“I love you,” he says, voice a little rough.
You blink. “I love you too. You okay?”
He nods, already leaning in. “I just missed you.”
You taste the faintest hint of mint when he kisses you. It’s slow, deep, like he’s pouring everything he didn’t say today into you now. You slide your hands into his hair and let him take his time. When he finally pulls back, there’s a slight dazed look in his eyes.
“You’re so soft,” he says quietly, brushing his thumb across your lower lip. “It drives me crazy.”
“You’re actually insane,” you whisper, laughing.
“For you? Completely,” he says, and you don’t doubt it for a second.
Sometimes it’s not about needing. It’s about comfort.
Like when you’re quiet, withdrawn, and overthinking something. Kenan always knows. He doesn’t push. He just sits beside you, holds your hand, and waits.
And then, without fail, he kisses you.
A grounding one. Not heated or needy. Just lips pressed to yours, slow and reassuring. Like he’s saying, “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
You don’t know how he always knows when to do it. You’ve stopped questioning it.
One night, it’s pouring rain, and you’re both wide awake for no reason. You’re standing by the window, watching droplets race down the glass, hoodie pulled over your head, your socks half-slipping off your feet.
Kenan walks up behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, and kisses your temple. “You’re beautiful.”
“You’re sappy.”
“You’re mine,” he says against your cheek.
You turn in his arms, eyebrows raised. “Are you ever gonna get tired of kissing me?”
He pretends to think about it for a second. “No.”
“Not even a little?”
“Not even if I tried,” he says, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I think I was built to kiss you.”
You roll your eyes, but it’s hopeless. Your stomach flips anyway.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he teases, lips brushing against yours again. “You’re the one who started this.”
“I didn’t start anything.”
“You looked at me once,” he says seriously. “And now I’m doomed.”
“Doomed to kiss me forever?”
He nods solemnly. “It’s a burden I’ll gladly bear.”
You laugh into his mouth as he kisses you again, rain still tapping gently against the window, the world outside forgotten.
Let him kiss you all he wants. He’s never going to stop.
summary. your morals are nonexistent when a certain brunette comes into your life.
warnings. cheating, cocky!kenan, and smut 18+
gabri speaks! pookie looked so good in tns match 😋 was listening to suano by ntg while writing.
the city lights were a blur as the car sped by in the late hours of the night. unlike your driver you were unfamiliar with the host country. kenan had spent countless days in dortmund for competitions and various matches — meaning he knew all the best spots — he was keen on impressing you. your hair can’t help but get in your face every couple of minutes do to the windows being down. you don’t mind tho, you never do, not with him.
a mix of rap and r&b plays through the car as he drives you back to your hotel. you hardly pay attention to the music as the brunette tells you about his training session from the morning. he sounds so excited about being able to play in such a huge stage for his country and you can’t help but smile at his excitement.
that intimate moment was cut short when you felt his hand on your thigh — your short dress allowing him the perfect opportunity to tease you — and you let him. it had been a while since the two of you had done anything due to his busy schedule and your studies. you gladly accepted his advances and opened your legs to allow him better access to where you needed him the most. his hand slowly makes its way up your leg and the closer he gets to your core, the hotter you feel. you grip the door handle as he finally moves your panties to the side and exposes you to the cold.
you feel yourself grow wetter as his fingers get closer to your cunt. your head hits the back of the seat as he moves his fingers along your folds, spreading your wetness, provoking a moan from you. he teases you circling his finger around your clit. illicit and provocative noises leave your mouth as he pleases you. you wondered how he was able to keep his eyes on the road as his fingers were exploring you.
it all felt good but you desperately needed him inside you. you didn’t hesitate as you placed your hand on top of his dragging his finger down to your entrance in the process. he knew what you needed and soon enough he was stretching you causing your legs to close on his hand at the sudden intrusion.
“kenan…” you gasped as he started fingering you.
your grasp on his hand grew stronger as he inserted his finger so deep inside you stretching you out. it was already too much with you clenching around him as he pumped into you. you resisted the urge to thrust against his hand as he continued his slow movements inside of you. your breathing became rigid as you felt him move sending heat throughout your body. you couldn’t even hear the music anymore, your gasps and moans filling the car instead. you could feel his smirk as you lost all your morals beside him.
