tough guy - fighter!toji x reader
summary: toji struggles with a dark past, forced to fight in order to survive. it’s the one thing he’s ever truly excelled at. it isn’t ideal, but stepping into the ring provides him money and a sense of purpose. as long as he can use it to provide for you, that’s enough for him.
cw: mentions of fighting, cursing, dark themes, getting arrested, injuries, blood, toji comes from a dark past, reader checking for injuries, toji is soft for you, petnames
word count: 1.9k
toji is used to fighting in places that weren’t legal—basements, back alleys, parking lots – anywhere people would pay to see. it wasn’t about winning. it was about surviving, walking out with enough money to make it to the next day. he only had himself to depend on. he had harsh reminders of this - the weight of an empty stomach clawing at his insides, the dull ache in his bones from sleeping on concrete, the way his vision would blur if he went too long without food. winning just meant he got to keep going. he never lost, because losing wasn’t an option he could afford. if he didn’t win then he didn’t eat. it was a cycle. violent and unforgiving.
he learned early that pain didn’t matter. not the sting of knuckles splitting open, not the crack of something that might’ve been a rib, not the copper taste of blood filling his mouth. pain was temporary.
toji didn’t have the best childhood, he grew up with no real home, no one waiting for him at the end of the day. and when kids picked on him he had two options – continue to feel sorry for himself or fight back. so that’s what he did.
at first it was for his protection, until he started looking for fights. because the anger inside him needed somewhere to go, and this was the only thing that made the noise in his head go still. people took notice of the kid who didn’t go down. and they started betting on him. at first it was small pocket change and loose bills passed between hands. but as he grew, so did the price. voices would call his name. pushing him forward, setting him up, using him. he didn’t care. as long as they paid.
it changed him. he became more intimidating, more tense. it was clear in his body language. he’d position himself in every room with his back to the wall, eyes on exits at all times. his hands flexed when someone got too close.
rules didn’t matter. underground fighting wasn’t just fighting. it was brutality dressed up as entertainment. bodies slamming into each other on cracked mats or bare concrete, the sound of impact echoing too loud in tight spaces. the crowd shouting, laughing, demanding more. the sight of blood made them louder. and toji was very good at giving them what they wanted.
he’s gotten in trouble more than once for it, almost a regular at the local police station. at first, he’d get off with warnings, then it turned into paperwork. a name that started showing up too often and a file that got thicker with every arrest. he spent many nights in holding cells, sitting on cold benches with dried blood still on his hands. his bad behavior followed him. doors closed before he had an opportunity to reach them. no one wanted to hire someone with his reputation. so he went back to the only thing he knew he couldn't be denied from.
tonight was his first fight since spending the weekend in a cell. while the opponent across from him is pacing, hyping himself up, throwing wild practice jabs—toji just stands there, shoulders loose, head tilted slightly like he’s bored. too calm because he knows how this will end.
when the bell rings a switch flips. he’s fast and efficient. no wasted motion or hesitation. and it’s over before the opponent’s brain can catch up. the crowd is shocked, roaring at another victory but he barely acknowledges it. just wipes the sweat from his face, rolls his shoulders once, and walks out like it was nothing more than another day. afterward, he comes home to you.
you first met him when he was already built like a wall, with broad shoulders, thick arms, a heavy weight that makes people move out of his way without thinking. you learn his past in pieces that don’t always come willingly. he doesn’t talk much about it, but you piece it together in fragments. the life chooses to live gives him structure, money and a way to temporarily escape the real world.
you wait with the tv murmuring low, some show you’re not really watching. the lamp in the corner casts a warm glow across the living room. it smells like the candle you lit hours ago, comforting for him after his long night.
you hear his key in the door and sit up in anticipation.
“hi baby” he mumbles. your eyes quickly scan him, checking for any obvious signs of injury.
“you won?” you ask, already knowing the answer.
“yeah.” of course he did. he always does.
“come” you softly call him over to the couch. he melts into it, tired and happy to be home. your hands glide over his shoulders, his arms, his legs, anything that might be affected from his match.
“i am holding still” he says.
“you’re not” you murmur, pushing lightly until he exhales and relaxes under your touch. your fingers press gently, searching for anything out of place. there’s nothing surprising, just a faint bruise starting to bloom. nothing worth worrying over.
“you’re fine” you murmur, relieved.
“always am” he says it like a fact. you just press a soft kiss to his chest, right over his heartbeat. strong and steady. he watches you, his gaze soft.
“you worry too much” he teases.
“and you don’t worry enough” he huffs, almost a laugh. you rub his arms, feeling the subtle tension in his muscles go anyway. he groans in appreciation.
“you could get hurt one day” you whisper. he tilts his head, studying you. he’s always known that is a possibility. but it hasn’t happened. if there’s one downside to this job (although there are many) it’s the thought of you constantly worrying about him. especially when you’re looking at him like this, and touching him like he’s something worth keeping.
