mechanic toji is a raging flirt who just can’t help himself. he’s losing the shop thousands with how many girls he’s waived a fee for, but how could he not when they ask so sweetly?
now you, you were gorgeous. a very smart and capable adult too, don’t get him wrong. but let’s be honest. you didn’t know a single god damn thing about how to fix a car.
that’s where toji comes in, black swaths of oil staining his palms black like the night. coveralls unzipped and hanging over his waistband like something out of those risqué men of the month calendars. he’s so incredibly charming while he teaches you what he’s doing to your car, bending down ever so slightly to let you peek at his work over his shoulder.
he might even let you try it out for yourself if he’s feeling generous. and you oblige, just to hear him tell you how great you’re doing in that sultry voice.
“turn that there—no, to the left sweetie. uh huh. shit, you’re a natural. you tryna take my job?”
toji is a man who just can’t help himself, and if he ends up pocketing the merchant’s copy of your receipt with your number scrawled out on it, that’s really nobody else’s business.
forgot to tag @i-literally-cant-with-this ! this is for u diva
weight | fushiguro toji
↳ toji carries a lot of weight on him: the weight of his job, the weight of fatherhood, the weight of his fears, the weight of his past, and the weight of himself—his flaws, his failures, his mere pitiful existence…but that weight seems to fall off, pound by agonizing pound, when he’s with you. 9.5k words
a/n: honestly, this could be misconstrued as toji just weaponizing his incompetence, but I guess all I can say is that isn't how I meant it? he's just a guy, you know? and so if you see me doing laundry and cooking for a 6 foot tall assassin in his dingy apartment...leave me alone, I'm exactly where I wanna be <3 fr though this is very heavy and much longer than I anticipated it being, talks a lot about self-worth, hating yourself, regret, grief, etc. definitely would not recommend reading if you don't feel like you're in the right headspace for that. I would probably call this angst, but there's also a lot of comfort in here!! (take a shot every time I say 'maybe...' 26 fucking times)
he doesn’t keep much. a knife. a lighter. a photo half-burned at the edges—face blurred, but he knows who it was. a bracelet that never fit his wrist, tucked in the back of a drawer. a receipt for something he tells himself he should’ve stolen, but didn’t. junk, really. clutter he should’ve thrown out years ago.
he stares at it sometimes. doesn’t touch it. doesn’t move. just…sits. breathing slow. letting the weight settle. it’s not guilt, not exactly. he doesn’t deserve that word. guilt’s for people who tried, but that doesn't stop him from feeling it often. this is more of an ache. a longing for a life he might've lived if he wasn't such a miserable piece of shit. who is he kidding? he was never going to be anything else.
before you came around, these kinds of thoughts consumed him. chewed through the meat of him every night, before he drowned himself in the last couple sips of the bottle and passed out sideways on the floor. there was no one to catch him. he didn’t want to be caught. and then you showed up; unceremoniously, with little fuss. he doesn’t remember the moment clearly—just the aftermath. the echo of your laugh in a room too dark for joy. his number in your phone, typed with his own hands, even though he swore he didn’t give it out. him, calling you weeks later when he hadn’t answered a single text, hadn’t promised a damn thing, hadn’t even given you his last name, and you still came.
he was awful to you in the beginning. touchy when he wanted something, distant when he didn’t. gone for days, sometimes weeks. didn’t text back. didn’t explain. he expected you to leave, told himself that's what he wanted. expected you to look at him and see what everyone else had: a fun mistake. a lost cause. something to be ashamed of the morning after. and maybe you did see it—but you never treated him like it. most women would've dumped his ass without blinking. moved on to the next guy who remembered birthdays and didn’t smell like musky cologne and blood. but not you. time and time again, when he resurfaced like something rotten dragged in by the tide, there you were—dry towel in hand, quiet smile, no questions. just eyes that saw right through him and still softened anyway.
he let you in. not all at once. it was small things. letting you stay the night instead of slipping out before dawn. giving you his key without saying anything. cooking once, maybe twice, when he realized you skipped dinner waiting on him. it wasn’t conscious. it wasn’t strategic. it was survival. somewhere between fuck and forget, you’d stitched yourself into the parts of him he thought were too far gone.
he still remembers the first time you crawled into his bed like you belonged there. you didn’t ask. you didn’t need to. he was sprawled out like a corpse, half-dressed, barely sober, and you just curled around him like gravity itself had finally decided to be kind. he didn’t really sleep that night—too stunned. too afraid to move, like it might’ve all been a fever dream. but you stayed. and in the morning, when you stretched and kissed his shoulder like it was the most normal thing in the world, he knew something had shifted. fatally. beautifully.
he never asked you to move in. never said the words. you just stopped leaving. toothbrush in the cup. body wash in the shower. your coat hanging next to his like it had always been there. and now he doesn’t seem willing to let you leave. not ever.
not when the nights get too quiet. not when the weight in his chest flares up and threatens to tear him open from the inside out. not when he comes home limping, blood on his hands, and finds you waiting with warm food and gentler eyes than he’s ever deserved.
you’re not just something good in his life. you are his life. his whole goddamn center of gravity. and when he looks at you—really looks—he thinks: this is what the knife was protecting. this is what the bottle was numbing. this is what I almost missed. but he usually only lets himself think those things when he’s drunk, or pretending to be drunk, at least. because sober toji cannot bear that kind of responsibility...can he? he thinks, when you lean back against him in the miniature closet of his apartment, tapping your lip curiously, deciding what to wear, that maybe he can.
and maybe he’ll always be a little fucked up. maybe he’ll always feel like a man made more from loss than love. but for once—for once—he’s got something worth staying for.