“more?” he asked you as he drove.
“mhm.” you whined as you felt the familiar warmth of your undoing approaching.
you stayed still as he entered a second finger inside of you, your legs trying to close on your hands at the feeling. you lifted your hips towards his fingers trying desperately to reach your release. it was a sigh for sore eyes seeing you in such a state. kenan wonders how he got so lucky, how he got the privilege to touch you, and how he managed to have your attention for so long. finally, when he curls his fingers it’s when you come undone and reach your peak.
as if on cue the two of you finally arrive to your hotel. as you recover from your high kenan gets out of the car and heads to your side. always the gentleman, he was. he helps you out of the car and the two of you stand outside the hotel entrance. the two of you can’t help but laugh at what just happened. sometimes you forget he used to be your best friend before all of this.
“i need to leave or else coach will bench me opening match.” he interrupts. “i’ll see you tomorrow?”
his brown eyes bore into yours. they’re so full of kindness and joy. you’re always vulnerable to them.
“yeah.” you respond shyly.
he just nods in acknowledgment and he’s on his way back to the car but stops himself. he hesitates this time but nevertheless he kisses you. it’s quick and just a peck but it’s a kiss. one that holds hidden emotions. he gets into his car but doesn’t leave until you’re inside the hotel. and to your surprise you find one of his jerseys on your bed with an upgraded ticket for tomorrow’s match. he had gifted you a ticket in one of the suites. then you notice the note.
see you tomorrow? – love, kenan
the following night kenan begs you to make him feel better about his disallowed goal and you can’t help but help him. kenan can’t help but be turned on by the jersey you’re wearing, his jersey. it finally feels good to know that he’s yours. you’re too lost in the pleasure of him filling you up you don’t notice the countless messages blowing up your phone.
why’d i just see you on screen?
why are you in germany?
babe, why are you wearing a turkish jersey who do you know from turkey?
oh.
are you fucking serious? why has that idiot just announced the two of you are dating. what the fuck?
celebrating the win against austria with your boyfriend
kenan yıldız x reader
A/N: my first kenan fic!! based on this request! thank you for requesting 🤍
W/C: 1.604
just a couple minutes.
that was all that was left for turkey to win their match, and to be a part of the last eight teams competing for the euros this year.
your heart had already leaped when austria had scored one goal in the sixty-sixth minute of the game, and just like everyone rooting for the same team as you, you hoped it would stay 2-1 for turkey.
you had obviously come to support your loving boyfriend, his first euro tournament in his career. he had already played a good eighty minutes, before his coach had decided to take him off.
sometimes he'd glance at you when the game was paused during a certain foul or injury. wanting to make sure you were still there, screaming and clapping in support for him. of course, the glances were pretty short, he had to focus on the game, and you knew that as well.
kenan would give you all the attention after the game, whether he won or lost.
making eye contact with him was your absolute favorite part. it was no secret that your boyfriend was a looker. every time he'd show up on the big screen, you had to hold yourself back from fawning a little too much, though the eye candy was always welcome.
especially in his white kit, it made him look like an angel as he was running around the pitch. the sweat from being incredibly active, darkening his brown hair.
you'd chuckle and smile at the occasional wink he would send you. it leaving you flustered and hot, although it had been drizzling for the past few seconds, it helping you cool down a little.
you fold your arms up, against your chest. wiping the rain that had been dripping down onto your naked arms, your turkey kit not helping you since it’s a t-shirt. you tap your shoe impatiently against the ground, well- the bleachers.
the game pauses for a second during an injury, watching the medics arrive. you look up suddenly when you're nudged by kenan's mother, who's sat next to you, a confused expression on her face.
