touchlinewhore

[touchlinewhore]

Hey, hope I'm finding you well!

Could you write a story between Kenan and reader where they both play football, for rivals teams and they have a match against each other? (Maybe things are getting messy in the locker room during mid time :)

Half-Time Heat

Pairing: Kenan Yıldız x Reader

Content Warning: rivals to lovers, locker room smut, semi-public sex, possessive behavior, dirty talk, marking kink (scratches), praise/degradation mix, overstimulation, strong language, fingering, unprotected sex (wrap it in real life), mutual obsession

The stadium was a sea of noise and color, fans cheering and chanting in a rhythm that vibrated through your bones.

You tightened your grip on your captain’s armband, your eyes locking onto the other side of the pitch where Kenan Yıldız stood confidently, his smirk both infuriating and strangely magnetic. He was the captain of your fiercest rivals, the man who had outplayed you every match for months now. Today, you were determined to change that.

The referee’s whistle cut sharply through the air, and the ball was live.

You surged forward, legs pumping hard, heart thundering in your chest. Every move was focused, every sprint fueled by the desire to beat Kenan at his own game. The clash wasn’t just about the sport anymore, it was personal. Every tackle was charged with more than competition; it carried months of tension and silent challenges.

Kenan was everywhere, a shadow you could never quite shake. His quickness was maddening, intercepting passes with a grin that seemed to say, “Not today.” You fought harder, refusing to let him dominate.

Sweat stung your eyes as you dodged, pivoted, and charged across the field. Then, halfway through the first half, you stole the ball from one of his teammates and broke into a sprint toward his goal. Your lungs burned, but the roar of the crowd pushed you forward.

Just as you lined up your shot, you felt the brush of Kenan’s breath at your neck, his fingers grazing your arm in a touch electric enough to make your skin tingle. “Not today,” he whispered, stealing the ball with a slick move that left you breathless.

You spun, cheeks flushing, and met his amused gaze. “You’re impossible.”

He chuckled, voice low and teasing. “And you love it.”

The game grew fiercer. Each clash of your bodies was a charged moment, a silent conversation of challenge and temptation. You matched him tackle for tackle, sprint for sprint, the rivalry sparking something deeper beneath the surface.

By halftime, the score was tied. You were exhausted but alive with adrenaline and something else. a fierce, undeniable pull that neither of you could ignore.

In the locker room, you stripped off your jersey, muscles aching, heart pounding. The door opened, and Kenan stepped in, shirtless, his back marked with faint scratches, souvenirs from your last encounter. He caught your stare and smirked. “Still watching?”

You stepped closer, voice low. “Can’t look away.”

His grin deepened. “Maybe it’s time we finished this somewhere private.”

The tension that had simmered all game snapped taut as you closed the distance, the real match about to begin.

The door clicked softly behind him, but the sound echoed loud in your chest. Your team’s side of the locker room had cleared out minutes ago, everyone gone for water, tactics, and the last-minute prep. You were still catching your breath, and then Kenan stepped in like a storm in silence shirtless, unapologetic, and already watching you with that cocky smirk that set your skin on fire.

Your gaze dropped instantly. His toned chest glistened slightly with sweat, his abs flexing as he walked forward, the muscle memory of his movements on the pitch still visible in every step. The faint red scratches down his back yours, from last week were bold and barely concealed by the waistband of his shorts. He didn’t care. He wanted them seen.

“You planning to keep looking at me like that, or are you going to say something?” His voice was low, smug, voice dipped in sin and static.

You stayed where you were, sitting on the edge of the bench, slowly removing your shin guards. But your eyes never left him. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re here to talk… or if you just wanted to make sure I saw those marks.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t sweet it was dark, satisfied. “You made ‘em, didn’t you?” He stepped closer, standing between your knees now. “Might as well let everyone know exactly who I belong to.”

Your heart beat a little too hard. He was close, too close. The heat from his skin radiated through you, dizzying. His hand slid up your thigh, slow, fingers digging just enough to remind you he wasn’t here for banter. You leaned forward instinctively, forehead brushing his chest, breath catching when you felt him beneath the fabric of your training shorts, already hard, already pulsing.

“You want me to behave?” he whispered against the shell of your ear. “Then don’t look at me like you’ve been thinking about this the whole first half.”

“I didn’t even look at you.”

“Didn’t have to,” he muttered. “I could feel it.”

His mouth crashed into yours with that same ferocity he played with. His hand tangled in the back of your hair as his tongue slid against yours, tasting, claiming, every kiss leaving you more breathless than the last. You moaned into it, nails digging into his bare shoulders, and he growled when he felt it, when he realized you wanted this just as bad.

The room was hot, suffocating, but neither of you cared. You pulled at his shorts, fingers slipping underneath the waistband to tug them down enough to feel the tight tension of him, straining and eager. His hand caught your wrist, pinning it to the bench as he broke the kiss and looked at you.

“We’ve got ten minutes. You gonna let me have you now, or are you still trying to act like we’re just rivals on the pitch?”

“You’re not my rival off the pitch,” you whispered, voice thick. “You’re mine.”

That did something to him. Kenan’s body pressed against yours, lips trailing down your neck in sharp, possessive kisses. He muttered things in Turkish, things you didn’t understand but didn’t need to. His tone said everything. He wanted you spread out right here, ruined before the second half even started.

“Sit back,” he ordered, voice gravel now. “Keep your legs open. I want to see how ready you are for me.”

You obeyed before you even realized it, thighs parting as he dropped to his knees between them. His mouth found your core through the fabric, wet heat soaking in seconds. He teased first licking through the thin barrier, eyes locked on yours just to see how long it would take you to break.

You weren’t proud of how fast it happened. You tugged at his curls, gasping when he pressed harder, lips forming a rhythm through the cotton that had your hips bucking off the bench. He chuckled into you, and you swore you could feel the smirk between your thighs.

He pulled your shorts aside in one swift motion, exposing you fully to his mouth, and he didn’t waste a second. His tongue flicked over your clit with the same precision he used to slice through your team’s back line, methodical and deadly. You felt your stomach clench, legs trembling from the tension rising far too fast.

“Kenan! fuck—someone could come in—”

“I dare them.”

His voice was so deep it rumbled against your skin. His fingers joined the party, one slipping inside you as his mouth kept working, building you up until you were a breath away from unraveling right there, right where anyone could walk in and see your captain coming undone from a rival’s tongue.

You came hard, body arched off the bench, hand stuffed in your mouth to muffle the moan. Kenan stood back up slowly, licking his lips like he’d just won the game, dragging a finger across his tongue with a maddening confidence.

“You think we’re done?” he murmured. “Nah, baby. I’m not walking back out there with your taste on my tongue and no release.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he spun you around, chest against the wall of the locker, arms braced for balance. You felt him press up behind you, cockhead nudging at your entrance, and he paused only long enough to whisper, “You good?”

You nodded, pushing back against him, desperate to feel him stretch you open.

He slid in with a grunt, slow and deep, making sure you felt every inch. The angle was ruthless. You were gasping by the second thrust, the sound of skin on skin echoing louder than it should’ve in the echo chamber of the locker room. His hand slid up your back, into your hair, tugging lightly as his pace quickened.

“You gonna tell your team you’re dripping from my cock at halftime?” he growled. “Or should I leave another set of scratches just so they know?”

You moaned his name, breath hitching every time he hit that perfect spot. Your knees buckled and his arm caught you, holding you flush against him, your back to his chest now as he pounded into you.

The overstimulation hit fast. He was too good, too much, and your body betrayed you, tightening again, already pulsing as your second orgasm crept up your spine.

“You’re close again,” he murmured. “Can feel you clenching. Fuck, you want me to fill you up, don’t you? Walk back on that pitch dripping with me?”

You bit your lip hard enough to leave marks, every nerve in your body sparking as he buried himself to the hilt, groaning low and dirty into your neck. Your release crashed into you again, this time stronger, your whole body shaking with the force of it, his hand clamped over your mouth to silence your cries.

He came seconds later, hips stuttering, arms wrapped tightly around you as he spilled deep inside. The warmth of it only made you shudder harder, and he held you through it, pressing soft kisses along your shoulder now, completely different from how it started.

Neither of you moved for a minute, breathing hard, his forehead resting against your neck.

“I don’t care if I lose this match,” he said quietly. “But I need to win you.”

You turned in his arms, touching his jaw, kissing him slow this time. “You already did.”

Outside, the second whistle echoed across the tunnel. You both smiled.

Rivals on the pitch. Something much messier off it.

And neither of you would have it any other way.

[touchlinewhore]

Code Red

Pairing: Henry Hart (Aged Up) x Shy!Reader

Content Warnings: Oral (f receiving), fingering, shy reader dynamic, praise kink, possessiveness, light dom!Henry, protected PIV sex, emotional vulnerability, aftercare

a/n: this was suggested by a reader just letting yk that the characters are always aged up i DONT write those type of stuff, enjoy!

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Not in this strange metallic hallway. Not in this weird underground lair with high-tech walls and glowing control panels. Not staring wide-eyed at your best friend, the boy you’ve known since middle school wearing a red and blue suit that fit him like second skin, chest rising and falling like he just sprinted a mile.

You had followed him. You didn’t mean to. But he’d been acting strange for weeks. Always disappearing mid-conversation, dodging plans, eyes clouded like he was hiding a storm behind his lashes. And when you saw him sneak into that elevator in the back of Junk-N-Stuff, your curiosity cracked wide open.

And now you were here. Heart hammering. Lips parted in shock. Eyes fixed on the gloved hand he just pulled off revealing Henry Hart’s unmistakable fingers.

“Y/N,” he said, voice breathless, like he couldn’t believe you were standing there either. “You shouldn’t have followed me.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even move. Your brain was short-circuiting, unable to connect the dots. Henry. Your Henry. Was Kid Danger. The sidekick. The superhero. The boy plastered on billboards and broadcasted in blurry livestreams saving Swellview every other week.

Your Henry had been lying to you.

The hurt landed before the logic.

“You—” Your voice broke. You didn’t mean for it to crack, didn’t mean for your hands to shake at your sides, but the sting in your chest came fast. “How long?”

He blinked, swallowing. His suit was still zipped to his collarbone, but his hair was a mess, curls wild from the fight he must’ve just had.

“Since I was fourteen.”

You turned your head like the words slapped you. “You’ve been lying to me for years.”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he rushed. “I wanted to tell you so many times. I almost did. So many nights I wanted to show you—”

“But you didn’t,” you said, voice sharper than you ever meant it to be. You were shy, quiet by nature, Henry always teased you about how you whispered through your thoughts like they were secrets. but now your chest was tight with something that felt louder. Anger. Betrayal. And something else you didn’t want to name.

“I was protecting you,” he said, stepping forward. “I couldn’t drag you into this.”

You stepped back instinctively. “But I was dragged in, Henry. I’ve spent so long wondering why you’d vanish or come home with bruises or why your hands were shaking like you saw something you couldn’t talk about, I thought something was wrong with me. That maybe I wasn’t enough to trust.”