“i won’t” he says softly. it’s a small statement, but it’s not a guarantee he can keep. you shake your head.
“you can’t promise that”. he doesn’t answer. because he knows you’re right.
“you have a collect call from toji fushiguro. to accept the charges, please press 1. to refuse please hang up”. you don’t hesitate, you’ve grown used to the message by now.
“toji, what the fuck?” you scold. he told you he wouldn't get in trouble anymore. he doesn’t have many chances left and his lawyer is running out of excuses he can make. toji closes his eyes, cursing under his breath as the familiar feeling of handcuffs rub against his wrists. he balances the phone between his ear and shoulder. he feels a deep sense of self-loathing shame. he’d promised. he’d told you, again and again, that he was done with this kind of trouble. that he’d be more careful.
“don’t be mad, babygirl. i got caught up in something” he sighs. the words were flat, hollow even to his own ears. he hated the sound of his own voice, stripped of its usual low-tide rumble and reduced to this apologetic, tight rasp. he pictured your face—the slight downturn of your lips when you were truly disappointed, the way your brow furrowed. that look hurt more than any jab to the ribs. he was frustrated, something else to add to the list of reasons why he is terrible for you. he was poisonous, and you were too good, too bright, a soft place he didn't deserve to land.
he lets you tell him off without interruption and no attempt to defend himself. he knows he deserves every word you throw at him. and you let him have it. not only for your sake, but for him.
“hang up the phone” a voice says flatly. toji looks sideways at a man in a suit that seemingly appeared out of nowhere. he looks him up and down, thinking the man is trying to get an early turn at a phone call, before focusing back on you. he felt a primal urge to drop the phone and snap the man’s neck, to silence the interruption, to keep listening to the only voice that tethered him to anything good.
you’re in the middle of scolding him when toji hears the dial tone. his eyes snap open and towards the man, who he sees holding the switchook down and ending the call.
“what the fuck–” toji starts.
“i’m your agent” the man says. toji lets out a humorless huff. he doesn’t work for anyone, he works alone.
“…i don’t have an agent” he dismisses. he’s fought hard enough to get where he is now, he sure as hell isn’t going to have a boss. especially not one that takes a percentage of his earnings.
“you do now”. toji furrows his brows, still pissed that his conversation was cut short.
“if this is some kind of sick joke, you better let me call my woman back–” he threatens. the man doesn’t flinch as toji steps toward him. he doesn’t even look concerned.
“i’m bailing you out” the man says. it stops toji in his tracks. he frowns, not believing him.
“as of five minutes ago,” the man interrupts, “you have been released from custody. you’re a free man, toji”.
toji stares at him. really looks this time, taking in the details of the stitching on the suit. it’s familiar, bringing back memories of him mid-fight and the man standing just outside the chaos of the underground ring, always far enough back to avoid attention, but always there watching.
“i have an offer for you”. despite himself, toji listens.
toji walks back to the apartment with thoughts racing in his mind. he doesn’t say much as he drops his bag by the door. the man’s voice takes over his thoughts. the offer seemed too good to be true. everything shifted in a matter of minutes—from a holding cell, to freedom, to something that feels a little too close to opportunity.
your back is half-turned toward him, but he can already see the tension in your shoulders, the set of your jaw and the scowl you don’t bother hiding when you finally look at him. it’s full of disapproval, worry and anger that hasn’t cooled since the call.
“i got an offer” he tells you plainly. you blink at him,thrown off because that’s not what you expected him to say. you were sure an apology or a half-assed excuse was going to be the first thing that came out of his mouth.
toji exhales through his nose, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “a professional one”.
you turn fully to him. “like… actual league fighting?”
“yeah” he agrees. you didn’t come around to the idea easily. it took a few days of going back and forth before you accepted that toji wanted to do this. the perks spoke for themselves, even though it was the fighting that worried you most of all.
your life noticeably changes after that. the fights become cleaner. there are rules now. referees who actually step in before things go too far. it’s safer compared to what he’s used to doing. and the money pays well. bills get paid faster. groceries are always stocked. you don’t have to stretch things the way you used to. when he comes home and hands you envelopes of cash like it’s nothing, you know he does all of this for you. he never says it outright. but everything he does, every fight he accepts, every bone-deep ache that settles in his muscles, is for that stability he’s been craving since he was young. because in his mind—this is the only thing he’s ever been good at. the only thing that’s ever worked. and as long as it keeps a roof over your head, he’ll keep stepping into that ring.
⋆·˚ ༘ * a/n: banner creds: @aquazero - i posted 3 different fics today. go me!!
thank you for reading ch 1!! this will be a two part fic!! lmk if you would like to be added to the next chapter!