"look up.." she says, pointing over and up to one of the huge screens in the leipzig stadium. you furrow your brows, not recognizing your own face for a moment.
realizing it's in fact you, on the screen, you smile, trying not to look awkward. your mother-in-law laughs, nudging for you to stop being so tense.
you chuckle, your lips pulling into relaxed smile, you wave your little türkiye flag, sending a quick flying kiss to the camera.
your face heats up at the sudden attention of the thousands of people in the stadium, and you're relieved when the camera pans back to the pitch, the game resuming.
you shake the situation off quickly, hoping you looked good at least.
your breath hitches when you hear the extra time being announced, and get ready for another torturous four minutes.
your mind switches to how anxious kenan himself might feel, at this point, he couldn't do anything about it. he could only trust his teammates to continue defending and possibly score another goal.
you turn to kenan's mother, an anxious expression on her face. you immediately grab onto her hand, smiling at her before squeezing her hand in reassurance. she turns to you, sending you a warm smile back.
you don't have to speak to know what emotions are running through your bodies, it's visible from the look in your eyes.
since you and kenan had been dating for more than a year, you had gotten very close to his parents. especially his mother, having her share the same feelings as you was both reassuring and very important to you.
the entire turkish supporting side of the stadium erupts in gasps and shouts as the ball is headed by a member of the opposition.
everyone's jaw slaws open in shock and happiness when goalkeeper gunök successfully swats the ball away, to prevent a last-minute disaster for turkey.
you and kenan's family start jumping in happiness, along with the thousands of fans. the noise is incredibly loud, and it seems to reach a higher frequency when the full-time whistle is blow.
you watch multiple of kenan's teammates drop to the grass in exhaustion and relief, some running to the goalie and some jumping up and down in happiness.
your heart beats faster when you look for kenan, smiling lovingly when you make eye contact with him. he waves to you, and his family.
the smile on his face makes you swoon, and you have to hold yourself back to not run up to the pitch and plant a fat kiss on his cheek.
the celebration lasts a couple minutes, and you all chant along as the players and staff make a circle in the middle of the pitch.
you immediately perk up when you're allowed to go down to the pitch. waiting for kenan's family to greet him first, as you fiddle with your white handbag. a gift from kenan on your last birthday..
"liebing.." kenan immediately coos in his first language, opening his arms wide for you to nestle in between them.
you wrap your arms around him, pressing your face against his chest. he brings you into his chest, wrapping his strong arms around your waist.
"did you enjoy the game?" he asks, leaning down. his bigger hands cup your jaw, and he presses a tender kiss onto your forehead.
you close your eyes, soaking up the loving touch, feeling rain drizzle on you. the sky darkening as darker clouds become visible in the sky.
"i did enjoy the game. I'm proud of you, baby.." your mutter, looking up into his brown eyes.
he grins down at you, thumb wiping at your face. cheeks wet from the rain.
"oh! you're ruining my makeup!.." you complain, though you don't move or try to swat his hand away.
"it's pretty like this. just like on the big screen. that kiss was for me, right, liebe?" he quirks up his slit brow, peering down at you with a cocky expression.
"you saw that?"
"of course, I almost forgot where I was.."
you chuckle at his words, rolling your eyes in a teasing manner, before humming against his chest.
"aren't you cold?" he suddenly says, eyes darting to his parents. noticing that his father had already given his jacket to his mother. the both of them chatting with his teammate arda's parents.
you don't even get to open your mouth to respond, before he drapes his white training jacket over your shivering shoulders, forcing you to pull your arms through the warm jacket.
"thank you.." you smile, making him lean down for you to kiss his cheek.
the smile on your face grows bigger at his own grin, his pearly whites showing.
"now you're getting all wet, though.." you observe, reaching up to fix his wet hair. the once fluffy brown locks, now soaked and flat, stuck to his forehead.
you don't even notice the cameraman right next to you, totally immersed in fixing kenan's recently washed hair, and definitely not realizing that a huge camera is pointed towards you two.
"you need a warm shower, and maybe some tea. are you allowed to go out tonight? or do you still have a curfew?.."
you frown as your questions don't get answered, and make a confused noise when you feel his hand pressing against your back. pressing you flush against his chest.
"what're you doing, baby?" you question, following his eyes, only to land on the biggest camera lens you've ever seen in your life.