His face changed then. Like you cracked something in him wide open.

“Don’t say that,” he said, voice low. “You’ve always been enough.”

You stared at him, every inch of your body tense and burning. You’d loved Henry for years. Silently, painfully. You’d memorized every freckle on his shoulder, every smile he tossed over his shoulder when he thought you weren’t looking. But now that love felt like a weight.

“I just… I can’t believe you let me believe I wasn’t important.”

“You are,” he said immediately, stepping close again. “You’re so important. That’s why I didn’t tell you. Because the second I did, you’d be in this world with me. This dangerous, violent world. And the thought of you getting hurt…” He exhaled, jaw clenched. “It would destroy me.”

You looked up at him, and for the first time, you realized just how much he meant it. How scared he looked, not from being found out, but from losing you.

You whispered, “Then why didn’t you let me choose?”

Henry reached for your hand slowly. You didn’t pull away this time. His fingers were warm, trembling a little as they slid between yours.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought I was doing the right thing. But I never stopped thinking about you. Even on missions. Even when I was bleeding out behind dumpsters or flying through air trying to land on my feet, you were the one thing that kept me grounded. And that scared the hell out of me.”

You felt the knot in your chest loosen just slightly. You hated that you still cared. That his voice still made your stomach twist.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” you said quietly.

“Let me show you,” he said, eyes flicking down to your lips, then back to your eyes.

Your breath hitched.

He leaned in, but stopped a breath away. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

His lips pressed against yours with years of pent-up frustration. It wasn’t soft, not really, it was desperate. Controlled only by how tightly he gripped your face, as if scared you’d vanish. Your body folded into him before you could think, fists curling into the fabric of his suit, mouth opening under the weight of his kiss.

He backed you into the wall with one hand on your cheek and the other at your waist, thumb brushing bare skin where your shirt had risen. The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing yours, breath ragged. You moaned, a quiet sound, surprised from your throat and you felt him groan into your mouth in return.

Then he pulled back suddenly, chest heaving.

“Tell me to stop,” he said again, voice rough now.

You looked up at him with wide eyes. Shy. Flushed. Barely able to speak.

“Don’t stop.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, but with intent. His hand slid under your shirt and splayed across your lower back, heat rising between you both like it had been simmering for years.

And maybe it had.

Your back hit the wall of the hideout’s side hallway again, but this time it didn’t feel cold. Not with Henry pressed flush against you, mouth trailing down your jaw, his breath hot and frantic.

You whimpered when his hands slid under your shirt again, this time tugging it up completely. He paused, giving you one last look, giving you the chance to back out.

You nodded, shy but breathless. “Please.”

The shirt came off. His eyes dropped, chest heaving like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “You’re perfect,” he muttered, voice almost reverent. “Fuck.”

He kissed your collarbone, then lower. Your back arched without meaning to. When his fingers touched your waistband, you gasped.

“Still okay?” he whispered.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Henry…”

Your name never sounded so good as when it was moaned against your skin.

He dropped to his knees.

You’d seen Henry on the floor before game nights, sleepovers, the two of you sprawled on a rug laughing over some stupid inside joke. But this? This was something else.

He kissed your stomach, lips warm and unhurried. His hands gripped your thighs, and when he pulled your underwear down, you whimpered again body already slick with need.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he groaned. “Wanted you for so long.”

You were trembling, overwhelmed by how seen you felt, how worshipped and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

When his tongue finally made contact, your knees buckled.

He was good. Too good. Your hands shot down to his hair, gripping for balance. He groaned against you when you tugged a little, and the vibrations made you cry out.

“God, you taste—” He groaned again, switching to two fingers and curling them expertly inside you while he licked up the mess he was making. “Been dreaming about this mouth on you since high school.”

“Henry,” you whimpered. Your thighs were shaking.

“I got you, baby. I’ve got you.”

You came with a cry that echoed in the hall, legs clenching around his head. He didn’t stop until you were twitching from oversensitivity, and even then, he kissed the inside of your thighs like you were the only thing that mattered.

He stood up, lips shiny, hair messy.

“Lay down for me,” he said softly, gesturing to a soft mat nearby probably where they trained.

You obeyed, cheeks flushed. You were usually so shy. So soft-spoken. But right now, every part of you was lit up and craving more.

He undressed quickly, stripping the top of his suit off and digging through a drawer to grab a condom before settling over you. His body was so much stronger up close broad shoulders, defined abs, muscles cut like they were sculpted by need alone.

He kissed you again, slower now, with more emotion than heat. Like he was still trying to say all the things he never had the courage to.

When he slid inside, you gasped not from pain, but from how full you felt, how deeply he reached. He was slow, letting you adjust, until your fingers dug into his arms.

“Move,” you whispered.

His rhythm was smooth, controlled. Like he knew exactly how to make you fall apart again. He whispered in your ear the whole time.

“You feel like heaven.”

“Been thinking about this body every night.”

“No one’s ever gonna touch you like this again.”

“You’re mine.”

You came again when he angled his hips just right, and he followed not long after, spilling into the condom with a groan that sent chills down your spine.

He collapsed beside you, pulling you close, your head on his chest.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

Then, quietly, you whispered, “I’m still mad at you.”

He smiled, kissing your forehead. “I’ll make it up to you. Again. And again. And again.”

You huffed a laugh, curling into him tighter.

Maybe you weren’t supposed to find out. Maybe you weren’t supposed to fall for your best friend.

But you did. And now, you couldn’t imagine a world where you hadn’t.

[touchlinewhore]

Keep The Noise Down

Pairing: Héctor Fort x Reader

Content Warning: Smut, semi-public risk (family home), teasing, cocky energy, mirror play, overstimulation themes, reader on top, implied hand-over-mouth kink,

You’d barely made it through the front door before he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle, it never was. Héctor had a habit of acting like he’d been starving without you, even if it had only been a few hours since you last saw him. His hand wrapped around your waist the second you closed the door behind you, pulling you in so tightly your bag slipped right off your shoulder. His mouth was already on your neck before your shoes were off.

“She’s not home?” you whispered between kisses, breath catching when he sucked right under your jaw.

“She’s out,” he murmured, voice rough with something feral, “grocery store or something. We’ve got time.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Did she say when she’d be back?”

“Nope.” He smirked. “Better keep the noise down then, yeah?”

It was a warning disguised as flirtation or maybe the other way around. With Héctor, it was always hard to tell. He didn’t just enjoy the danger of being caught. He thrived on it. Every stolen kiss, every whispered threat in the back of his car or your room, it was all laced with the same underlying thrill: someone could hear you.

You weren’t even upstairs yet and he already had your heart racing.

“Bedroom?” you asked, already knowing the answer.

He nodded, grabbing your hand and tugging you through the narrow hallway of his family home. You stepped over a backpack left by the stairs, passing by framed photos of him at La Masia, until he opened the door to his room and shoved it closed behind you.

You expected him to push you onto the bed, but instead, he leaned against the door. Hands in the pockets of his hoodie. Just watching.

“What?” you asked, suddenly a little flustered under the weight of his gaze.

“Nothing,” he said, shrugging. “Just like the way you look when you’re nervous.”

You rolled your eyes, kicking your shoes off. “Not nervous.”

“Liar.”

“You’re so full of yourself.”

“And yet,” he murmured, pushing off the door, “you’re still here.”

He crossed the room and pulled you in by the waist again, this time slower. His hands slipped under your hoodie, fingers skating across the small of your back.

“I’m gonna take my shirt off in like two seconds,” he said, soft but cocky, “and when I do, you’re gonna pretend you’re not thinking about what those scratches look like.”

You laughed, trying to play it off. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re obsessed.”

You were. But you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction.

Instead, you slid your hands under his hoodie and helped him pull it off. He tossed it toward the chair in the corner, exposing his bare chest beneath, faint bruises on his ribs, shirtless from post-match cool-down. And the marks.

There were five or six of them. Thin red lines across his back and shoulders, faded but fresh. Like someone had grabbed him, hard. Like someone had scratched their nails down his spine while coming undone.

You tried not to stare. Failed.

He saw the shift in your expression and smiled, all heat.

“You like those?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Didn’t have to.” He leaned in, whispering against your ear. “You left them. You think I’m not gonna wear them around the pitch like a trophy?”

Your face burned. “You’re ridiculous.”

He kissed the side of your neck, hot breath curling down your collarbone. “You’re the one who said I should fuck you harder next time. Just taking notes.”

He walked you back toward the bed, guiding you down onto the mattress as he kicked off his sneakers. The light from the window was golden, late afternoon sun slanting across the floor, catching on the edge of the mirror in the corner.

You didn’t miss the way he looked at it. The way his eyes flicked from you to your reflection and back again.

“You planned this,” you muttered, pushing yourself back onto the pillows.

“Planned what?”

“That mirror.”

He grinned, pulling his sweatpants down just low enough to be cocky. “Babe, I’ve always had that mirror.”

You rolled your eyes, but your thighs squeezed together all the same.

He climbed onto the bed, settling between your legs, but didn’t touch you not yet. Just hovered. That cocky glint still burning behind his eyes.

“Want me to make you quiet?” he asked, voice dropping.

You blinked. “What?”

“If we’re being loud. Want me to make you stay quiet?” His fingers brushed your jaw. “Hand over your mouth. All soft. Just until it’s safe again.”

You swallowed hard.

You didn’t answer. But he didn’t need you to.

He leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to your lips. This one deeper, softer, his body slowly settling on top of yours. And you knew exactly where this was going.

And you didn’t care.

You just wanted more.

His lips never left yours as he pushed your shirt up, fingers trailing along your waist before slipping under your bra to thumb at your nipple. He groaned when he felt how warm you already were, pulling away just enough to kiss your jaw.

“God, I missed this,” he muttered, dragging his mouth down your neck. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

“You saw me yesterday.”

“Exactly.” His hand slid between your legs, pressing down gently. “And I’ve been thinking about this all night.”

You moaned as he rubbed slow circles through your underwear, just enough to tease but not enough to satisfy. You arched against him, trying to grind against his hand, but he pulled back with a smirk.

“Relax,” he whispered. “We’ve got time.”

You glared. “You’re the one who said we might not.”

“And that just makes it more fun, doesn’t it?”

He slipped your underwear down your thighs, leaned in, and kissed your hip like he was worshipping you. Your skin prickled with anticipation. You could feel the heat of his breath as he lowered his mouth between your thighs, tongue sliding over your folds with that devastating combination of focus and smugness.

You gasped, fingers threading into his curls as he licked you slowly, deliberately, like he wanted to memorize the way you trembled. He flattened his tongue, then flicked it just right, and your hips jerked. He moaned against you, the sound vibrating through your whole body.

“Fuck! Héctor—”

“That’s it,” he murmured between kisses. “Just like that. Be quiet for me, baby. Don’t want my mom hearing, do we?”

You whimpered, and he only pressed harder. One hand gripped your thigh while the other came up to slide two fingers inside you, curling them in perfect rhythm with his tongue. He watched you fall apart with absolute satisfaction, eyes locked on your face like he wanted to burn this moment into his memory.

