storytelling is so powerful because someone's tale can be so deep and impacting that it leaves you thinking about it for hours after you've finished it.
May you trust your own gut over the collective roar of everyone else's expectations. You are the only one who has to live inside your life. Make sure the choices you make are ones you can sleep with at night.
The pressure of a penalty must be immense. The thing you have to do is so simple it’s basically a joke, but the way you have to do it is brutal: in front of tens of thousands of people, watching you with either outright malice or awful, tentative hope; before television cameras, and by extension billions of remote viewers, who will be able to watch the clipped, slow motion version an unlimited number of times. You have to do it in front of your team, who patted you on the back and clapped as you made the ritualistically long and lonely walk to the penalty spot from half-field; you have to face a keeper who has absolutely nothing to lose and is giving you crazy eyes; and you have to ignore the LED perimeter board playing an animated Kalshi ad right behind the goal.
Is it any wonder they miss? If a single one of these wretched conditions enters the player’s consciousness as they prepare to take their shot, they have two options: pray to God, or make kicking a stationary ball into a net twelve yards away look much, much harder than it is. You’ll see them take extraordinary care while placing the ball, like they’re doing some arcane aerodynamical work with the seams. Then they’ll back up farther than they have to, so they have space to perform a weird stutter-step run-up, as if it takes subtlety and guile to beat the keeper from this distance. Can you blame them? As I write, I’m listening to the announcers criticize Swiss center-back Manuel Akanji, who seconds ago tangoed his way to the ball just to send the shot skyward and is now doubled over with his hands on his knees like he’s about to throw up. “Just kick the ball hard into the goal,” the announcers say. “Keep it simple.”
Pair: Toji Zenin/You
Word Count: 2.7k
Summary: After a long, uneventful day spent doing almost nothing around home─shared with the tall, large, mysterious criminal you call "your man," despite him never outright claiming monogamy─you can't seem to fall asleep. Rolling over to whine and bother him in bed, he gives you a solution.
Warnings: 18+, Domestic Interactions, Substance Mention, Dirty Talk.
A/N: to be honest, i don't have any. i haven't written anything in a long time, so i'm a little rusty. apologies. was high and eating string cheese while i wrote this.
When he got home two to three hours ago, he hadn't even acknowledged you. Nothing, aside from an open-mouth kiss on your warm, exposed neck when you came pattering up to him in the foyer, since you heard the front door. You had been waiting, watching his location on iMessage like someone's clingy girlfriend they couldn't quite shake off, but all you got was a kiss, and a pat on the ass before he disappeared into your apartment.
At first, you sucked it in; his heavy footsteps trailed into your now shared master bedroom, and you listened from the bed as he turned the shower on. Promising. He did smell like years worth of yard work and a couple chain-smoked cigarettes, but you still would have preferred he wait until after to shower, so you could do the same alongside him. Showering together had become one of your favorite things.
But, getting to feel the tension radiating off of him once he got home after a day of being away, giving you exactly what you had been waiting for since he left you tangled in the sheets that morning, was definitely at the top of your mental list. The smell, the rasp in his voice, even his demeanor was different.
Nevertheless, you didn't get it. He took his shower, and as he emerged from the steam pouring through the bathroom door with a towel around his waist, he didn't spare you a glance.
Stood by the closet, putting on a new pair of boxers and a pair of dark sweatpants that had been hanging on a dresser drawer, before he actually spoke to you. "Shower's free."
Yeah, obviously.
His voice came out low and gruff, feeling your eyes burning into his bare back, boring into him like a knife. The lines of his shoulders were rigid, and his hands seemed to move with a little more force than usual. Which made you furrow your brows with a slightly less frustrated expression—more sympathetic. You knew he worked hard, and he was paying all of your bills, but you couldn’t even stand being without him for twelve hours?
No, not really. Shameful.
Without bothering to grab a shirt, he finally sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on his socks. And while he was busy, you slowly, cautiously, scooted forward. A few inches, until you were close enough to rest your chin on his shoulder. Inhaling the familiar scent of your shampoo and conditioner.
"I missed you." You murmured into his skin.
To that, he didn’t have any kind of physical reaction, other than a small, huffed hum that came from his closed mouth. “Do you like money?”
Blinking in confusion, you lifted your chin off of him, and looked at him sideways. “... Yeah?”
“Good,” He stated in a stern, yet amused tone, and used his right hand to give your thigh a quick smack before he rose to his feet, causing you to shift from the loss of his added weight. Then, he turned his head in your direction. “Then get a job, if you want to stop missing me so much.”
And, he walked out.
Like a prick, who was only good for being a nuisance to your spine when he fucked your brains out, painting floorboards twenty different shades of red, and gambling away the money he was oh so proud of. Maybe you should get your own job, because he was clearly in no state to responsibly handle his finances.