"oh.." you mumble in realization, instantly flickering your eyes away, and watching the protective look in your boyfriend's eyes.
even though you had been filmed before, when you'd attend kenan's juventus games, it never got any easier.
dating an athlete just came with unwanted attention and filming, though you tried not to let it show.
your chuckle to yourself out of embarrassment, burying your face into his chest.
"am I supposed to be looking at the camera?" you ask, words muffled, feeling his hands on your back. his fingertips dancing onto the wet fabric of the jacket.
"no, you don't have to if you're not comfortable. it's starting to pour out here. let's go inside.." he murmurs into your ear, before grabbing on your hand.
"are we running? what if we slip on the grass?" you ask, squinting and trying to cover your eyes from the rain with your arm.
"come on, i'll catch you if you fall.."
you manage to sneak a glimpse of the teasing smile on his face, before he starts dashing towards the inside of the stadium. a chocked laugh leaves your mouth, squealing at how fast he's running.
but, you're a little too happy you're inside, when you see how fast the rain switched from drizzling to pouring out of the sky.
"I'm not a footballer like you, remember?" you pant, placing your hands on your knees and bending over. trying to catch your breath, probably looking crazy to the family and friends of kenan's teammates.
you don't notice when he steps away for just a second, coming back with a towel to dry you off.
you feel his hand on your shoulder, then a soft towel on your head. you stand straight, grabbing the white towel off your face.
"thank you.." you mumble, patting your face dry, then reach up to dry his face with the other side of the towel.
unbeknownst to you two, you're still being filmed.
no doubt these clips will be posted on the internet tomorrow, and you'd try to figure out how to navigate this new-found publicity, with kenan by your side, of course.
where her students discover that kenan is her fiancé
pairing: kenan yildiz x teacher reader!
a/n: i want to thank 🪐 anon, you helped me improve this story haha but a few years ago i wrote a story similar to this one with ben chilwell, but those were pandemic times :/ unfortunately i no longer have the original post, but rewriting it was really cool.
requests are open | check here my masterlist
The mayor decided to hold classes remotely for a day due to an event that would leave the streets of Turin busy. You don't mind teaching and being at home, and the children wouldn't mind changing for one day either, in fact they are curious. When they received the news that they would have online classes, they shared loud and clear that they wanted to see what your house was like.
"I'll only show you my house if you show yours."
You made your 9 year old students laugh.
The office on the third floor of your house was made for events like this. In fact, you teach Italian classes remotely to people from all over the world. However, a leak must leave the space closed. And today, you will have to teach on the kitchen counter.
"Kenan, love. It'll take me an hour in the kitchen, if you need anything, text me."
Your fiancé appeared in the room, he seemed to be looking for something.
"It's okay, I won't bother you."
Yildiz gave you a kiss on the cheek after grabbing a drink from the fridge and going up to his room, he intended to make the most of his day off from training. Since he couldn't stay with you, he decided to watch whatever was on TV.
"Signora, your kitchen is very beautiful." Your student's high-pitched voice was the first thing you heard when you entered the virtual classroom.
"Thank you, Amelia." You smiled at the screen. "I'm glad to see you guys with the camera on, I thought you guys would be embarrassed."
"You said you would only show us your house if we showed us ours."
"You guys really took this seriously." You chuckled subtly. "But come on, we have to start studying."
You heard countless sounds of children snorting, which made you laugh out loud. They turned on the microphone just to do that.
"You guys are very lazy. But don't worry, we're just going to practice what we saw in class yesterday."
Out of the corner of your eye you quickly saw a figure pass by. Which made you jump back slightly. It was Kenan, he looked at you with an awkward smile.
"I forgot my cell phone." He whispered, but not quietly enough.
"How is there with you, Signora?"
His gaze was divided between the computer screen and Kenan smiling embarrassedly, knowing he couldn't be there.
"Stop taking care of your teacher's life."
Someone who shared the same room as one of the children, screamed.