......
it’s a job. that’s it. in. out. blood on his hands, sometimes on his boots. he doesn’t blink anymore. doesn’t pause. this armor is muscle memory now. cold, quiet, efficient.
you don’t ask what he does. maybe you understand the extent of it. maybe you don’t. maybe it’s better you never say it out loud (he knows you know, you're too perceptive not to). but he sees the way you look at him when he comes home late. smell of copper still clinging to him. red scar on his cheek that wasn’t there this morning. you don’t flinch. you just hold the door open.
you make him take his shoes off. wash his hands. sit down. you talk about your day like he just came home from his nonexistent 9 to 5 day job. like he isn’t built from violence. like he’s still a man. and for a moment—just one—he forgets the weight. the blood. the cold. the armor doesn’t come off. not fully. but you make it crack. you make it crumble. and that’s more dangerous than anything he’s ever done.
he doesn’t understand it, the way you love him.
it’s not a performance. not a plea. you don’t look at him like you’re trying to fix him. you just look. like he’s already something worth looking at. like the blood under his nails doesn’t scare you. like the things he’s done aren’t rotting inside him, leaking out through the cracks.
he’s never been gentle. doesn’t know how. not with his hands. not with his words. but you—you laugh like you don’t notice. you kiss him like you do. and it breaks him. every time.
because you see him. you see the weight, the filth, the violence stitched into his bones—and you stay. you press your fingers to the jagged parts and don't flinch. you cook him breakfast like he isn’t a murderer. you hum while you clean his wounds. you kiss his temple, not his mouth, and he thinks he might actually cry. god, how long's it been since he's done that?
he tells himself it’s weakness. that you’ll leave, eventually. you’ll see what he really is and run. but until then? he’s yours. and that’s the scariest job he’s ever had. what he doesn't fathom quite yet, is that you already know who he really is and you're staying anyways. or maybe he does know that, but he can't possibly understand it; so he won't admit it, to you or to himself.
……
some nights, it hits him out of nowhere.
he’ll be halfway through peeling an orange at the counter—shirtless, scarred, domestic in a way he doesn’t feel entitled to—and then he’s not. he’s back in some shitty living room, smoke curling up the wall, a tiny pair of shoes by the door, and no strength in his arms to pick them up.
he wasn’t there. not really. even when he was. too consumed with jobs, debts, the sound of screams in his ears. he knew he was messing it up in real time. watched it all slip, and chose not to stop it. it felt like the only thing he was good at—leaving. you come up behind him now, wrap your arms around his waist like you always do when you know he’s drifting. he doesn’t flinch. he lets you anchor him.
“he used to get scared of thunder,” he says, voice gravel, soft like he’s afraid it’ll shatter. “wouldn’t cry. just…sit real still. like I did.” you rest your cheek on his back, listening. "I didn’t—” he swallows, hard. "I didn’t know how to comfort him. I just told him to sleep through it. like it’d make him tough. like that’s what a good dad says.”
he turns, face unreadable, eyes hollowed by something that’s been gnawing at him for years. “he was a good kid,” he says. "I just…wasn’t a good man.”
you don’t say that’s not true. he wouldn’t believe you. you don’t try to offer him redemption, not outright. just the kind of steadiness he never had growing up, the kind of steadiness he could never offer. the kind of forgiveness that isn’t flashy. it’s just there. “what would you say to him now?” you ask quietly, thumb brushing over the scar on his side.
toji hesitates, stares at the floor like the answer might be buried in the tile. “...that I'm sorry,” he says eventually. like that'd fix anything, he thinks. “that I knew better. and I still left. and that he didn’t deserve that.” his voice cracks at the end. he clears his throat too harshly, like he’s trying to scrape the pain out of it.
you pull him down to sit, and he lets you. he sits between your legs on the floor, head bowed, shoulders too big for the shame he’s trying to fold them under. you just run your hands through his hair. “you did what you knew,” you whisper, and that's all you can say. not you did the right thing, or it's okay because that's not true and you both know it.
he closes his eyes. “doesn’t make it right.”
“no,” you agree. “but it means you'll do better.” he doesn’t respond. but his fingers curl around your ankle like a lifeline. like maybe, just maybe, there’s still time to learn what love looks like—without the leaving. and for tonight, at least, he stays. and who is he kidding? certainly not himself. for as long as you’ll have him, for as long as you allow his presence, he’ll stay. he’d never leave, not until you ask, because that’s what a good man does, right?
the fear is the heaviest weight of all, and on nights like this, it drags him down under, and he’s so damn tired of swimming. fear of what, he doesn't quite know. fear of his past, though he thinks that sounds stupid. fear of you leaving, and that...that doesn't sound quite as silly to him. that is very, very real.
the grief comes quiet. doesn’t announce itself, doesn’t wail or scream. just settles into his bones like it’s always belonged there—grief for megumi, yes, but also grief for who he could’ve been. for the man he never got to grow into. for the kind of father he might’ve become if the world had given him just one more inch of slack, if he'd allowed himself to share instead of steal, let him give what he had instead of hoard it all to his chest; not just what little money he had, but the love he might've given, the care he might've shown.
you feel it before he even shifts. the way his body stills beneath your touch, the tight coil of muscle in his jaw, like he's holding back a scream that has nowhere to go. he doesn’t cry. of course he doesn’t cry. it’s not in him—not anymore. but you can feel the weight pressing on him, pinning him in place like a second skin.
he’s not thinking about just megumi now. he’s thinking about everything. the years spent as a blade, not a man. the people he’s killed. the blood under his fingernails that never quite washes off. the nights he should’ve slept but stayed awake because closing his eyes meant seeing their faces.
grief, regret, shame—what’s the difference anymore? it all tastes the same going down. bitter. rotting. permanent. you don’t say anything. you just lean into him, your head on his shoulder, your hand pressed flat to his chest like maybe if you’re close enough, you can keep his heart from collapsing in on itself.