For a few still, quiet seconds, you sat in the spot he left you in, and pondered the thought. No way in hell you were going back to below minimum wage, or the work you had pulling crickets out of an enclosure for people at a petstore, for as much as you liked pets.
Toji didn’t like dogs—he tolerated the cat, because he couldn’t make you throw it out on the street when he was the one living under your roof—and he was still willing to give you money.
You could wait a couple hours everyday.
Eventually, the two of you wound up where you are now: in bed, in the dead of night. Except, while he was fast asleep on his stomach, letting out a snore and grinding his teeth every now and then, you had woken back up. The fluffy cat you adored so much jumped up and politely asked for pets, so you obliged.
But when she ultimately ran away after you tried to cuddle her, you were once again left alone with your thoughts. Your fingers twisted a loose thread on the blanket—over, under, over, under—counting each loop like you always did when your mind wouldn’t shut up.
He was warm beside you. Always so warm. Even when he acted like a complete asshole, and not touching you at all, his body heat clung like an apology you hadn’t asked for.
There was a thin stripe of light seeping through a gap in the blinds on the window, and for a while, you tried forcing yourself back to sleep, but you just couldn't keep your eyes closed. At least, until you heard him shift and quietly cough, making it known that he was awake, too.
You quickly sat up, and crawled to his side of the bed.
After the mattress dipped, you gently laid your palm on his back, and stroked your hand in between his shoulder blades. He let out a low, guttural groan, but didn’t move, nor open his eyes.
A small pout formed on your bottom lip, and you whispered by his ear.
"You awake?"
He responded with a grumbled mhm, but it sounded half asleep, making your pout all the more prominent. You moved your hand up to the nape of his neck, threading through the hair there, to which he sighed at—relaxing under the touch of your fingers.
So, you kept it there, massaging. “No you’re not.”
In response, he breathed into the air as a short, annoyed sound. “Then leave me alone.”
Scoff.
The corners of your mouth downturned and you leaned down, resting your face lightly —not to be bratty or anything, but to breathe in the smell of his skin from that little area at the base of his neck. The one he knew that you loved. But, it didn't quite help. It was more of a tease, to yourself, and you growled in frustration before climbing all the way on top of his back, straddling him.
“Wake.” Bounce. “Up.”
"Get off me," he grumbled, voice thick with sleep and irritation, shifting under your weight like a bear waking up mid-hibernation. One arm flailed lazily, trying to shove you away, but you just held on tighter, your hands flat on his shoulder blades as you rocked back and forth.
“No.”
In a way, you were a brat.
He let out a low groan that rumbled through his chest and into your bones. "'m gonna throw you in the hallway if you don't get off."
With an eye roll, you tightened your thighs around his waist. "I'll knock on the neighbor's door and tell them you 'hit me'."
Toji froze for half a second before letting out a sharp bark of annoyance—dry and tired. "My god, woman. You need a fucking Ambien or something?”
Finally, you stopped.
It wasn’t like you’d never done drugs before, or forced him to roll up a quick joint before bed so you could relax and sleep much better than you usually do. Which, now that you thought about it, you should have asked him before he went to sleep. But here he was, offering you… an Ambien?
“Huh?” You blinked. “Like… a sedative?”
Caught in a small stupor, you didn’t have the chance to stop him—not like you would have been able to fight it, anyway—when he moved onto his forearms, planked, and bucked you off of him by turning onto his side for a moment. Only, to lay right back down on his belly.
He shifted his head and tucked it into the pillows.
"Yeah. A sleeping pill," he said, his voice muffled by the fabric. "Since you can't seem to shut your goddamn eyes for longer than five minutes."
A gasp escaped when you landed on the mattress beside him, sitting back on your hands. The look you shot at him was scathing, and the bratty pout returned.
"I don't need drugs." You insisted, and even though you couldn't see his face, you could practically hear the unimpressed look on it. It made you press your lips together in a line, and you crawled right back onto him, sitting on top of his ass. "That’s not what I want to be on."
To be as much of a dick as he could be sometimes, you did the unexpected, but typical, annoying ‘girlfriend’ thing, and went to stick your finger between the fabric of his boxers, right in his–
He interrupted you with a moan of complaint, swiftly reaching around and catching your wrist, roughly pulling you down on the opposite side of the bed. Right by the edge, where he had been. "Well, y’fucking need it."
"I need you, Daddy."
He growled, but didn't move at first, just stayed with his head pressed into the pillows and his arm wrapped around your waist, grip loose enough to not hurt, but just tight enough that you couldn’t escape and do some stupid shit again.
"Daddy" never failed to make him pause for a second, his breathing becoming just short, ragged breaths. At the beginning, when you had accidentally called him that during sex, he hated it—reminded him of too much he didn’t want to think about, especially when he was balls deep inside of you. Yet, it came back the next time, and after a while, the effect it had on him changed.