"Oh my God." Your student said as he kept his eyes peeled for Kenan's figure passing behind you trying not to be seen, "Kenan Yildiz. Do you live with Kenan Yildiz?"
The children began to talk together, some wondering who Kenan was and others almost crying.
You turned your head back a little to look at Kenan. "Sorry." He mumbled.
You gave the Turkish man a reassuring smile. "It's okay."
Not enough reason to be mad at Yildiz. You knew that the kids would find out sooner or later that Kenan was your fiancé. In fact, you don't know how they didn't find out before, your photos wearing the Juve jersey at the stadium on match days appear on several gossip portals.
You reached out to gently pull Yildiz by the sleeve of the long shirt he was wearing. Seeing the children's reaction to seeing him up close made you laugh out loud, again.
"I want you to meet someone very special to me." You saw Kenan's cheeks flush "My fiancé."
"I can't believe my favorite teacher is engaged to my favorite player."
"Kenan please, come visit us at school."
Like you, Kenan laughed at their reaction. What’s more, he felt proud knowing that the children felt so much affection for you. Seeing you becoming a teacher, as you always dreamed of, makes Yildiz feel happy.
"I'll visit you only if you pay attention in class today, okay?"
Total silence. The children just nodded.
"Great. I'll leave you guys alone now." He walked away smiling and waving at the computer camera. "Love you, good job." You read his lips and blew a kiss in his direction.
Your students were in awe, you laughed at their reaction after Yildiz's cameo. They couldn't believe.
"I can't believe my teacher is Kenan Yildiz's fiancée."
The days passed, and they couldn't get Kenan out of their heads. You even tried to get Kenan to come to a cultural event that was going to be held at the school, but the busy schedule didn't allow them to go.
But Kenan was eager to meet the school, the staff, and the kids. After all, you always speak so highly of them. Why wouldn't he enjoy meeting the people you like?
And it was on a random Thursday that he decided to pick you up at the school where you teach. Kenan arrived a few seconds before the bell rang and the children were released. He was outside the car, leaning on the side of the vehicle and smiling as he watched you say goodbye to the students.
"Miss, your fiancé is here." One of the girls warned you and you saw him waving as you looked up.
The children crowded around you. "Call him to come here, please." The sly voice made you smile and do as asked.
Yildiz was happy when he saw you waving, calling him to come in. And he promptly followed towards you.
He was hugged by several children, even those who weren't even his students. He looked at you with a smile that took up almost his entire face.
GHAWSSDDD UOUR KENAN FICS 😩😩😩 CAN I HAVE SUM DICC WHILE HE & READER DO HAVE TO DO IT WHILE HIS PARWNTA ARE @ HOME
thanks sisss😭💛💛💛💛💛 i love your idea!!!!
jennah’s interlude - blue iverson.
KENAN YILDIZ X READER
warnings: fluff and smut
At first sight, the trip with Kenan and both families seemed fun, until the first obstacles arose, the main one being the limited privacy.
The first night was hectic, as everyone was tired, their energy having been drained throughout the day.
The second day was calm and less intense, but there was no privacy, and the time you and Yildiz had for each other was limited to sleep. So there was no time for the two of you.
The third day was irritating, and you simply realized there was no privacy. There was always someone to show you something, tell you something, or just talk, and soon it was time to sleep, and you hadn't had a moment alone.
"I don't think that was a good idea," he said as he stared at the bedroom ceiling.
"Oh, really?" That sounded angrier than it should have, but you weren't sorry; on the contrary, you meant it.
You hadn't had sex in four days, three while you were there and one day into your trip. To top it all off, the place you were staying was a rural area, so everything could be heard, even your lightest breathing.
When you said you wanted to go to a quiet town, he immediately thought of Malesina, and well, it seemed like the perfect destination. Until reality hit and you realized there was nothing you could do, because the slightest noise in the night could be the loudest.
Kenan knew you were stressed; he couldn't blame you; deep down, he was too. This seemed like a test of your patience.
"I'm going to sleep in the living room," Kenan said. You were irritated and didn't care at the moment, and as much as Kenan tried to sound rational, he was irritated too.