"I never thought I’d live long enough to miss anything,” he mutters after a while, voice like sandpaper. “didn’t think there’d be anything worth missing.” his hand is on your thigh, holding tight—not possessive, just scared. of the dark. of the silence. of himself.
“but then you happened,” he says. “and now every time I look at you, I think about what I almost didn’t get to have. what I still don’t deserve.” the fear in his chest flares hot. ugly. alive. the vulnerability makes him nauseous. but he doesn’t look away from you. doesn’t bury it this time. just lets it sit there between you, raw and real.
and you, unshaken, still breathing next to a man the world tried to turn to ash, just whisper, “you do now.” and something in him cracks, quietly. like a storm on the horizon deciding to pass over. just this once.
……
he wakes up some mornings already braced for impact—heart hammering, mouth dry, stomach tight like he’s expecting a bullet instead of breakfast.
but then there’s the smell of coffee. a plate on the table, still warm. the dishes in the sink—his dishes, his mess—already scrubbed clean. you don’t say anything about it. you never do. never ask him why he leaves nonperishable food out for himself everywhere, why he never eats more than a few bites, why he sometimes disappears for a day and comes back with blood on his soles and that hollow look in his eyes. you just wipe down the counter, hum softly under your breath, and hand him a fork.
he doesn’t know how to say thank you. not in words. not in the ways that count. his gratitude is jagged and half-formed, splintered beneath years of being treated like a monster, like a thing made for killing, not caring. and still, somehow, you never flinch.
he watches the way your hands move when you clean up after him. when you fold his laundry, not because he asked, but because he forgot to. when you take his hand and press it to your chest without speaking, like you know he’s about to spiral without needing an explanation.
it makes him physically ill, the way you love him. not out of pity. not out of naïveté. but wholly. steadily. willingly.
and there are nights he almost pushes you away for it. almost snaps. almost recoils. because he doesn't know what to do with love that doesn't come with strings, or shame, or screaming. but he doesn’t. he won’t. because a good man wouldn’t. and you—you—you’ve never asked him to be anything more than that. you ground him in ways he didn’t think possible. you ask nothing, demand nothing, expect nothing—and somehow that makes it worse. because now he wants to give you everything. the pieces of him still worth offering. the ones not soaked in blood.
so when his fingers twitch toward the doorknob in a moment of panic, when the air gets too tight and the guilt claws at his throat—he stops. breathes. thinks of your hands, your voice, your steadiness. and he stays. because a good man doesn’t run. and for you, he wants to be one. and with you, sometimes he thinks he can be because you’re so sure of him. so confident that he can deserve you, provide for you, earn you. some nights, you even whisper in his ear that he already has.
……
he’s holding the knife like it’s a weapon. which—technically, it is. but probably not the way you intended when you handed him the cutting board and told him, so sarcastically it peeves him, “you’re on onions tonight, chef.”
toji stares at the onion like it insulted him. then back at you. you’re already halfway through prepping something complicated-looking with spices he couldn’t name if you offered him a million yen and a one-week head start. he mumbles something that might be a curse. might be his last will and testament. and then he starts cutting.
you don’t correct him. not when he massacres the first one. not when he holds the knife like he’s defusing a cursed object. not even when he somehow ends up slicing the onion vertically, horizontally, and diagonally all at once. you just hum along to whatever music you’ve got playing, give him a quick kiss to the jaw when you pass behind him, and toss a handful of salt into the pan like you’re dancing with it. he doesn’t understand how you do that. how you make this place—a cramped kitchen with uneven tile and a broken light—feel like sanctuary. like something holy. and how you look at him—him, of all people—with that stupid, stupid smile every time he gets something right. or wrong.
when he burns the egg, you coo like he’s a toddler. wrap your arms around his waist, press your a kiss to his bare skin—he shivers, it always tickles him—tell him, “you’re learning, baby.” he grunts. scowls. tells you to knock it off. but the tips of his ears go red and he doesn’t push you away. he can kill a man with his bare hands before breakfast. he’s outrun the best of the best. he’s been on every watchlist in japan at least once. but he can’t cook a fucking omelet without your help. and he hates how much he loves that.
because it means he gets to stand next to you, shoulder to shoulder, hips brushing, listening to you ramble about sauces and slicing techniques, and seasoning ratios he’ll never remember. it means he gets to clean the dishes after—not because you ask, but because you cooked, and he’s not a total bastard. not to you. it means, when you curl into him after the kitchen’s dark and clean, your belly full and your hair damp from the steam, he gets to close his eyes and pretend he’s someone else. someone who’s not just good with a knife. someone who knows what it means to make a home. even if he burns half of it along the way.