You were close. Too close. But just when you were about to fall apart, he pulled away.

“No,” you moaned, trying to pull him back.

“Not yet.” He sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Wanna see you ride me first.”

You blinked up at him, still breathless, still aching.

He stripped the rest of the way down, cock heavy and flushed, and leaned back against the pillows with his arms behind his head, just like he said he would.

You stared at him. At the way he looked like he belonged like that. Legs spread, waiting, that smug smirk still curling at the corners of his mouth.

“C’mon,” he said. “Come sit on it. Make a mess. I’ll keep you steady.”

You climbed onto his lap, thighs shaking as you lined him up. He kept his hands off you, on purpose, just watched as you slowly sank down onto him, gasping at how full he felt. The stretch made your eyes water, and you barely had time to adjust before he spoke again.

“Look in the mirror.”

You turned your head. The angle showed everything, the way you sat on him, your bare thighs around his hips, the way his cock disappeared inside you with every movement. You moaned, and he reached up to slide his hand over your mouth.

“Keep it down,” he whispered, voice dangerously low. “She could come home any second.”

You nodded helplessly, rocking your hips as his other hand grabbed your waist to guide your rhythm. You were soaked, the sound of skin meeting skin dangerously loud in the otherwise quiet room. His eyes flicked to the mirror again, watching you fuck yourself on him, pride blooming in his expression like he’d won something.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Just like that. You look so fucking good like this.”

You whined into his hand, your whole body trembling. He felt so deep. too deep

He bucked his hips once, hard, and your vision blurred.

“Gonna come?” he whispered, smirk returning. “Gonna soak me right here, with your mouth covered, knowing anyone could walk in?”

You nodded frantically, riding him faster now, chasing that high as his grip on your mouth tightened.

“Let go,” he said. “Be good and come for me.”

And you did. Your body snapped tight, heat exploding in your core as waves of pleasure rippled through you. He held you steady as you fell apart, fucking up into you through your orgasm, his hand still over your mouth, like he owned you.

“Good girl,” he groaned, fucking you harder now. “Gonna fill you up. You want that?”

You couldn’t even respond. Just nodded, eyes glassy, mouth still covered.

He came with a sharp grunt, burying himself deep inside you as his hands finally gripped your hips with force. He held you there, breath hot against your shoulder as he moaned your name into your skin.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you slick with sweat and shaking.

Silence.

And then

A key turned in the front door.

You shot up, wide-eyed.

He just smirked again.

“Told you to keep it down.”

[touchlinewhore]

requests are closed!💌

[touchlinewhore]

𝗙𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗡 𝗔 𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗚𝗛𝗧

𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: 𝘾𝙡𝙖𝙧𝙠 𝙆𝙚𝙣𝙩 (𝙎𝙪𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙣) 𝙭 𝘽𝙞𝙢𝙗𝙤!𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝘿𝙪𝙢𝙗𝙞𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣/𝙗𝙞𝙢𝙗𝙤 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙠, 𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙙𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚, 𝙛𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙠, 𝙥𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙚𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙠, 𝙥𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙢𝙗𝙖𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚, 𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙧, 𝙝𝙞𝙜𝙝-𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙠, 𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙭-𝙧𝙖𝙮 𝙫𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚, 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙪𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝘾𝙡𝙖𝙧𝙠 𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙗𝙖𝙗𝙗𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝘿𝙖𝙞𝙡𝙮 𝙋𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙚𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙤𝙤-𝙩𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨, 𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙙𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙖 𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤. 𝙎𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙𝙣’𝙩 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙜𝙤𝙙𝙨. 𝙀𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙤 𝙝𝙞𝙜𝙝 𝙣𝙤 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢.

You were being a menace, and you didn’t even know it.

The dress was pink. Tight. Strapless. Not quite work-appropriate, and definitely not meant for bending over to pick up a dropped pen in front of Clark Kent.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Just stared for half a second too long through those thin glasses before turning his head back to his monitor like nothing happened.

But you knew. Your glossy lips pulled into a proud little smirk as you sat back down at your desk, kicking your heels off dramatically and twirling your hair around your finger like the world was your playground.

The whole floor could feel it. The magnetic tension. Your voice was always bubbly, your walk always a little too slow, your files always carried with both hands like you needed someone to help you. And Clark your quiet, towering, too-good-for-you co-worker watched it all with that unreadable look on his face.

Until lunch.

You barely had time to touch your salad before your phone buzzed with a message:

Clark: My place. Now.

Just three words. Not a question. Not a request. Just that.

You knew better than to stall. He was already ahead of you when you stepped into the elevator. One glance at the dark look in his eyes was enough to make your thighs press together.

The moment the door to his apartment closed, he pinned you against it with a soundless rush of movement, palms flat against the wood, caging you in with his body towering behind yours.

“So,” he murmured, voice low and lazy near your ear, “you like being a distraction?”

Your heart jumped. “What do you mean, Clarky?”

He chuckled. quiet, cold, and amused. “You really think I can’t hear that little voice from twenty floors away? Twisting your hair, giggling while you bend over in that pathetic excuse for a dress?”

Your breath hitched. His fingers curled around your throat. not tight, just enough pressure to make your pulse throb against his grip.

“I-I was just being nice—”

“No, sweetheart. You were being a dumb little tease.”

You whimpered. His other hand was already sliding down your side, tracing the shape of your waist with a featherlight touch. “Clark…”

“You wore that thing knowing exactly what it’d do to me, didn’t you?” He let go of your neck and gripped your chin instead, forcing your face toward him. “But you forgot something important.”

“What’s that?” you whispered, blinking up at him like a girl with no thoughts at all.

He smiled like he was about to ruin you. “I’m not just some guy in glasses. I’m the one who keeps this whole city from crumbling. And you think you can bat your lashes at me like you’re not seconds away from crying?”

You were already breathing hard, hands planted flat against the door, your body helpless under the weight of his voice alone.

“I bet that pretty head of yours hasn’t had a real thought all day,” he muttered. “Not with the way you’re dripping every time I say your name.”

Your thighs squeezed together again, involuntarily. Clark caught it.

“Oh, you liked that. I bet you’re soaking through your little panties right now, just from hearing my voice.”

He didn’t have to check, he knew. He could see straight through you, after all. Every flutter, every slick twitch of muscle he didn’t need to guess.

“Take it off,” he said, stepping back just slightly. “All of it.”

You hesitated. Only for a second.

He raised an eyebrow.

“…Yes, sir,” you whispered.

You peeled the pink dress over your body, fingers shaking, head already going floaty as your brain tried to keep up with the pace he was setting. Clark’s gaze burned with something feral as he watched you undress, lips parted, breath heavy, arms crossed like he was restraining himself.

When you were bare, you stood there waiting, eyes wide, breathing shallow.

“You’re not very bright, huh?” he murmured, stepping closer again. “Getting all pretty for me like that… walking around the office like you didn’t need to be put in your place.”

Your lips parted but no words came. Just a soft sound needy and high.

Clark tilted his head, clearly entertained. “Cat got your tongue?”

You nodded dumbly.

He leaned in, brushing his lips over yours but not kissing just breathing the same air, watching the haze cloud your eyes.

“You gonna be good for me now?” he asked.

You nodded again.

“I need to hear it, sweetheart.”

“I’ll be good,” you whispered.

“Good girl.”

You practically melted at the praise. That was all it took.

He lifted you like you weighed nothing, strong hands gripping under your thighs, and you yelped softly as your back met the nearest wall. His body pinned you there, bare and flushed, and his mouth finally found yours in a kiss that sent your mind reeling.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow.

It was possessive. Dominating. Like he was claiming space inside your mouth just like he’d claimed it in your head.

His hands wandered. slow, methodical, leaving your skin burning where he touched it. He knew exactly where to grip, when to press harder, when to drag his mouth down your neck and bite down until you whined his name.

Your arms looped around his shoulders, helpless as he dragged you closer, like you were just a doll made to be handled. His fingers traced lower, dancing dangerously close to where you needed him most, but never quite touching.

“You ready for more?” he asked, teeth nipping your earlobe. “Or do you want me to ruin you first?”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “I-I want both…”

He grinned.

“Oh, baby. That’s the right answer.”

And then the world blurred.

You clutched him tighter as he took off. up, through the ceiling with a crash that echoed through your bones. Wind howled around you, your hair whipped wild, and your legs locked around his waist in terrified, delicious trust.

The clouds swallowed you both. Night air kissed your skin. You were above the city, above the stars, alone with a god who wanted to make you scream where no one could hear.

You laughed breathlessly, too stunned to speak.

Clark’s eyes glowed faintly in the dark. “Think that brain’s empty now?”

You nodded, breathless and desperate. “So empty.”

“Good. I’ll fill it.”

You were weightless.

Suspended in the sky, your arms wrapped around his neck, his body the only thing tethering you to the world. There was no floor, no ceiling, just Clark and wind and heat, your dress long gone, your skin prickled from the cold and from the way he looked at you.

You were bare in his arms. Literally and figuratively.

And he hadn’t even touched you yet.

Clark hovered just inches from your lips, his smirk unreadable, his grip under your thighs steady and unshakable. Your body was trembling with the rush of it all the air, the silence, the altitude, and the devastating calm in his voice.

“You really like this,” he murmured. “Don’t you, baby?”

You nodded without thinking, too far gone to do anything else.

“Of course you do. You were made for this.” He leaned in close, brushing his nose against your cheek as he whispered, “All soft and sweet and brainless, just waiting to be ruined by someone strong enough to handle you.”

His fingers tightened on your thighs. Your back arched.

“You need someone to tell you what to do, don’t you?” he murmured. “Because left to your own devices, all you do is tease. Tempt. Walk around like a dumb little doll with no idea how easy it would be for someone like me to bend you over and make you forget your own name.”

You whimpered. His lips ghosted over yours.

“I bet you’re close already. Just from flying. Just from me talking.”

You blinked at him, wide-eyed, totally gone. “C-Clark…���

He kissed you.

This time, it was less a kiss and more a claim. Tongue sliding against yours with slow, devastating control. One hand came up to your throat, squeezing just enough to make you floatier, lightheaded, buzzing with it.

And then he lowered you.

But not to the ground.

You hovered inches above him, legs still wrapped around his waist, floating together in the sky like gravity didn’t exist. He looked up at you with that smug godlike stare, lips wet, hair tousled, pupils blown wide.

He took his time.

Palming your thighs, kissing every inch of your trembling skin, letting your desperate sounds fill the empty space around you. No one could hear you. That was the most dangerous part, he could make you cry, scream, sob his name and the clouds would swallow it whole.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

You whimpered something close to a “yes,” but it came out broken. Barely a syllable.

Clark chuckled. “That’s alright, honey. I’ve got you. You don’t have to think anymore. Just take it.”

You felt it before you saw it. the stretch, the fullness, the way he pushed inside you slow and overwhelming, one hand under your ass, the other gripping your waist as your body seized around him.

Your mouth dropped open.

No words. No thoughts. Just heat.