"You know," that was the last thing he heard before leaving the room.
You had refused to look at Kenan during breakfast, even though you had given him a good morning kiss. Your irritation was obvious, and your mother had noticed.
"What's wrong with my baby?" she asked, tucking your hair behind your ear. "Did something happen that you want to talk about?"
"Nothing, I just didn't sleep well last night," you said as you washed the last dish in the small pile.
You didn't know it, but a room away stood an angry Kenan.
"Are you sure that was all it was?" she asked, her big, round eyes questioning. You wanted to talk, you needed to vent just as much as you needed to have sex.
"I'm mad at Kenan because we didn't have sex," you felt like the stupidest girl for saying that. "It sounds ridiculous, but it's true. We haven't had sex in five days, including today," you had to emphasize to her, and you saw a smile forming on her face.
"Did you talk about this?" she asked, holding your hands affectionately in a way only a mother would.
"No," she found it hard to explain, but at the same time she wanted to externalize everything. "I'm not mad at him, but at the same time I am. I want to hold his neck, but I also want to kiss him." For a moment, she felt embarrassed and relieved, too. "I'm horny and I want to have sex with him, but that's impossible here, not when you and Dad and them." Kenan's parents are next to our rooms.
"I understand, but I think you should talk to him."
You wanted to, but from the mood he was in when he left the room in the early hours of the morning, you knew the last thing he wanted was to talk. But night fell, and he needed to go, even if it was just to change. He did, but he didn't pay you a second thought. He just lay down on the bed and remained silent, so you went to change. By your calculations, you probably spent an hour and a half in the bathroom. You loved sleeping with the feeling of cleanliness, but your delay was due to the fact that you were enjoying yourself in your lingerie. Kenan was a lucky man, you had to admit. You were ready, but when you left, he was the one who wasn't in the room. Kenan had always been resourceful, since the beginning of your relationship, a strong personality who in some situations tended to be stubborn, and now was no different. He was upset, but understanding, but that didn't give him the right to turn his back and ignore the problem.
You knew that at that time, everyone in the house would be asleep, except you and Kenan, and you knew where Kenan was. She went down the stairs in silence, she was great at not making noise when she wanted to and found Kenan motionless on the sofa, that sofa didn't fit him, his shins were exposed and uncovered, but she knew he wasn't sleeping due to his irregular breathing. Your body didn't make a sound until you reached the couch, but Kenan knew you were there by your scent. He would recognize you even if you were across the ocean, and your body sank beside him on that small couch.
"I know you're not sleeping," you said close to his ear, pressing your body against his and running your hand around his waist.
"I'll be there soon," he refused to look at you, but never took your hand off his. "I think you should go too."
"I will," you were sly, and it was evident in your voice. He knew what you were doing there. "But only when you go."
"Then that's what we'll do now," he said, completely ignoring the intention of what you had said. "But I don't think it will be comfortable for you."
"And neither for you," you replied assertively. "Please, Kenan, I know you're not comfortable here, and you're just being stubborn."
"That's what you think," you knew that tone well.
She ignored his words; it was easy to break Kenan's stubborn childish shell, and she knew it. Her fingernails played with his waist and chest, and her mouth spread kisses along the curve of his neck and shoulders. Besides the caresses, he could also feel the fabric of her short nightgown by the touch of her skin, and could tell there was something beneath it. Yildiz's body responded to hers, even though his mouth refused to say anything. Her hands moved down until they reached the fabric of his shorts. He hated wearing underwear to bed, so he only slept in shorts or naked, but he probably wore underwear out of respect for the people in the house.
A smile formed on his face, and even though she couldn't see it, she knew it was one from the movement of his face. He played with the hem of his shorts, moving his hands sideways; it would mess with his senses.
"It's dangerous territory, honey," he said with a charismatic air in his voice.
"I can handle it." His hands moved down to Kenan's cock, which gave him a slight shock. He was in the early stages of an erection. "But what about you?" Can you handle taking me here?—that messed with his senses. He turned to face you, so you took the opportunity to climb onto his hips. Your vision was illuminated by the moonlight. He saw everything. You were even more perfect in that light. The dress adorned your body, and he could see the shape of the lingerie. For a minute, he forgot that your parents and theirs were there.