……
toji knows it’s a joke. this whole thing—the dinners, the quiet nights, the way you kiss the scar on his lip like it’s holy instead of hideous—it’s a cosmic, cruel joke. one day, you’ll wake up. you’ll blink twice. the spell will break. and you’ll see him for what he really is: pitiful, rotten, born wrong.
and you’ll leave. they all do. he doesn’t say it out loud. never has. he doesn’t have to because it lives under his skin, worms its way in between the silences. it clings to his shoulders when he watches you stir cream into your coffee or fold laundry wearing his clothes and humming along to your music that always seems to be playing. it creeps up his spine when you laugh at one of his dry, half-hearted jokes, like he’s actually someone worth listening to. and it chokes him, some nights, when he lies next to you—your head on his chest, your fingers soft on his stomach—and wonders how the hell someone like you ended up here, in his goddamn bed, with him.
you should’ve run by now. and maybe that’s what scares him the most. you haven’t. you know. you know what he’s done, what he still does. you’ve seen him, bloody and broken, dragging himself through the door after a job. you’ve kissed the bruises on his ribs. you’ve scrubbed his blood out of your towels. you’ve seen him with shiu—heard the way he talks, the shit they laugh about. you’ve stood there, gentle and glowing, while toji snarled and bristled like a guard dog when shiu smirked at you a little too long. and still, you stay.
you even made dinner for shiu once. sent him home with leftovers and told toji, “you could be nicer. he’s your friend, isn’t he?” toji had rolled his eyes and grunted something obscene, but he shut up. because whatever you say—whatever you say, whatever you say—is gospel. what you don’t see, what you can’t see, is how much that fucks him up.
because he’s not some battered stray you picked up off the street. he’s not some tragic redemption arc waiting to happen. he’s a killer. he’s toji fushiguro. and the longer you look at him like he’s worth saving, the more it feels like the air around him is thinning—like you’re pumping oxygen into his lungs with every kind word, every kiss, every goddamn meal. and he’s terrified of needing you too much. of building a whole second life out of your kindness, only to watch it collapse when you realize he’s still made of rot and regret underneath.
and yet—there’s this one night. you’re curled up beside him on the couch, watching something light and stupid. you’re both tired. comfortable. and you mutter something under your breath, more to yourself than to him.
"I wish I didn’t have so many freckles. I look like a connect-the-dots puzzle.” he stiffens.
“what?”
you wave him off. “nothing. it’s just funny, how stupid they make me look. I mean, why’d I end up with freckles head to toe and you’re like this tall, muscle pig—”
“don’t say that shit." it’s low. serious. sharp enough to cut. you blink up at him, caught off guard. he doesn’t blink. doesn’t soften. just watches you like he’s daring you to keep talking.
“toji…”
"I mean it.” his eyes are dark, hard. "I don’t wanna hear that kind of shit from you. ever. you got me?”
you soften. smile, faintly. “okay. I got you.”
but it this weight doesn't seem to settle, like his usually does when he's with you. not really. not when he’s still thinking about it an hour later, staring at your profile, at the not-so-faint dusting of freckles across your nose, at the way you bite your lip when you focus. imperfect? you? no. you’re perfect. you’re perfect.
and if he could dig into his chest and rip out every ounce of self-loathing and burn it at your feet just to deserve you, he would. he would. but he doesn’t know how. not yet.
this simple act, though, shows him a side of this relationship he didn't think he'd get the chance to see. for all your beauty, for all your saving grace, he could be right for you, too. as right as you are for him. he'll never be enough for you, nothing could ever convince him of that...but maybe you need him in ways he didn't see before. it's always been about how much he needs you, how he doesn't think he could survive this life anymore without you, as much as he's trained himself not to need anyone. you haven't. you're not afraid of needing him, of desiring him.
so he's found his new purpose: being needed by you. for some reason, as this occurrs to him with you snuggled up to the hard plane of his chest that night, softly snoring, he feels dizzy, light-headed, disoriented even though he's laying down. he feels like he's floating. he feels weightless.
……
the wind howls outside like it’s trying to claw its way in, bending the trees, rattling the walls of your apartment until they groan in complaint. the kind of storm that seeps into your bones, into your dreams, and makes it just a little harder to fall asleep. toji knows that. he’s been home for only a few hours, fresh off a hit that took longer than usual—two, maybe three days of radio silence. longer than you're used to. not longer than he’s used to, but much longer than he’s okay with being away from you. you usually fill those first moments back together with chatter—telling him about every little thing that happened while he was gone, like your voice can patch the aching silence that clings to his skin like a film of sweat.
but not tonight. tonight, you don’t speak. you don’t need to. you’ve already said everything you needed to in the shower, the warm water washing away days of grime and distance. you'd missed him. you always missed him, and something primal inside him lights up at being missed.
he never says it out loud, but it thrills him, this domesticity, this relationship of being dependent on each other. that caveman instinct, the one he pretends he doesn’t have, gnaws at his ribs like a hunger: the need to protect you, to provide, to make sure you're okay. he watches you eat like he's witnessing art, watches your eyes get heavy like he’s earned a trophy.
and god help him, he loves cleaning you. lathering shampoo into your hair like it’s sacred. drying you off, dressing you in one of his sweatshirts—hanging off your frame like a blanket—and those tiny shorts you wear to bed that he thinks are criminally short, though he'd never complain. you brush your teeth next to him and nearly fall asleep against the sink, and all he can do is watch, dazed.
he doesn’t say much. he rarely does. but when he finally crawls into bed next to you, he's a man unraveling.
toji doesn’t cuddle. that’s what he says. but here he is, wrapping himself around you like a vine, tucking your smaller frame against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck as if you’re the one who’s been gone, and he’s trying to remind himself you’re real. he squeezes tighter than he should—just shy of bruising. you make a sleepy noise, more instinct than complaint, and he eases up immediately, but not much. he can’t. he needs this. needs you.
you could leave him.
that thought hits him harder than any punch he’s ever taken. you could just...decide you’re done. not with malice, not with drama. just simply, with love of course, as you do everything. you’d just slip away. like mist. like the dreams he can’t ever seem to hold on to. he presses his nose into your neck and breathes you in. you smell like his shampoo, like his soap, like a person-shaped sanctuary. he presses a kiss to the spot beneath your ear, feather-light, almost reverent. he wants to say something, but doesn’t trust his voice not to crack.