He groaned low in his throat. “Fuck, you were made for this.”

Your hands clawed into his shoulders as he started to move. slow at first, just enough to make you feel the slide of him in and out, but not enough to let you adjust.

He knew what he was doing. He wanted you dizzy.

“Already crying?” he taunted softly. “I just started.”

Tears welled in your eyes, lips quivering.

“That’s okay, baby. You don’t need to be smart. You just need to be mine.”

His grip shifted. tighter, possessive and he started thrusting harder, rougher, the power behind every movement sending shockwaves through your entire body. Your moans were high-pitched, breathless, bouncing off the stars as your head lolled back.

And still he held you there, floating, helpless in his arms.

“You feel that?” he growled, voice thick and sharp. “That’s what you wanted. That’s what you were begging for every time you wore those tight little skirts to work.”

Your body was spiraling. You couldn’t even form words.

“That’s it. Dumb little thing. Can’t even speak anymore, huh? Just crying while I fill you up.”

Your nails dug into his back as he rutted into you with no mercy, each thrust deliberate, possessive, shattering. You were babbling now nonsense, moans, begging that didn’t even make sense.

And he loved it.

“Say you’re mine,” he hissed. “Say it.”

“I-I’m yours,” you choked.

“Say who owns this dumb little body.”

“You-You do, Clark please-!”

“That’s right.” His hand tightened on your throat again, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You’re gonna take it. Every drop. You’re gonna cum just from my voice, and then you’re gonna let me breed this pretty little cunt like you’re nothing but a toy.”

You shattered.

White-hot. Helpless. Brain screaming in every direction while your body arched and shook in his grip. He caught every spasm, every broken cry, holding you up through it like the air itself bent around his arms.

He didn’t stop.

He kept fucking you through it, groaning against your cheek, your name a wrecked sound in his throat.

And then, he stilled. Breathed your name.

You felt it.

The heat. The claim. The unmistakable pulse of it inside you, filling you so full you could barely breathe.

He didn’t let you go. Not right away. Not when you slumped against him, crying softly, dazed and wrecked and glowing from the inside out.

Clark whispered into your hair.

“Good girl.”

You whimpered.

He hovered there with you for minutes, kissing your temple, your forehead, your cheeks, smoothing your hair down like you hadn’t just been ruined in the sky.

“Back to earth, baby,” he murmured, holding you tighter. “I’ve got you.”

And he did.

Because you belonged to him now.

And everyone would know.

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[touchlinewhore]

𝗠𝗼𝗼𝗻𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗠𝗶𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗲𝗳

Pairing: Kenan Yıldız x Reader

Content Warning: Flirty teasing, mild smut, public teasing, shirtless scenes, possessive touches, light exhibitionism, consensual intimacy

You plopped down next to Kenan on the worn leather couch, the evening glow from the streetlights seeping through the window. He was still in his training gear, the tight shirt clinging to his shoulders and chest, droplets of sweat dotting his forehead. The way his muscles flexed with each subtle movement made your heart thump in your chest. You grinned, already picturing how to stir up some fun between you two.

“Hey,” you said softly, nudging his arm. “Halloween’s next week. We should do a couples costume.”

Kenan glanced at you with a raised brow, a slow smirk curling his lips. “Couples costume? You want to embarrass me in front of the squad?”

“Maybe,” you teased, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “But mostly, I want us to look so good that everyone stops what they’re doing just to stare.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “Alright, I’m listening. What’s your genius plan?”

You leaned closer, lowering your voice. “I want you shirtless.”

His eyes widened briefly before the smirk returned. “That’s your plan? Just me, shirtless?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “Yeah, think about it. You, confident as hell, the way your skin glistens after training… And I’ll wear something that complements the vibe perfectly. We’ll be the hottest couple at the party.”

Kenan shifted, the couch creaking under his weight as he turned to face you fully. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” you said with a sly smile.

He laughed softly, then reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “You know, that could actually work. But only if you promise to be mine all night.”

“You’ve got it,” you whispered, your hand finding his.

Over the next few days, you made sure Kenan knew exactly what you had in mind. You dropped hints about daring costumes and how you’d ‘accidentally’ show a little more skin. You caught him watching you when you slipped into that black dress that hugged your curves just right, your shoulders bare, the delicate lace teasing his imagination.

Every time he caught your gaze, his smirk would deepen, and you’d feel the heat rising in your chest. It was a game, a delicious tension that made your days brighter and your nights filled with stolen glances.

The night of the party arrived, and the air was thick with anticipation. The house was buzzing with music and laughter as you and Kenan stepped through the door. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, the fabric sliding off one shoulder to reveal toned skin kissed by the dim lights. You wore a sleek, dark outfit that clung to your body, the perfect match to his effortless charm.

He caught your hand as you moved through the crowd, pulling you close. “You look incredible.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you murmured back, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his forearm.

Throughout the night, Kenan’s hands never left you. Whether in a crowded room or a quieter corner, his touch was possessive and hungry. His fingers slid over your waist, his thumb brushing against the curve of your hip. You could feel his desire simmering just beneath the surface, a promise that the night held more than just playful teasing.

At one point, you slipped out onto the balcony to catch your breath, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the warmth pressing against your skin. Kenan followed silently, closing the door behind him.

He stepped behind you, his chest warm against your back. His hands slid around your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make you shiver.

“You’re killing me,” he whispered in your ear.

You leaned back into him, breath hitching. “Good.”

His lips brushed your earlobe, sending a jolt straight to your core. “I want to take you right here. Let everyone see exactly who you belong to.”

Your heart pounded, heat flooding every nerve ending. “I want that too.”

Kenan’s hands moved with growing urgency, sliding beneath the hem of your dress, skin to skin. You turned in his arms, capturing his lips in a fierce kiss, your tongues tangling in a dance of need and promise.

His hands roamed boldly, exploring and claiming, his touch both tender and demanding. You gasped against his mouth as he trailed kisses down your neck, nibbling softly at your pulse point.

“Say it,” he breathed.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, your voice trembling with desire.

“Only mine,” he corrected, eyes dark with possessive fire.

His hands slipped lower, fingers teasing the sensitive skin at your hip, pulling you flush against him. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your body trembling with anticipation.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “I’m going to mark you. Make sure no one forgets.”

You nodded, helpless to resist. His lips found the curve of your shoulder, biting gently as his hands moved with increasing boldness beneath your dress.

The world fell away until there was only the two of you, the cool night air mixing with the heat of your bodies pressed together in urgent, aching need.

The cool night air on the balcony contrasted sharply with the heat radiating from Kenan’s body pressed against yours. His hands had a careful urgency, exploring skin that burned beneath his touch, fingers tracing paths that left invisible marks only you could feel. Every breath you took was shallow, your senses heightened in that suspended moment between the noisy party and this private world you’d carved out together.

Kenan’s lips moved from your shoulder to the hollow of your neck, soft, lingering kisses punctuated with teasing bites. You tilted your head, exposing more of your skin to him, craving the sensation. The thrill of potentially being caught only added to the fire roaring inside you.

His hands slid under the hem of your dress, fingertips skimming the delicate fabric that barely concealed the skin beneath. You felt his touch, feather-light at first, then gradually more insistent, commanding. The way his fingers curled around your waist and pulled you impossibly closer sent a shudder through you.

“I don’t want to wait,” Kenan murmured against your skin, voice thick with need. “I want everyone to see that you’re mine. That you belong to me.”

Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging lightly as you pulled him into a fierce kiss, tasting the desire that matched your own. His hands roamed lower, tracing the curve of your hips, the soft line where your skin met the fabric of your dress.

You gasped as his lips trailed down your neck, leaving a trail of heat and promise. His hands gripped your waist, steady and possessive, as he lifted you effortlessly against the railing. The cool metal pressed against your back, grounding you in this moment that felt both wild and intimate.

Kenan’s breath was hot against your collarbone, his hands exploring the skin that flushed beneath his touch. Your heartbeat thundered, the tension building with every stolen second. You could feel the pulse of the party behind the closed door, a distant reminder of the world beyond this stolen escape.

He lowered his mouth to the sensitive skin just below your ear, sucking gently, marking you with his hunger. Your body arched against his, the heat pooling low in your belly threatening to spill over.

“Say it again,” he breathed, voice low and demanding.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, voice trembling with want.

“Only mine,” he repeated, voice rough with possessiveness.

His hands slid beneath your dress, fingers tracing delicate patterns that made your breath catch. The sensation was electric, every touch igniting a fire that spread through you like wildfire. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, needing to feel every inch of him.

Kenan’s lips found yours again, fierce and demanding. His tongue swept inside, exploring, tasting the heat and urgency between you. His hands moved with growing confidence, slipping beneath your clothing to claim the bare skin of your waist, your hips, your thighs.

The cool night air kissed your exposed skin as he pressed you harder against the railing, hands roaming with possessive intent. You moaned softly into his mouth, surrendering to the rush of sensation.

“I want you,” he growled, his voice low and husky. “Right here. Right now.”

Your breath hitched, heart pounding as he captured your mouth once more. His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging gently as he deepened the kiss. The world narrowed until there was nothing but the heat of your bodies, the wild rhythm of your racing hearts, and the electrifying thrill of being his.

His hands traveled lower still, fingers teasing along the curve of your thighs, eliciting a shiver that ran straight to your core. You arched into his touch, craving more, desperate to feel every part of him.

Kenan’s lips trailed down your neck again, leaving a path of fire as he kissed and nibbled with practiced precision. You gasped, fingers clutching his shoulders as the tension inside you spiraled higher.

He lifted your leg, wrapping it around his waist, pulling you impossibly close. The sensation of skin on skin, the heat of your bodies entwined in the cool night, was intoxicating. His hands gripped you firmly, grounding you as waves of pleasure crashed through you.

“Say it one more time,” he demanded, voice thick with need.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, breathless and trembling.

“Only mine,” he growled, voice dripping with possessive promise.

The night stretched on around you, the sounds of the party fading into a distant hum. There was only you and Kenan, locked in a dance of desire and trust, the lines between pleasure and possession blurring in the moonlight.

His touch was both gentle and commanding, a perfect balance that left you breathless and wanting. Every kiss, every caress, every whispered word was a vow, a promise that this night and you belonged to him.

As the stars wheeled overhead, you surrendered fully to the heat and the moment, knowing that this was just the beginning of a night neither of you would forget.

[touchlinewhore]

𝗦𝗔𝗬 𝗜𝗧 𝗔𝗚𝗔𝗜𝗡

Pairing: Cole Palmer x Reader

Content warnings: Jealousy, possessive behaviour, hand on throat, hair pulling, dirty talk, breeding kink, overstimulation, semi-public setting (car), marking, exhibitionism

ringing in Cole’s ears, the lingering pulse of adrenaline making every nerve in his body hum with an edge of raw intensity. His skin was slick with sweat, and the damp fabric of his shirt clung to his muscles as he peeled it off with a quick, rough motion, tossing it onto the pile of kits waiting to be washed. The air in the locker room was thick with heat and the mingled scents of exertion and victory. But none of it distracted him from the storm gathering in his chest.