"Ughh," he muttered, voice low, fingers finally tightening around your waist like he was seconds from flipping you over and proving a point. But instead, he dragged you closer—half on top of him again—and let out a long breath that ghosted over your neck.
Lips brushing the shell of your ear before pulling back slightly. He almost bit you. A beat passed. Then another.
Just as his breathing started evening out—like maybe, maybe he was actually falling asleep—you shifted against him, turning around in his arms so you could rub your nose against his adams apple, and whispered. "Wanna feel you in my stomach."
The air around you grew still.
His fingertips curled at the small of your back, nails digging, and you let out a shudder. Properly, he moved his head away from the pillow, and you could see his face. His eyes were only halfway open, but he was looking right at you, and he looked mad. Mad? Since when was he ever mad about you wanting him to–
For a solid second, you didn’t know what happened, but in a quick work of his arms, he threw you to the other side of the mattress for the third time, and put himself on top of you. The muscles in his biceps tensed, and even though they were already flexed with a constant, prominent strength, the veins bulged and popped under the pale skin.
In the dark blue light from the night outside, you could see that the anger you thought you had seen in his eyes before wasn't anger at all. Something more akin to hunger—and, most of all, exhaustion.
"You little slut," he grumbled, voice thick, making you feel the vibrations of it. “I leave you without some dick for only a day, and you start begging me like I ain’t ever fucked you until you were asking me to stop.”
Oh, fuuuck.
"That’s not true-" You shyly challenged, voice small but laced with a defiance that made his jaw clench. "I’m not."
He stared down at you, expression unreadable—half shadowed by the low glow of the city through the blinds. Then, slowly, one corner of his mouth curled. Not quite a smile.
"Yeah," he sighed. "You are."
And just like that—the tension snapped.
He crushed his lips to yours, tongue seeking entry, hot and demanding, one hand fisting your hair while the other pinned your hip into the mattress. No lazy dominance or half-hearted control. This was his, and you proved it by how you’ve been acting.
When he pulled back an inch—just enough for air—he kept your head locked in place with firm pressure, migrating his hold to grab your throat, right below your jaw. A soft moan made your lower lip quiver, and your legs do the same.
"Want me in your stomach?" His voice was dark velvet now—sleep stripped away and replaced with something raw, like he’d just chugged five different energy drinks. And, he pushed his hips up once—hard on purpose. "Then keep that pretty mouth closed, unless you wanna scream about how deep I am, or call me your Daddy some more.”
You should have been ready for it. Every time he came back after being away, for however long, you were prepared—more than prepared, excited. But right now, as he got to ripping you out of the old t-shirt you worse to sleep and the grossly soaked panties you had on, you knew you weren’t ready. And you still wanted him. That sting, the pain afterwards when he rammed into your cervix way too hard you were surprised you hadn’t bled yet. Not being able to walk the morning come was the goal, because that meant he would carry you to the shower, and you loved that.
Not as much as you loved the sight of him, thighs coiled around his wrist while he finger fucked you open, and wrapped his right hand around the base of his cock. You hadn’t prepared yourself, but he always made sure you were; you wouldn’t be able to take him, if he didn’t.
You didn’t answer—he didn’t need you to, just kept working you open with rough, scissoring motions. Knuckles dragging against that tight heat until your back arched and a whimper slipped free. His eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and unblinking, like he was memorizing every flinch, every twitch of your lips as you fought not to beg.
Then he pulled out.
One second flat of empty ache, and then his cock was at your entrance, thick and heavy and way too much for anyone. You breathed through your nose, face twisted in anticipation, and a mixture of lust-filled worry.
"You wanna go back?" he muttered, almost tender—if Toji Zenin knew how to be tender without having a drink beforehand. But then he pushed forward, and you choked, nails clawing jumping out to claw at his arms as he slowly bottomed out in one brutal thrust.
"Mhmm. Good girl," He hushed against your ear, biting the lobe gently before pulling back just enough to look down at your union. "Grip me harder, why don’t you."
You couldn't speak—could barely breathe—but somehow managed to shake your head wildly. Oh, Daddy.
"There ya go," he grunted, starting a rhythm that made the bed creak under him like it might collapse any second. Each snap drove you further up the mattress; each groan from him vibrated through your chest like thunder rolling close overhead, and you felt him in your stomach.
Just like you wanted. Rubbing along your g-spot without even aiming for it, making you insane. And when he reached between you two—the same hand that had been inside moments ago—to rub tight circles over your clit, you shattered faster than glass dropped on concrete.
“I’ll fuck you until you pass out, alright? Don’t need an Ambien when you have this.”
It was late at night, but you didn’t mind going to bed when the sun rose. If he had you underneath him, you usually did.
toji a lil bitch.
𖦹 please don't copy, steal, or translate any of my work.