you shift against him, and it takes his breath away. just a twitch. a tiny sleepy sound. but your hand finds his where it's splayed against your waist and holds it like it's second nature. like he belongs there. you don’t even open your eyes.
sometimes, when he comes home late and you’ve already drifted off on his side of the bed, he slides in quietly, trying not to wake you. and without fail, without thought, you reach for him. groggy and half-asleep, you find him, pull him in, curl yourself around him like your body knows he’s home before your brain catches up. he doesn’t always sleep well. years of sleeping with one eye open will do that to a man. but when you pull him close like that, when you press your cheek to his chest and hum in your sleep, he thinks maybe he could unlearn that. maybe he wants to.
he’s not a romantic. never was, never will be. but this? this is romance, in its rawest, ugliest, most basest form. holding you close, letting you sleep while the wind screams outside and the whole world feels like it’s falling apart—that’s what love looks like for a man like him.
you shift again, half-waking, and mumble something into his shoulder. he doesn’t catch it all, but he hears the words “you’re home.” said with relief, like you were worried he wouldn’t be. and suddenly, he can breathe a little easier. he closes his eyes.
……
he almost dies. again.
that’s not hyperbole. you find him half-conscious in the doorway, shoulder wedged against the frame like it’s the only thing holding him upright. his jacket’s soaked with blood—his or someone else’s, you can’t tell yet—and when you lunge forward, hands shaking, toji barely reacts.
his head lolls. your hands catch it before it hits the tile. "jesus christ, toji—"
but he’s not hearing you. not really. his mouth is slack, his breathing shallow. you press your fingers to the side of his throat and feel it—there, barely—his pulse, weak and stuttering, like it’s trying to decide if it wants to keep going. you call his name again, louder this time. your hands are everywhere—his neck, his ribs, his jaw, trying to anchor him to this world—and when his eyes flutter open just enough to register your face, he flinches.
not from pain. not from the blood or the busted rib or the gash over his eyebrow. from you. like he didn’t expect you to be there. like he wishes you weren’t.
you drag him to the couch somehow, your body aching from the effort, your voice breaking as you bark orders he’s too out of it to obey. but he lets you tend to him. lets you strip off the ruined jacket. lets you clean the blood from his temple and cradle his face in your hands like it’s something fragile, something worth saving. he hates that. hates the way your touch makes him feel real. present. human. like a man with something to lose.
he lies there in the dim light, body trembling from pain or shock or the sheer effort of holding himself together, and he watches you. you, barefoot in your sleep shirt, crying softly as you press gauze to his shoulder. you, who should’ve left the first time he came home like this—broken and near-bled dry—but didn’t.
“you shouldn’t have to see me like this,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “not like this. not ever.”
you don’t answer right away. just lean in, forehead pressed to his. "I chose you, toji. I don’t just get to pick the easy parts.”
and that wrecks him. splinters him. because all he can think about—his blood still warm on your hands—is how easily he could disappear. he could do it. tonight. leave while you're sleeping, soft and unsuspecting. take some cash, take nothing, it doesn’t matter. he’s done it before. closed the door so quietly they never even knew he was gone. maybe you’d convince yourself he was a dream. just some violent little hallucination in your bed for a while. maybe that would be kinder. cleaner.
but the thought of you waking up alone makes something inside him howl. you’d cry. you’d blame yourself. you’d look in the mirror and ask what you did wrong. and that? that’s the thing that nails him to the floor.
so instead of running, he says nothing. he lets your fingers card through his sweat-damp hair. lets your lips brush the corner of his mouth, gentler than he deserves. lets you tuck the blanket around his battered frame like he’s something precious, something yours. because he is. god help him.
later that night, you fall asleep upright, curled at his side with your cheek resting lightly against his shoulder. and toji watches you, throat tight, eyes burning.
his head nearly fell off. in the literal sense. and the metaphorical one. and still—you held it steady.
he wants to weep from the absurdity of it, from the wonder. he doesn’t.
……
toji’s hand settled firmly at the small of your back, the warmth of his touch a steady anchor as he guided you through the dull hum of the apartment building’s hallways. the elevator dinged open, and you stepped inside, still blindfolded, your breath catching slightly with the mix of anticipation and nerves curling inside your chest. he was always touching you in some way or another—fingertips brushing your arm, the occasional rough palm at your shoulder—but this was different. this touch was leading, showing, promising something new.
he’d run through dozens of ways to make this moment perfect. carry you bridal style over the threshold, surprising you with a soft “welcome home.” or maybe telling you the night he signed the lease, forging your signature because he couldn't do it legally. no fuss. but in the end, he chose surprise. you’d been working all morning, tired and unaware, and he only had a limited window. shiu had helped him move everything from that shabby, hellhole of an apartment you’d shared—the one with peeling wallpaper, the creaky floors, the lingering smell of smoke and regret—into a small, weather-beaten trailer parked out back.
neither of you had much stuff, and most of the busted furniture he’d left behind. but he’d packed up the things that mattered: the pictures of you, the quiet memories wrapped in faded frames; every cooking utensil you owned, all the cleaning supplies—anything he thought you’d want to keep. it was a collection of fragments from the life you’d built together, crammed into a few boxes like a secret treasure.
now the elevator stopped. toji’s grip tightened slightly as he moved you forward. the jingle of keys sounded before the door clicked open. you still couldn’t see, but you caught the faint scent of something new, clean—unlike any place he’d ever lived before. he guided you inside, his steps steady but deliberate, careful not to rush the moment. when he finally removed your blindfold, you blinked against the flood of light, taking in the space. it wasn’t huge. small, really. you probably always wanted small. but it was clean—no stains on the floors, no moths buzzing in the corners, no stale smoke thickening the air. it smelled fresh, like new paint and hope.