He glanced over and saw you waiting by the tunnel entrance, your expression calm and steady, but something in the way you bit your lip made his stomach tighten. His eyes tracked the subtle glance a man on the sidelines had stolen in your direction during the game—a look filled with something that should’ve only belonged to him. A smirk that said, “She’s mine now.”

Cole’s jaw clenched hard enough that the muscles twitched, a physical manifestation of the possessive hunger pulsing through him. You belonged to him always had, always would. No one else had the right to even look your way, let alone want you.

He set off, boots thudding heavy on the concrete floor as he closed the distance between you. His hand slid through your hair with possessive ease, fingers threading around the strands as his thumb traced the curve of your cheek. “You know what happens when I see that,” he murmured, voice low and thick with something dark and dangerous.

Before you could answer, his hand moved up, fingers wrapping around your throat with a grip that was firm but careful enough to hold you without pain. His thumb brushed your pulse point lightly, a steady claim. His eyes locked with yours, dark and burning with a fierce kind of need.

“You don’t belong to anyone else,” Cole growled, breath warm against your skin.

Your pulse fluttered in response, heat pooling deep and slow between your legs. His presence was overwhelming, like a wave crashing over you too strong to fight, too intoxicating to resist. His body pressed into yours, the hard planes of his chest firm against your ribs, every inch of him tense with controlled hunger.

His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging softly, urging you closer, and then his lips were on yours rough, demanding, insistent. The kiss was desperate, a promise and a warning all at once. His tongue slipped inside your mouth, exploring, claiming, marking you as his in the way only he could.

He pulled back just enough to look at you with a slow, dark smile. “Say it,�� he whispered, voice rough with need, “Say you’re mine.”

Your throat tightened, words catching in your chest, but you forced them out, trembling. “I’m yours.”

Cole’s grin deepened, his hands sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers ghosting over your ribs, your waist, tracing every curve with a possessive hunger that left you breathless. He lowered his mouth to your jaw, nibbling softly, then dragging his teeth along the sensitive skin, marking you with the heat of his mouth.

His hands tightened, squeezing your waist, pulling you flush against him. “Good girl,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction.

The car was waiting just outside, and with a steady hand on your hip, Cole guided you inside. The door shut behind you with a soft click, sealing you both in a world of shadows and heat. The leather seats were cool beneath your skin, but the fire between you was anything but.

Cole didn’t waste a second. His hands roamed with an urgency that made your breath hitch, sliding under your shirt again, fingers tracing the small of your back, slipping beneath the waistband of your pants to caress your skin. His touch was a mix of tenderness and desperation, a need that was both grounding and wild.

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me,” he whispered, voice low and raw, lips brushing your ear.

You trembled beneath his touch, the tension coiling tighter and tighter until it was almost unbearable. His dirty talk was filthy, raw, and so unlike the composed, controlled player everyone knew. It was the Cole only you saw the possessive, demanding man who owned every inch of you.

“Say it again,” he said, voice thick and heavy. “Say you’re mine. I want to hear it.”

“I’m yours, Cole,” you whispered, voice barely steady.

He laughed, low and rough, his hands moving with increased urgency, marking you in the places no one else would see. His lips found your neck again, sucking and biting in a way that made your knees weak. The tension inside you snapped, and you gasped, lost in the heady mix of pleasure and dominance.

Cole’s fingers dug into your hips as he shifted you onto his lap, grinding against you with a possessive growl. His mouth was everywhere neck, collarbone, chest each kiss a brand, a warning, a claim. You were his, and he was showing you in every breathless moment.

“Beg for me,” he demanded, voice a low growl that vibrated through you.

“Please, Cole,” you moaned, “I need you. I want you.”

The car rocked softly as he responded, his touch relentless, his dirty talk filthy and raw. He was marking you, claiming you in ways no one else could his voice, his hands, his mouth. The world outside faded until there was only the two of you, tangled together in a desperate dance of possession and need.

Hours later, when your bodies were slick with sweat and the city lights blinked distant and cold, Cole pulled you close, lips brushing your ear. “No one touches you but me,” he said softly. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you whispered, heart full, trembling, and utterly his.

His smile was fierce, protective, and filled with love. “Good. Because you’re mine.”

Cole’s hands didn’t just roam, they owned every inch of you, dragging fire across your skin as he claimed you like territory. His fingers pressed firmly into your hips, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body making your nerves ignite in a delicious ache. You could feel the hard press of him through the thin fabric of his pants, every inch screaming with need.

His lips trailed from your jaw down to the hollow of your neck, teeth grazing with a fierce hunger that left sharp, hot marks. You gasped, head falling back, throat vulnerable under his possessive mouth. “You feel like this… all for me,” he murmured, voice low and thick with lust. “Say it. Say you’re mine, that you want me to take you like I mean it.”

Your breath hitched, trembling with want and desperate need. “I’m yours,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Only yours. Take me, Cole.”

He growled, a dark sound vibrating deep in his chest, fingers tightening on your waist as he shifted his body to trap you fully against him. His lips crushed against yours in a demanding kiss, teeth biting lightly as his tongue slid over your mouth, claiming you in a rough, urgent dance.

His hands slid beneath your shirt, fingertips tracing the smooth planes of your back, dipping lower to hook beneath the waistband of your pants. The cool contrast of skin and metal buttons sent shivers racing down your spine, every nerve alight.

“Beg for it,” Cole commanded, breath hot against your ear. “Tell me you want to be filled up. Tell me you need it.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding fiercely. “Please, Cole. Breed me. I need you inside me. Only you.”

His hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave marks, the possessiveness in his touch sending waves of heat through your body. His mouth moved to your collarbone, sucking and biting with deliberate cruelty, marking you, claiming you. You moaned, lost in the overwhelming sensation of being utterly wanted, utterly his.

Cole shifted again, grinding his hips against you with a slow, torturous pressure that made your breath catch. His hands moved faster now, fingers tugging at your pants, peeling them down your legs with a rough, possessive urgency. You could feel the slick heat gathering between your thighs, aching and trembling for release.

He kissed his way down your body, lips brushing over your ribs, stomach, hips, leaving a trail of fire that made your skin crawl deliciously. His hands steadied you, fingers spreading you open, teasing you with touches that were both gentle and demanding, driving you wild.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathed, eyes dark and hooded with desire. “No one else gets to touch you. No one else even gets to look. You’re mine.”

Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, desperate for more. His mouth found yours again, and the kiss deepened, rough and fierce as his body pressed into yours with mounting heat. The world outside the car ceased to exist.

Cole’s grip on you tightened, fingers exploring, stroking, every touch sending waves of pleasure and possessive need through your body. His dirty talk grew more urgent, more raw, each word an addictive promise.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say you want me to fill you up. Say you want me to mark you like this forever.”

Your voice cracked with need. “Yes, Cole. I want you. Fill me. Mark me. I’m yours.”

He growled again, pushing deeper into you with a slow, deliberate rhythm that made your knees buckle and your breath shatter. Every inch of you burned with heat and need, every touch, every sound, every whispered command locking you tighter into his possession.

“Look at me,” Cole demanded, voice fierce. “I want to see you lose control. I want to see you undone for me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his with a mix of desperation and trust. You were his.

His hands moved faster now, fingers clutching your hips as he deepened his thrusts, the car filling with the sounds of your shared need. His voice dropped lower, rougher, thick with lust and dominance.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he growled. “Tell me you’re mine and only mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, voice breaking. “Only yours.”

The intensity built between you, every movement precise and powerful, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Cole’s hands gripped you like he was afraid to let go, his breath ragged against your skin as he whispered filthy promises and commands.

“Come for me,” he demanded, voice a low growl. “Come on my cock. Let me hear you.”

Your body trembled, waves of overwhelming pleasure crashing over you as you surrendered to the sensations, the need, the absolute possession. Cole held you through it all, steady and unyielding, claiming you with every touch, every word.

As the last tremors faded, he pressed a rough kiss to your forehead, his hands gentle now but still possessive. “Mine,” he whispered one last time.

You smiled, breathless and spent, knowing you’d never forget this night. You were his, completely and utterly, and you wouldn’t want it any other way.

[touchlinewhore]

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.

He knew what he was doing.

And you loved him for it.

[touchlinewhore]

𝗦𝘂𝗯𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗜𝗻 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗸𝘆

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader Content Warning: Flight kink, exhibitionism, sensory deprivation, condescending dominance, intense trust kink, possessive behavior, semi-public setting, overstimulation themes, no explicit anatomy. Word Count: ~4,000 Support my writing: https://ko-fi.com/touchline

You felt the shift in the air before you saw him. That subtle drop in pressure, the faint stir of wind that no open window could’ve caused. Your skin prickled, trained now to his presence like instinct Clark was near, and he wanted something. You turned slowly, spine already straightening, eyes narrowing with practiced suspicion. He stood in your doorway like he owned the threshold, broad shoulders framed in the dying sunset, eyes impossibly dark behind those damn glasses.

“I told you to wait until tomorrow,” you said calmly, though your heart had already started to race.

He didn’t answer. Just stepped in, shutting the door behind him, expression unreadable. The tension he carried rolled off him in waves his suit jacket was off, sleeves rolled up to the elbows like he’d torn himself away from something halfway through. His tie was still on, crooked. His knuckles were bruised.

“Clark,” you said again, warning this time, but softer.

He was already in front of you. Not fast—not the blur he used when he needed to disappear or disarm. No, this was worse. He stalked toward you. Like a storm.

“I told you to wait,” you repeated, backing up half a step, pulse in your throat.

“I don’t take orders from you,” he murmured, voice low, calm, measured but it wasn’t really calm at all. It was sharp with something else. Possession. Hunger. “Not when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

He crowded you against the wall before you could finish the sentence. One hand braced beside your head, the other reaching up to undo his tie slowly, deliberately, as if he had all the time in the world. His eyes didn’t leave yours once.

“Like you want me to lose control.”

You swallowed. “You already have.”

“No,” he whispered, letting the loosened tie fall around your neck like a leash. “But I’m about to.���

The flight was sudden. You gasped when your feet left the floor, arms instinctively snapping around his shoulders, heart leaping into your throat. But he held you firm against his chest, warm and unshakably steady. The air around you shimmered, the walls fell away, and then you were rising skyline disappearing beneath you in a blur of lights and cloud and weightlessness. You clutched at him tighter, but he didn’t stop. He just kept going.

“Where are we going?” you breathed, wind slicing past your skin, your heart thudding against his.

“Somewhere no one can hear you scream.”

Your breath caught.

By the time he stopped, the world was unrecognizable. Stars above, clouds below, and nothing but open air around you. He hovered there, holding you with one arm beneath your thighs, the other wrapped around your waist, eyes heavy on your mouth like he was daring you to speak again.

“You trust me?” he asked, voice low and intimate against your ear.

You nodded.

“No,” he said, tilting your chin up roughly with his fingers. “Say it.”

“I trust you.”