"Let's go to the bedroom," he said, and followed you up the stairs. Halfway up, you heard and felt a loud crack on your butt. When you turned around, you found Kenan smiling, as if he'd seen the best thing in life, and he had.
"You idiot," you turned and slapped his chest. The action angered you, not because of the reason, but because of the people in the house. "What if they wake up?"
"That hurt," he replied. "They probably have sex. Where do you think we came from?"
"Your slap too," she refused to answer the last question.
The room was as silent as the rest of the house seemed, but the desire between you was enormous and loud, it couldn't fit within those walls.
"I'll love watching you try to stay quiet when I get you there," he said as he held your legs and stood between them, that kiss hot and wet, his hands wanting to touch everything. His hands touched the strap of your dress, and as he lowered it, Kenan saw breasts hardened by the tension between you and the cool air of the room. He loved the sight, and the touch was even better. How could you be better? He could see that sight a thousand times and still not get used to it, and he'd feel even more aroused upon seeing it again.
"You're the only noisy one here," you pulled him close to whisper it in his ear and kissed him. It was even wetter than the first time. You felt a sense of urgency for Kenan's touch there. You felt aroused not only by the time they'd been without sex, but the situation itself excited you. Seeing Yildiz being tested was a feast for your eyes. His hands ran down your body, and then he reached the hem of your panties. They were a thin fabric, not meant to cover, but to tease. Kenan pulled them up and saw the small piece of panties sticking to your private parts, and a sharp sound escaped your lips. You covered your mouth immediately, aroused and very wet. It was torture given your state. No force was needed; just a stronger touch ripped the seam. He liked that. The panties were pulled up to show you how fragile they were, but Kenan had other plans for them.
"I'll keep it as a gift," he said, completely proud of the act. His thick, rough fingers touched your pussy and pulled at the accumulated furrow there. It was a piece of heaven on earth. Kenan put them on his tongue and swirled his fingers. "You're even hotter, fuck." He spread your legs even wider and positioned himself there, his clothed hips sliding against your intimate area. You could feel his hard cock, his mouth teased yours, and you tasted him. "Now you know why I love being between your legs." You loved his sexual greed and the lack of restraints.
He needed to be inside you, his cock begged for it. It was his home, that's what Kenan used to say. He hurried to get rid of the clothes that still covered him. His cock was aligned with your entrance, it was heaven there, just you and him, if he died now, he was a happy man and then his cock entered you, your back arched, Kenan's body fell on you, one arm lifted your hip and the other held your neck to give him better access.
"I'm back home," he said, smiling between kisses. "But you can't get too excited, you might wake the neighbors next door." You loved that arrogance.
"Like I said," that dramatic pause had a reason. You were tensing and relaxing to play with Kenan's cock, which drew a guttural moan from him. "You're the only one here who's loud."
The sex was slow and hard. How long had it been since you'd experienced sex like this? It was wonderful. Your breasts swayed beneath him, your moans teasing his ears. It felt so fucking good. Your nails couldn't leave much of a mark on him, so your hands gripped him tightly. It felt so good to be filled. Your pussy was so wet, it was impossible not to hear the sound when your hips moved. She was heaven, he'd never tire of saying that. The base of Kenan's cock hit your clit, and you could have sworn you were going to come undone right there.
There were signs that the sun would rise when you finished. He was so heavy, and fatigue seemed to have doubled his weight. Even though they were finished, they enjoyed the feeling of remaining inside each other.
"You can't kick me out of my house," Kenan joked.
"We weren't that loud, were we?" you asked.
"Not like we wanted to be," he replied, kissing your cheek.
Your bodies were tired, but you needed this, and soon you felt sleep invade your eyes.
"I hope you'll be ready for breakfast soon." He knew you weren't referring to food. A tired smile appeared on his face.
"This is the most important meal, you can be sure I am." You loved that haughtiness and couldn't, and didn't, want to deny it.
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