your eyes darted around. the kitchen caught your breath: a real kitchen, with a working oven and microwave, a stovetop free from grime or burnt bits, counters you could actually cook on without worry. no mystery stains, no peeling tiles. it was home. yours and toji’s. and somewhere in that simple, honest space, toji was on his knees, eyes bright with something that looked like gratitude—maybe awe—that he was lucky enough to share this with you.
you walked around, taking it all in, and couldn’t help but scold him a little. “why didn’t you let me help move anything? you must be exhausted.”
his chest swelled, pride making his rough edges soften. “I did it for you,” he said, voice low. “didn’t want you busting your ass over a couple ‘a boxes.”
you unpacked slowly, quietly—unpacking wasn’t glamorous, but every box opened felt like laying down another brick in your new life. you arranged the few things you’d brought, marveling at how this place could feel so alive, so full of potential. you told toji how proud you were, not just of the apartment, but of him. how he’d made this happen, even when everything else seemed like a mess.
he stopped you before you could go on, voice firm, a little rougher than usual. “I ain’t doing nothing for you that you don’t already deserve.” you shook your head, feeling tears prick your eyes. he looked like he wanted to say more but didn’t. instead, you just stood there in that small, bright room, knowing that this—this was home. and he knew that it was because of you.
the next few days stretched long and sweet. you found it hard to leave the apartment you shared. you threw on some paint-stained overalls and a tank top, plastering the walls with broad, uneven strokes of color—rose floral wallpaper for the kitchen, bold and a little bit feminine, just like you.
toji tried to help, but there wasn’t an artistic bone in his body. his idea of decorating was hanging things where they fit and making sure the pipes didn’t leak. he grumbled a little about your wallpaper choice, but deep down, he loved it. loved how you’d made the place yours, the toaster you’d picked out, the way you’d organized everything like a promise for the future. he installed shelves, tightened screws, hooked up the stove and the fridge, always grumbling but never complaining when you asked for his help.
you bought painfully comfortable blankets for the bed, small luxury items—a tiny tv you both knew you wouldn’t use much, a new kettle because god only knows how long you’d gone without one that didn’t sputter or leak. you weren’t quite wealthy enough for this, but for the first time, that didn’t matter. this was your space. your home. no expense too small, no detail insignificant.
one evening, toji came home late from a job. something easy to make ends meet, the kind of work he’d been taking more often lately. you barely blinked at his worn boots or the grease under his nails. you liked these simpler jobs he seemed to be taking, though he was complaining about them. they pay like shit, he’d whine. but money was no longer the constant weight in the pit of his stomach. you’d unconditioned toji’s hoarding habits, slowly but surely. there was no more cash hidden under mattresses or tucked away in boots or secret cupboards. when he needed money, he knew it was there—your joint bank account, two cards that made life easier and more secure. and when the money ran low? you both made do, scrimped by a little, and nothing bad happened.
the only thing toji hoarded these days was you. you lay together in your new bedroom, soft warm lamps casting lazy light across the walls. you talked quietly, about everything and nothing—hopes, plans, memories. his hand found yours under the blankets. he traced slow circles on your skin, breathing in the way your voice filled the room, the way your laughter loosened the knots in his chest. he loved the sound of you. more than anything.
months later, the apartment still smelled like fresh paint and new beginnings. but it also smelled of you and him. the scent of love, hard-earned and fiercely protected. the weight of the past was still there—heavy, yes—but it no longer dragged him down. it anchored him. you had taught him that. anchor, anchor, anchor. and this small space, these simple walls, were your anchor too. together.
……
toji steps inside, and immediately the proof of your shared life is everywhere. two pairs of shoes sit neatly by the door—his heavy boots and your delicate ballet flats—silent witnesses to the everyday rhythm you’ve built together. on the small table by the entrance, two metal water bottles stand side by side, worn but cared for, like trophies of a quiet domesticity he never expected to want.
his eyes drift to the kitchen window above the sink, where a printed photo leans against the glass. it’s from that night at the club—him, sharp-edged and fierce as always, but gazing at you with something softer, something almost sacred. you’re breathtaking, the dress painfully beautiful, your hair done up in intricate curls that frame your face like a halo. he’s not smiling, but the reverence in his eyes speaks volumes, like you’re a goddess only he can see.
the scent hits him next—a perfect mix of your perfume and his natural musk, a heady blend that clings to the air. it wraps around him like a second skin, comforting and intoxicating. he remembers leaving this morning, not even noticing the faint smudge of your lip gloss still lingering on his cheek until shiu caught it mid-tease. that bastard grinned, poking fun, but toji just grumbled, wiped it off, and let a secret smile break through. yeah, suck it sideways, shiu, he thought, I’ve got a girl who loves me at home, and you don’t.
this—this was different. it used to scare him, this softness, this intimacy. the idea of someone caring for him, of him caring back, shook him to his core. but now? he craves it. he asks when you’ll be home, not because he needs to control your schedule, but because the answer settles him. he assumes you’ll be sleeping in his bed, and when you are, the room feels whole.
at night, he plugs in your laptop without a word. he eats the lunches you make, savoring every bite like it’s a love letter. in the kitchen, the two of you stand wrapped in each other’s arms, chores forgotten in the warmth of your closeness, sharing soft kisses like secrets no one else knows. it’s not just a place. it’s a life. it’s home.