“Good girl.”

The words nearly undid you. The tie was still around your neck, fluttering in the wind, and you felt it tighten slightly as he pulled it taut with one hand, using it to hold your body flush against his. The other slid beneath your clothes with ridiculous ease, fingers tracing the waistband of your underwear like he’d been thinking about this all damn day.

“You wore the lace ones,” he murmured, almost mockingly. “You knew I’d come tonight.”

You didn’t answer.

“You wanted me to.”

You nodded, biting your lip.

He tsked. “You wanted to be ruined midair.”

“Clark—”

“Quiet.”

It wasn’t just a command. It was a shift. A full-body possession. He wrapped one arm around your waist and the other hand tugged the tie sharply, yanking your head back just enough to expose your throat to the cold night. His mouth was on you immediately, hot and biting, tongue dragging down your skin like he couldn’t get deep enough. You moaned before you could help it, the sound instantly swallowed by the wind.

“No one can hear you,” he growled. “No one can save you. You’re mine up here.”

He made good on the promise. Your underwear was gone in seconds, shredded by strength that made your breath catch and your thighs clench. You clung to him harder, nerves alight with anticipation and trust and the primal thrill of being completely, terrifyingly at his mercy. You couldn’t even see properly anymore his hand was over your eyes, blocking your sight completely, plunging you into darkness. All that was left was heat. His mouth. His voice. His cock grinding against your core, slow and steady, teasing you like it wasn’t driving him mad too.

“Say it,” he breathed against your cheek. “Say who you belong to.”

“You.”

He pressed harder.

“Who’s going to fuck you where no one can see you? Who’s going to fill you up so deep you’ll still feel me when we land?”

“You.”

“Who’s going to breed you right here in the sky?”

You whimpered, hips jerking forward.

He chuckled, low and dangerous, before sinking into you with one brutal thrust. You cried out, arms flying around his neck, and he didn’t stop. He didn’t let you adjust. He didn’t ask. He just fucked. Deep, heavy thrusts that jolted your body with every stroke, holding you suspended like you weighed nothing, like the air itself bent to keep you open for him.

Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, trying to ground yourself in something, anything, but he just laughed again condescending, smug, so in control it made you tremble.

“Can’t run. Can’t hide. No ground to crawl away on, baby.”

Your head dropped back with a moan, and he took the opportunity to kiss down your exposed throat, sucking hard enough to leave marks he knew you’d have to explain later.

“Such a pretty little body,” he muttered. “So needy for me. You wanted this. I know you did. Look at you already dripping.”

He reached between you without breaking pace, thumb sliding over your clit like it was a button he’d engineered himself. You screamed, really screamed it vanished into the wind, your voice stolen by altitude and the raw force of what he was doing to you. He kissed you to shut you up, tongue possessive, dominant, like he needed to own every inch of you at once.

And still, he didn’t slow.

“God, I can feel how tight you are,” he grunted, jaw clenched. “Taking me so good. You were made for this, weren’t you? Made to be mine.”

“Clark! I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” he hissed. “You’ll take every drop I give you.”

Your vision was already white behind your closed eyes. You couldn’t feel the cold anymore just heat, pleasure, pressure. His name tore from your throat like a prayer. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move except for how he let you.

“Gonna fill you up now,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Gonna fuck it so deep into you you’ll be leaking all the way home.”

Your orgasm hit like a freight train. Your entire body shook in his arms, vision blank, sob escaping your throat. He held you through it, growling against your skin, thrusts jerky now, uneven, desperate.

“Take it,” he gritted. “Take my fucking cum.”

He spilled into you with a broken groan, pulsing hard, and you swore you felt it fill you in waves, endless and warm and thick. Your fingers dug into his shoulders. Your body twitched, overstimulated, and still, he didn’t pull out. He just kissed you again, slower now, more tender, while you panted against him, boneless and floating in every sense of the word.

You clung to him like your life depended on it. He didn’t say anything. Just held you there in the sky, both of you hovering on the edge of space, sweat cooling against skin, hearts racing in tandem.

When he finally carried you home, it was in silence. Your legs still around him. His tie still around your neck. And your body still leaking proof of what he’d done to you.

Later, in bed, you reached for him again. He caught your wrist.

“Again?” you whispered, incredulous.

He smirked.

“You’re not done,” he murmured, voice low. “I’m not letting you sleep until I know it stuck.”

[touchlinewhore]

girrll…

one with the characters with the same personality as the submissive cubarsi fic but with more scenes from everyday life and also smut of course 😶‍🌫️

i’m kind obsessed

Needy little Thing

You knew he was going to be a problem the second he came home early from training, barefoot and shirtless, with his curls damp and a sheepish grin on his face. “We finished early,” he said, leaning against the kitchen doorframe while you chopped onions in his hoodie well, technically yours now. “You missed me?”

You didn’t even look up. “You saw me this morning.”

“But that was hours ago,” he muttered, coming up behind you like gravity didn’t exist, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his cheek to your shoulder. “And I had a bad training. Didn’t even score in the mini match.”

“You’re not a striker.”

“I still wanted to impress you.” His voice dipped, warm against your neck. “You weren’t there to watch me.”

“You told me not to come because it was boring.”

“I lied.”

He was like that, sometimes clingy, soft, impossibly in love. You used to think it was a joke when he’d stare at you like you hung the moon just for him, or when he sent voice notes from away matches that started with “I had a dream about you last night, cariño, I woke up hard in the team hotel and I swear to God I almost booked a flight home.”

Now it was just...Pau.

You tossed the chopped onions into the pan, stirring absently while he clung to you. “You gonna help cook, or just breathe on me?”

“I’ll help,” he said, though his hands didn’t move. “Tell me what to do.”

“Let go first.”

He groaned dramatically, but stepped back and reached for the garlic. “You know I hate cooking.”

“You just hate following instructions.”

“No,” he said, pouting as he started peeling cloves slowly, “I love following your instructions. Just not when it’s about garlic.”

You arched an eyebrow.

He smiled. “I like the other kind better. You know...when you tell me to get on my knees or shut up or keep my hands behind my back—”

You tossed a garlic clove at his head.

Dinner ended in a mess of flour on the floor, burnt garlic bread, and Pau dragging his plate onto your lap so he could eat while sitting beside you on the couch like a golden retriever. He curled into your side after, chewing a bite of pasta dramatically and groaning like it was sinful.

“This is actually so good,” he mumbled with his mouth full. “God, marry me.”

“Mm. Wash the dishes first.”

He pressed a kiss to your jaw. “If you told me to, I would. Naked. On my knees. Right now.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks burned. He noticed. Of course he did.

“You love it when I’m desperate for you, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer.

He kissed your cheek again, lower this time. “You like how soft I am for you. How needy. How I act like I’d crawl if you even hinted at it.”

“Pau.”

His lips dragged to your neck. “You gonna make me beg again? Or ride me until I cry this time?”

Your stomach clenched. He knew exactly what that tone did to you, mischievous, soaked in need, edged with that helpless sweetness only he could pull off. The kind that made you feel like he’d do anything. Like he already had.

“Bedroom,” you said quietly.

He was up first, grabbing your hand, grinning like he’d just scored a hat trick. You barely made it to the bed before his hands were on your waist, tugging off your hoodie with shaky fingers, his mouth already on your skin, kissing down your sternum like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

“You gonna let me touch you tonight?” he whispered. “Or just keep my hands behind my back like last time?”

“You think you’ve earned touching privileges?”

“No,” he breathed, eyes dark. “But I’ll earn them. However you want. Just...tell me what to do.”

You pushed him gently back onto the bed. His chest rose and fell with the kind of anticipation that made your blood run hot. He looked like a dream—hair messy, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide with nothing but want. You kissed him slowly, dragging it out, hands sliding up his arms before you murmured, “Put your hands behind your head.”

He obeyed immediately. Of course he did.

You slid down his body, taking your time, and when your mouth finally touched him, he gasped sharp and desperate. He bucked up and you flattened your palm against his thigh.

“Don’t move.”

“Fuck- sorry! sorry, I—please...”

“You wanna come already?”

“No, I just- God, I’ve been thinking about this all day, please don’t stop-”

You didn’t. Not until he was whining so loud you had to cover his mouth with your hand and tell him to be quiet, not until his legs were shaking and he was begging you to let him finish, not until you had him right on the edge and pulled away just to watch him cry out in frustration.

“Why do you like torturing yourself like this?” you teased softly, straddling him.

“Because it’s you,” he said, voice wrecked. “Because I love when you break me.”

Your heart clenched. It always did when he said stuff like that not because it was dirty, but because he meant it. Fully. Every word.

You guided him in slowly, savoring the stretch, and he moaned under you like it was the only thing that ever made sense. His hands stayed behind his head like you told him, even as he trembled beneath you, even as you rode him slow and deep and steady, watching his eyes roll back when you whispered filth into his ear.

“You gonna cry for me?”

He nodded frantically, already glassy-eyed. “I’m so close- please, please, I need it—”

“Then come.”

He let out the prettiest sound, the kind you’d think about later when the flat was quiet and the sheets smelled like sex and safety. His thighs shook. His whole body did. You kept moving, even as he begged you to stop, too sensitive, too wrecked, but still so good for you. Always so good.

When you finally slowed, you reached out and stroked his curls gently. He blinked up at you like he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming.

“You alive?”

He nodded weakly. “You killed me. But it was worth it.”

You laughed and leaned down to kiss his jaw. “C’mon. Let’s clean up.”

“Can’t move.”

“You have to. You said you’d wash dishes naked, remember?”

He whined. “I’d rather die.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“…But if you really want me to…”

You smacked his chest and he laughed, dragging you down into a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and affection, his hands finally free to tangle in your hair and hold you close. You lay like that for a while, limbs tangled, breaths slowing. He traced small shapes into your shoulder.

“Next time,” he murmured, “can we do it with the mirror again?”

You grinned. “You really liked watching yourself cry, huh?”

“No,” he whispered, kissing your collarbone. “I liked watching you break me.”

You didn’t say anything back. Just pulled the covers over both of you and let him cling to you like he always did, like he needed to, like he wanted to stay there forever.

And you let him. Because you needed it too.

[touchlinewhore]

Hey, I saw your post about making money from your writing. I’m not against this, as such, but I want you to know that getting paid for fanfiction is a pretty quick way to get into legal trouble, that’s why sites like archive of our own won’t let people link to kofi or anything. Just something to be aware of before you make any decisions!

hey love!! Thanks for the heads-up! I’m not charging for fanfic or selling it, just leaving a Ko-fi for anyone who wants to support my writing in general. But I appreciate the reminder to be careful 💛 thank you😁

[touchlinewhore]

suggestions 💌

hey loves, i need your opinion about commissions, as you know that im very grateful that i have your support, and you guys love my stories i’ve seen through my inbox, comments and anon. but the thing is that i wanted to start making money, like thru requests etc.

i don’t want to be that person that makes money from the dumbest thing of you get what i mean 😭😭, since life is kicking me in the ahh writing for you guys is my escapism. Please let me know if you have ideas for what i can do make make money off of i already have my kofi up!!

[touchlinewhore]

Unmasked

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Content/Warnings: Dubcon energy (consensual but overwhelming), obsessive behavior, rough dominance, breeding kink, jealousy, hair-pulling, glasses kink, tie kink, mirror use, overstimulation, size kink/power imbalance, reader on knees, hand-over-mouth, emotional possessiveness, secret identity reveal, no scene breaks, emotionally intense ending

Ko-fi (support the writer): https://ko-fi.com/touchline

You shouldn’t have stayed late. The office was quiet, lights low, papers rustling in the stillness as you sat hunched over your desk, flipping through stories with half-dead eyes. You hadn’t even noticed Clark was still there, seated across the bullpen like always, tapping at his keyboard in that patient, soft way of his. His glasses slipped down his nose the way they always did when he concentrated. Except now, for some reason, he wasn’t typing anymore. He was watching you.

You looked up and caught his gaze. His jaw was tight.

“Everything okay?” you asked lightly.

He nodded, but didn’t speak. You stared at him. Then something shifted. The silence changed. His eyes, darker than usual, hotter, didn’t leave yours.

“Clark?”

He stood, slow and quiet, like he was making a decision that had taken him years. Then he walked toward you. You opened your mouth to speak, but he spoke first.

“I need to tell you something.”

“What?”

His eyes searched yours. “It’s me,” he said softly. “I’m him.”

And when he pulled his glasses off, it hit you like a train. His entire body straightened, uncoiled, no longer hunched, no longer mild-mannered. His voice, still gentle, held a tremor underneath. Power, restraint, something aching.

“Superman.”

Your heart dropped. You stood too fast, backed into your desk. “You’re joking.”

He shook his head. “I’ve never lied to you. Not really. I couldn’t.”

“Clark,” you said, and stopped. Your chest was heaving.

He stepped closer. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. But you deserve to know.”

His voice cracked. Not from guilt. From something else. Want.

You swallowed. “You’ve been hiding this from me.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

You looked at him. Really looked. And for the first time, it wasn’t Clark Kent standing in front of you. It was everything beneath him. His body was taut, his expression wrecked. And suddenly, you understood something else. He hadn’t just been hiding who he was. He’d been hiding how he felt.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Because suddenly, he was stepping between your knees, crowding you against the desk, hands not touching you but so close they burned.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he said, voice low, wrecked. “But I couldn’t let it out. If I did,” he swallowed hard, “I’d ruin everything. I can’t lose control with you.”

You felt your skin burn at the words. “Then don’t.”

He inhaled sharply. “Say that again.”

You blinked up at him. “I want you to lose control.”

The look that broke across his face was almost painful. His hands finally touched you. Not tentative. Not soft. But with heat, purpose. One grabbed your hip and pulled you forward against him, and the other curled around the side of your neck, thumb at your jaw.

“You don’t know what you’re asking me for,” he breathed.

But you did. You’d known for weeks. Maybe longer.

“I do,” you whispered.

He kissed you like something inside him had snapped. Hot and full and deep, dragging a whimper from your throat, and he didn’t stop. His hand slid into your hair and gripped, pulling your head back so his mouth could trail down your jaw, your throat, teeth grazing skin. The sound you made earned a low groan from him, and you felt his body stiffen, trying to hold back.

“I’ve thought about this so many times,” he muttered. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

“Then show me,” you said, breathless.

He pulled back just enough to look down at you. The heat in his eyes made your legs tremble. Then he reached for his tie.

He didn’t take it off. He used it. Used it to pull your wrists together and pin your hands behind your back with one firm movement. You gasped, and he smiled, soft and broken.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered.

“You’re terrifying.”

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “And you’re mine.”

Then he was kissing you again with purpose, with restraint starting to crack. You felt his hips press into you, hard, demanding, the threat of his strength curling around you like heat. When he spoke, it was directly against your mouth.

“I’m not going to stop unless you tell me to.”

You didn’t answer.

“I mean it,” he said, lower. “If you want me to let you go, say it now.”

You met his eyes. You nodded.

“Don’t stop.”

The next moment was a blur. He lifted you onto the desk like you weighed nothing, mouth hungry, hands everywhere, his body slotting between your legs and pinning you open. You could feel how tightly wound he was, every breath he took was shaky, like he was on the edge of snapping. You realized with a dizzy rush that he was still holding back. Even now. He was giving you the barest fraction of what he wanted.

“You’ve been watching me this whole time,” he said into your skin. “Looking at me like I don’t see it. Acting like you don’t want me.”

“I didn’t think I could,” you whispered.

“You can,” he growled. “You’re mine.”

Your tied hands clenched behind you. His glasses were still on, and the sight of them while he wrecked you from the inside out was something that burned into your memory. You couldn’t stop gasping his name. And the more you said it, the less gentle he became.

He tugged you off the desk and onto your knees. You barely had time to catch your breath before his hand tangled in your hair. Not cruelly. Just enough to hold you still while he looked down at you, jaw tense.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “Right where you belong.”

He pressed his thumb to your lip, his other hand curled at the back of your head, tilting you up to face him. Your mouth parted for him like it was instinct.

“Beg,” he said. “Just once. Let me hear it.”

“Please,” you whispered.

He let go of a sound he’d been holding in for years. It was somewhere between a growl and a prayer.

He didn’t let go of your hair. Not once. He guided you the way he needed, watching every movement, every sound you made. It was messy, filthy, overwhelming. When you looked up at him with your eyes wet and mouth slack, he groaned something low and sinful and dragged you up to your feet like he couldn’t take it anymore.

He bent you in front of the mirror in his bedroom. You hadn’t even noticed him carry you across the city. But now you were here, legs shaking, arms still bound, and his reflection looked untouchable. Perfect. Except his hands were on your hips, and his mouth was at your shoulder, and his voice was breaking apart in real time.

“Look at yourself,” he said roughly. “Look how good you take me.”

You did. You couldn’t look away. And when you turned your head and saw his glasses still on, the crack in your chest split wide open.

“I need you,” he said. “I need you so much I can’t breathe.”

You said his name and told him you needed him too.

And that was the last thread of control he had.

His hand clamped over your mouth to stifle your scream as he pushed you past your limit. Again. And again. He kissed your shoulder between every stroke. He whispered how good you were. How much he loved you. How he wasn’t going to last.

“I’m going to make you mine,” he growled into your neck. “Completely.”

You whimpered. He wrapped his arms tighter.

“I’m going to fill you up. You want that?”

You nodded, frantic.

“Say it.”

“I want you to,” you gasped. “I want you to make me yours.”

He groaned so loudly you thought the mirror might shatter. He held your tied wrists in one hand and used the other to tip your chin so you had to look at your reflection.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered. “You always were.”

And when he finally let go, when he gave you everything, the tension that had lived in him for years shattered. He didn’t stop kissing your skin. He didn’t untie your hands yet. He just held you, trembling, whispering your name like a man who’d nearly broken himself holding back.

You lay in the sheets after, dazed. Breathless. He was quiet beside you, eyes red, heart still racing. You turned to him, touched his face.

“I knew there was something about you.”

He smiled, weakly.

“There’s everything about you.”

You didn’t need the cape. You didn’t need the suit. You had the realest part of him.

And he had you.

[touchlinewhore]

Kenan and reader having a comforting Evening some cooking and cuddles afterwards. It’s super fluffy and Kenan is super dorky and in love with reader

The Saucepan Theory

You’re in Kenan’s hoodie, of course.

It’s far too big, the sleeves falling over your hands, but he always insists you wear it when you’re over. “Looks better on you,” he says, tossing it at you every time you come through his door, like it’s a rule. A tradition.

Tonight, you don’t protest. It smells like him. Warm and clean and a little like cinnamon. He’s already barefoot in the kitchen when you wander in, hair damp from a shower, sleeves shoved up past his elbows as he sorts through ingredients.

“What’s this?” you ask, leaning on the counter.

“Dinner,” he says proudly, holding up a box of pasta like he’s just discovered fire.

You snort. “You know that only counts if you actually cook it.”

“I am cooking it,” he says, utterly unbothered. “Well, we are.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So this is a team effort now?”

He grins. “Unless you want me to burn everything and poison us both, yes.”

You open your mouth to answer, but he tosses you an apron first, nearly smacking you in the face with it.

You put it on, laughing.

“Chef Kenan at your service,” he says, puffing his chest out dramatically.

“Oh god.”

“You better take this seriously,” he warns, grabbing a wooden spoon like it’s a sword. “I watched a whole YouTube video.”

⸻

The kitchen quickly turns into chaos, but the good kind.

You chop garlic while he tries to remember the difference between basil and spinach. He somehow manages to open a can upside down. You tease him for stirring the sauce too aggressively. He tells you the garlic smells like heaven and tries to sneak some out of the bowl when you’re not looking.

“Back off,” you say, slapping his hand.

He makes a wounded noise. “Abuse.”

“You’re not even doing anything. Why are you sweating?”

“I’m emotionally invested.”

“Right.”

He steps behind you to reach for the salt, but he doesn’t move away. His arms cage around you, slow and unhurried. You freeze when he rests his chin on your shoulder and mumbles, “You look good like this.”

You glance at him. “Like what?”

He shrugs. “Just… here. In my hoodie. Making food with me.”

His voice is soft. Almost shy.

You blink.

Kenan’s never been smooth. Charming, yes. Flirty, sometimes. But this? This is something else. The words land in your chest and settle there, warm.

You turn a little in his arms, and he meets your eyes like he’s not even trying to hide anything.

“You always say stuff like that,” you whisper.

He smiles.

“Because I mean it.”

⸻

After dinner, you’re both too full to do anything. The kitchen’s a mess, but Kenan just grabs your hand and pulls you to the couch without even pretending to care.

“Come here,” he says, already dragging a blanket over the two of you.

You curl into his side, the fabric of his hoodie soft against your cheek. His arm wraps around you instinctively, palm resting low on your waist. His other hand settles behind your neck, fingers threading into your hair.

It’s quiet for a moment. The kind of quiet that feels earned.

You shift slightly to get more comfortable, and Kenan glances down at you, smiling.

“Comfy?”

“Mhm.”

He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead.

You freeze.

He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. His fingers keep moving gently through your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp.

“Your hair’s soft,” he murmurs.

Your heart stumbles.

“Kenan.”

“Hm?”

You look up at him.

He’s staring at you like he’s memorizing your face. Like he wants to take a picture and keep it somewhere safe.

“Do you always look at people like that?” you ask.

He blinks. “Like what?”

“Like you’re in love with them.”

His hand pauses in your hair.

“I don’t,” he says quietly.

You bite your lip. “No?”

He shakes his head once.

“Just you.”

⸻

Neither of you speak for a long moment.

Then, very quietly you say, “You’re kind of a sap.”

He grins. “Only for you.”

You roll your eyes, hiding your face in his chest.

His arms tighten around you.