……
you don’t ask much of him. not really. toji works—hard. not the kind of job with clocks or breaks or performance reviews, but the kind that leaves blood in your mouth and bruises blooming beneath your ribs. hunting. tracking. killing. it’s brutal, and it's not without its toll. there’s a version of him—older, colder—who might’ve used that as an excuse to do nothing else. a man who would've let you clean up after him, cook for him, nurse him back to health while he rotted on the couch like a king on a crumbling throne. but not this version. not anymore.
this version keeps the living space clean. your living space. he wipes down the counters, sweeps the floors, keeps things tidy with quiet, obsessive precision. he doesn’t just help cook because he enjoys watching you zone out while you dice vegetables, even though that’s a major draw. he does it because it feels good. it feels like providing, and for the first time in his life, that word doesn’t taste sour in his mouth, it’s not just financial means. he likes knowing you’re full and warm and safe. he likes the idea of taking care of you, he relishes in it.
it took him longer than it should’ve to realize: the more time he devotes to taking care of you, the less he has to spend inside his own head. the less space regret takes up in his chest. it’s not healing, not really, but it’s something. a survival tactic that smells like lavender laundry detergent and sizzles like garlic in butter. sometimes you let him cope this way. sometimes you don’t. you’ve said it before—you’re not here to fix him. if this is how he wants to keep the darkness at bay, you’ll allow it. but you won’t let him kill himself in the process.
you find him dozing off on the couch, sprawled sideways in the dim afternoon light. not a rare sight—but it’s rare that he doesn’t immediately snap upright the second he hears your key in the lock. that worry itches at the back of your mind. you set your bag down, shoes off, quiet as can be. then you pad over and settle beside him, curling a hand around the back of his head. your nails graze gently through his scalp, soothing, grounding. it’s a lullaby touch—but instead of sinking deeper into sleep, it stirs him.
he blinks awake fast, guilt chasing the sleep from his bones. “shit,” he mumbles, dragging a hand down his face. “fuck, I forgot. I was supposed to—groceries—I'm sorry. I’m so fuckin’ sorry, I meant to—” his voice is thick with sleep, apology pouring out like a busted faucet, but he’s distracted. you’re smiling. soft and sweet, like you’re indulging a child. your fingers are still in his hair, still combing through the overgrown strands, and you’re thinking it might be time for a trim—but you don’t say it, he doesn't want to hear it. you just let him talk, even though you’re not sure he even knows what he’s saying.
you know what he means, though. he’s terrified of disappointing you. it clings to him like a second skin. not because he thinks you’ll scream, or slam doors, or walk out—but because he knows you won’t. because you’re kind to him. and that is infinitely more devastating. you keep smiling. and it guts him. why aren’t you mad? why aren’t you yelling? why isn’t this devolving into an imperfect argument, filled with bitter silence and slammed cupboards? why aren’t you leaving him—not just over the groceries, but over everything?
you hold out your hand.
“c’mon,” you say, voice light as the breeze coming in through the cracked window. “let’s go to that taco cart for dinner.”
he blinks. “but…what about…we were gonna cook. the list—the stuff you needed—”
“we’ll grab it after,” you shrug. like it makes perfect sense. and to you, it does. you reach for your bag again, grab your keys, and press his wallet into his hand. “then we’ll come home and go to sleep.” you raise a brow, giving him a look that’s more affectionate than scolding. “someone needs it.”
it’s so simple. so casual. so…domestic, it makes parts of him shrivel up in disgust. it’s sickening, in the best way. your tenderness feels like someone peeling off his armor with bare hands. not a weapon in sight. no bullets, no blades. just you. and you’re deadlier than anything he’s ever fought. not with a gun to his head or a knife to his throat, not with a target spotting him from his spot, not during any sex he’s ever had, has he felt more vulnerable, more naked than he does when you’re smiling up at him like that.
he can’t speak. he just looks at you, bleary and stunned, like you’ve slayed him with a smile. he wants to ask—why aren’t you mad? why do you always forgive me? why are you so good to me? but you’ve told him before. when you’re brave, when you think he needs to hear it—when you just want to say it—you’ll look him in the eyes and say: because I love you, because you deserve it, because I want to. he’d begged you to stop, once. voice cracked and fists clenched, like it physically hurt to hear. but you didn’t. you never do. and though it makes him squirm, sometimes miserable, it also makes him feel—blissfully, painfully—happy. you’re already at the door now, holding it open with a look. you coming? he stands slowly. he doesn’t say a word. he would follow you anywhere.
……
the first time you ask to cut his hair, he scoffs. the second time, he ignores you. the third time, you plead—and something about the tilt of your head, the way your fingers curl around his wrist and your voice goes soft with sincerity—it breaks past whatever wall he's built around himself.
so now he’s here, in your bathroom, perched reluctantly on a low stool that still doesn't make him small. even sitting, he’s nearly your height. his knees brush against the vanity, arms crossed loosely over his chest, like he’s trying not to look too invested. he’s not. Probably. but he lets you touch him.
your fingers start slow, carding through his thick black hair, tugging gently as you tilt his head this way and that. he grunts under his breath, but doesn’t move. not away, at least. the pads of your fingers massage his scalp as if you’ve forgotten what you came here to do, nails skimming gently, almost apologetically.