“I’m serious,” he says. “I know I’m an idiot most of the time, but when it comes to you… I don’t know. Everything feels easy. Real.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

He kisses your forehead again.

“I’d cook with you forever,” he whispers.

You laugh into his shirt. “Even if you ruin the sauce every time?”

“Especially if I ruin the sauce.”

⸻

Eventually, you fall asleep like that curled into him, hands tangled under the blanket, his lips pressed to your temple as his breathing slows.

And right before you drift off, you hear him whisper:

“You’re my favorite person.”

Soft. Honest. Completely sure.

And it’s then that you know, without a doubt you’re his.

[touchlinewhore]

Can you do readerxJude they’re bff then she gives Jude a bj??

Best Friend’s Mouth

It starts like every other night: your legs across Jude’s lap, both of you pretending this isn’t something. That you’re just best friends. That his fingers aren’t pressed to your bare thigh a little tighter than they should be. That your heart isn’t pounding every time he shifts beneath you, jaw clenching like he’s holding back.

But tonight, the air’s different. Charged. You feel it the second his eyes flick to your lips.

“You tired?” you ask, half whisper.

He shakes his head. “Not even close.”

The silence stretches tight and electric. His hand doesn’t move from your thigh. If anything, his grip gets firmer.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, “I’m gonna forget we’re just friends.”

Your breath catches. You look up at him. His lashes low, his lips parted, the smallest smirk ghosting his face.

“Then forget it.”

He goes still. You swear the room tilts. And then, soft, disbelieving, he laughs.

“Say that again.”

You swing a leg off his lap, drop to the floor between his knees, and stare up at him.

“I said forget it.”

His chest expands, slow and deep. His hand slips into your hair like it belongs there, fingertips grazing your scalp. He’s not pulling yet. Just holding.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says.

But you can see it in his eyes. He wants you to. Wants to lose control. Wants to hand it to you.

You reach up slowly, brushing his thighs apart with your palms. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

And when you press your mouth to the bulge beneath his sweats, light, teasing, confident, Jude groans like he’s never been touched before.

“Fuck.”

He tilts his head back, muscles tightening under his shirt. His hand finally fists in your hair, not hard yet but close.

“You’re serious,” he says, breath shaky. “You’re gonna do this.”

You nod slowly, dragging your mouth up again, warm breath through fabric. “Look at me, Jude.”

He does.

And that’s when you turn his chair slightly toward the mirror across the hotel room. You want him to see it. See how desperate he looks. How needy.

“I want you to watch,” you say. “Every second.”

His throat works in a swallow. “You’re a menace.”

You smile. “You love it.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just leans back, already sinking into you.

You keep it slow at first, dragging it out. Using just your mouth, through his clothes. Letting him grind up into you with these tiny, helpless jolts that make you smile. Every breath he lets out is a curse.

“Tease,” he growls, tugging your hair back. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to warn.

You look up through your lashes. “Do something about it, then.”

He doesn’t.

Because he can’t.

You’ve never seen him like this. So undone. So quiet. So desperate to hold on. Jude Bellingham, who plays like a god on the pitch, who always has control. He’s twitching beneath you, barely holding back from grabbing your face and taking what he wants.

And that’s what turns you on the most.

“You wanna fuck my mouth, don’t you?” you whisper. “Go ahead.”

His jaw snaps.

“You’re gonna make me lose it,” he growls, both hands in your hair now. “You think I won’t?”

You hum.

“Try me.”

And then he does.

The moment shifts. You feel it. One second you’re in control, the next he’s got your hair twisted in his fist, dragging you down onto him harder, deeper, filthier. There’s nothing careful about it anymore.

“Fuck yeah, just like that,” he pants, hips starting to move. “God, you look so good on your knees.”

His thighs tremble under your hands.

You glance up, see him watching in the mirror. Jaw clenched, brows furrowed, lips parted like he’s struggling to breathe.

“You watching?” you murmur when he pulls you back just enough to speak.

He nods, gaze locked on the way your mouth moves, the way you’re completely wrecking him.

“Tell me how it feels.”

He shudders. “So fucking good. Like you were made for this. Like your mouth was made for me.”

You moan around him.

He loses it.

His grip gets rougher. He mutters a curse, another, then a broken, “Fucking hell, don’t stop- don’t you fucking dare—”

You don’t.

You stay right there. Let him use your mouth, let him grind into your tongue like he’s about to break apart. The room is thick with heat and heavy breath and that raw, ragged rhythm that only happens when someone’s losing control.

You pull back slightly just to breathe, and he yanks you forward again. Rough.

“Don’t even think about it,” he growls, voice deeper than you’ve ever heard it. “I’m so close- fuck, don’t stop now.”

His hand cradles the back of your head and suddenly he slows, hips rocking forward in these deep, intentional rolls.

“I’m gonna come,” he says, eyes wild, lips trembling. “You want that? Want me to lose it in your mouth?”

You nod, moaning, digging your nails into his thighs.

And when he finally falls apart, when his entire body tenses and he lets out a broken, “Jesus, Y/n—” with your name like a prayer you don’t look away.

You watch him.

You watch him unravel.

He pulls you into his lap afterward, still breathing hard. Hands everywhere, your back, your waist, your hair. One pressed to your jaw as he tilts your face up to look at him.

He kisses you then. Not rushed. Not filthy. Just full and soft, like he doesn’t know how else to say thank you.

You blink at him. “Jude…”

His forehead presses to yours.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he breathes. “You have no idea.”

You smile.

“I think I do now.”

[touchlinewhore]

hiiii girlyyy

i just recently discovered your fics and i am flabbergasted😭🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻they’re genuinely so so so good!!!i especially binge read alll your kenan fics..hes just so ughhh🥰🥰

keep up the great work!!!

xoxo

ahhh thank you sm 😭🤍

[touchlinewhore]

Marked

Warning:Rough dom!Clark, jealousy, tie kink, desk sex, hand-over-mouth, filthy talk, breeding kink, praise/degradation blend, risk of getting caught, and Clark’s glasses stay ON the whole time

a/n: he’s too fine for me not to write about him 😭

kofi: http://ko-fi.com/touchline

You knew the second the door clicked shut behind you that you were in trouble.

The newsroom was empty, everyone gone for the night but Clark hadn’t gone home. He stood by your desk in his rolled-up white sleeves and loosened tie, staring at you with an expression that made your stomach flip.

“You had a good time flirting with him, didn’t you?” he asked lowly. Voice dark. Rough.

You blinked, feigning innocence. “Flirting?”

Clark’s jaw flexed.

“That source had his hand on your arm the whole interview,” he said. “You giggled. Tossed your hair. You kept touching his sleeve like you wanted him to rip it off.”

“I was being nice.”

He stepped forward slow, dangerous. The tie swayed slightly down his chest as he approached.

“You were being a brat,” he said. “And you knew I was watching.”

You swallowed.

“Clark—”

He kissed you before you could finish. No hesitation. All teeth, tongue, and control. One hand gripped your jaw, forcing it open for him, and the other slid down your waist, anchoring you in place like you might run.

“You don’t get to act like that around other men,” he growled against your lips. “Not when you’re mine.”

You gasped as he spun you, pinning your back to the desk. Papers scattered to the floor. He didn’t even blink.

“Take it off,” he ordered, nodding toward your blouse.

You hesitated. heart racing, breath shallow but he stepped in close again, towering over you.

“I said,” he murmured, glasses catching the low light, “take it off.”

You obeyed.

The second your blouse hit the floor, he was on you again, his tie dragging along your chest as his mouth claimed your neck. He bit the skin there, marking it. A claim.

“I want every part of you to scream mine,” he breathed. “You hear me?”

You nodded shakily.

Clark’s hands moved

You barely had time to brace yourself before Clark shoved his cock inside you in one rough thrust.

You cried out around the panties stuffed in your mouth loud, desperate, and wrecked. He was big, thick enough to stretch you wide with every inch, and he didn’t wait. He didn’t tease. He set a pace so hard the desk shook beneath you.

“That’s it,” he growled, one hand gripping your hip, the other pressing your face into the wood. “That’s what you needed, right? You needed to be fucked like mine.”

Your moan vibrated around the fabric.

He pulled out almost completely, then slammed back in, hitting deeper. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

You tried, but all that came out was a muffled sound and a needy sob.

Clark let out a dark chuckle.

“Can’t even speak, huh?” He reached for his tie, tugged it off in one motion. “Let me help.”

You gasped as he tied your wrists behind your back. The silky fabric pinned you to yourself, exposed and vulnerable, trembling against the desk.

Then he grabbed a fistful of your hair and leaned over you, mouth right at your ear.

“You wore that skirt to get my attention, didn’t you?” His voice dropped lower. “Bat your lashes at some loser source just to make me snap. Well, you got what you wanted.”

His hips slammed into you again, harder than before. The desk creaked. His glasses fogged up.

You moaned so loud it echoed—but Clark’s hand clamped over your mouth just in time.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “You don’t want someone to walk in and see you like this, do you?”

You shook your head quickly, panting, body trembling under his hand.

But he didn’t stop.

Clark fucked you with that terrifyingly steady rhythm controlled, deep, unrelenting. His cock dragged against the perfect spot inside you over and over, and every breath he let out was rough and hungry.

Then his hand moved again between your thighs this time.

“Already dripping for me,” he muttered. “You love this, don’t you? Being used like this. Owned.”

You whimpered, arching back into him.

“Gonna fill you up,” he said, voice rougher now. “Gonna breed you right here on this desk so no one ever looks at you the same again.”

You moaned, loudly but he caught it with his palm again.

“Shut up and take it.”

He fucked you harder. The kind of hard that left stars in your vision. The kind that made you lose your sense of time, place, even breath.

His fingers found your clit and rubbed harsh, perfect circles, relentless.

“You gonna come for me like a good girl?” he grunted. “Gonna milk my cock and let me fill you up?”

You nodded, desperate tears springing to your eyes.

“Then do it,” he ordered. “Come. Right now. I want to feel you fall apart around me.”

And you did.

Your orgasm hit like a shockwave tightening every muscle in your body, your legs shaking violently as your moans were swallowed by his hand.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, voice breaking as he thrust deep, deeper

Then stilled.

You felt it. All of it.

Hot, thick spurts of his release buried deep inside you. Pulse after pulse. He stayed inside you, grinding against your ass as he emptied himself fully, hips trembling.

You whimpered at the overwhelming heat, the ache, the intensity.

And Clark

He kissed your shoulder, your neck, gently now. His voice dropped to a murmur.

“Such a good girl,” he breathed. “Took all of me. So good.”

He untied your wrists slowly, massaging them where the silk had pressed tight.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, brushing your hair back. “Did I go too far?”

You shook your head instantly, eyes half-lidded, lips kiss-bitten.

“That was…” you exhaled, trembling. “So good. So fucking good.”

Clark smiled. Soft now, but still proud.

He pulled you into his arms, holding you close, stroking your back.

Then, after a long silence, he kissed your temple and whispered, “Next time you flirt with someone else…”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“I’m bending you over their desk.”