“this a haircut,” he mutters, “or a spa day?” you smile, but say nothing. you keep touching him like that—light, aimless, reverent—and he thinks maybe this is some form of slow death. or slow mercy. he can't decide. he should tell you to knock it off. to hurry up. he opens his mouth to say as much. nothing comes out.
instead, he leans into your touch, almost involuntarily. his eyes slip half-lidded. his shoulders—always so tense—lower by degrees. you haven’t even made the first cut yet, and he already feels like you’re disentangling him.
eventually, you start snipping. the sound of shears, soft and rhythmic, punctuates the silence. hair falls to the tiled floor in quiet flurries, dark strands catching the light like feathers. you move with surprising skill—no hesitation, just quiet confidence as you circle around him. he tracks you in the mirror until he doesn’t. at some point, his eyes close again.
and the strangest thing happens. he relaxes. fully, wholly, in a way he didn’t know he was capable of. your touch is so practiced, so sure. he lets himself imagine—for just a second—that he’s something soft enough to deserve this. that the hands moving through his hair aren’t just being careful. they’re being kind.
the air smells like your shampoo and your skin. you’re breathing softly, and the rhythm of it is lulling, almost hypnotic. he feels lighter already, and not just from the hair. like something else is being cut away. something heavy. something he’s been dragging around for years. you finish before he wants you to. his eyes open slowly at the sound of your voice. “all done,” you say. there’s a flicker of pride behind your smile, a quiet triumph like you’ve just completed a work of art. you point to the mirror. “what do you think?”
he looks. it’s…the same, mostly. the same rough cut he’s always worn. nothing fancy. nothing new. but there’s something about it now, something that wasn’t there before. it’s yours. you did this. with your hands, your touch, your steady love. he doesn’t say much—he never does—but the look in his eyes is molten.
“yeah,” he says, voice a little too quiet for him, almost a whisper. “looks good.”
you beam. he looks away quickly like it burns to witness you that happy over something he can’t even explain. what he doesn’t think is this: he’s had a hundred haircuts in his life. barbershops, backroom shears, blade-over-sink jobs. none of them made him feel like this. like he could close his eyes and let someone else take care of him. like it wasn’t just about cutting hair, but about cutting away the pieces of him that no longer serve him.
he doesn’t say any of that. he just sits there, feeling weightless. and when you lean in to brush the stray hairs off his cheek, he closes his eyes again—just for a moment. because this is what mercy feels like.
......
toji didn’t know shiu was dating. like—dating dating. sure, they’d both had their fair share of late-night texts and bar meetups that ended in someone else's bed. it was practically a hobby back then. occasional hookups weren’t newsworthy. temporary girls came and went. but this? a double date? toji hadn't thought shiu had it in him. hell, he hadn’t thought he had it in him. but then you slept over that first night and... that was it. like something clicked into place. like his body had been hardwired to want you there, limbs tangled in his sheets, warmth soaking into the mattress. he never looked back.
and somewhere along the way, shiu must’ve seen that. maybe he saw how you curled into toji on public benches, or how toji texted you back with uncharacteristic quickness. maybe he saw how soft toji looked when he watched you talk, like you were made of glass and starlight and he was just a guy trying to be worthy of either.
now here they all were. a table for four, a place with real lighting and menus that didn’t come laminated. it wasn’t exactly michelin-star territory, but it was definitely not their usual corner food cart with grilled meat skewers and soda cans. the place even had cloth napkins.
toji had taken a long moment to size up the woman shiu arrived with. pretty. confident. comfortable in her own skin. her nails were the kind that made clacking sounds on phone screens and held wine glasses like weapons. she kissed shiu on the cheek and adjusted his collar like she’d been doing it forever. and shiu? that cocky bastard just grinned, let her. pride throbbed through toji’s chest unexpectedly. he hadn’t realized he’d been the blueprint. not that he’d ever say that out loud.
you slid into the booth beside him, and instinctively, toji threw his arm across the back of the seat behind you. he didn’t even realize he was doing it until the waiter showed up for the third time in ten minutes—refilling your glass like it was the holy grail and completely ignoring everyone else’s. toji glared. the kind of glare that held no subtlety. he didn’t like the way the guy looked at you. didn’t like the fake smile or the way he angled his hips toward you while pretending to check on the table. toji’s hand dropped from the booth to your waist, a silent little minefield of possessiveness. you leaned into it, like it was nothing new.
"think our waiter wants to fight you," you murmured, sipping from the now suspiciously full glass.
"let him try," toji muttered. his fingers tightened slightly at your hip, like he was physically anchoring you to him.
meanwhile, you and shiu’s girl hit it off like wildfire. she was funny. you were funnier. the two of you commiserated about how the boys drove like hellspawn and never rinsed the damn dishes. you swapped book titles, music playlists, compared manicure preferences. she gasped over your new apartment and sighed theatrically about how she was begging shiu to move.
“he still lives above that loud-ass karaoke bar, right?” you asked.
“yes, and it gets worse,” she said, flicking her eyes toward shiu. “he insists he likes the ‘ambiance.’”
toji barked a laugh, low and guttural. “she’s got you pegged.” shiu rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.
you kept talking. they kept listening. at some point, toji noticed he and shiu were just…watching. you two were in your own world, giggling over who knows what. your eyes sparkled under the restaurant’s soft lighting. shiu’s girl tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled at something you said. and suddenly, toji felt it—that sharp twist of how the hell did we get here?
he caught shiu’s eye across the table. they didn’t say anything. didn’t need to. the silence between them was filled with mutual disbelief and unspoken realization. how the fuck did a couple of losers like us get so damn lucky? they’d been wreckage not long ago. men built from smoke and bad decisions. and now here they were—sitting in some semi-fancy restaurant with two women who loved them, who laughed and teased and didn’t look the least bit afraid of their shadows.
toji blinked slowly, like maybe this would vanish if he looked too fast. like it was all some trick of the light.
after dinner, shiu mentioned they lived nearby, and it felt natural to walk. the streets were quieter here, less chaotic than downtown. you all stopped at a late-night gelato place on the corner—just to “peek,” according to shiu’s girl. you got a small cup of chocolate hazelnut and fed toji a bite off your spoon. he pretended to scowl. you did it again just to annoy him. he let you.
shiu’s pda was subtle, but it was there. an arm draped low around her waist, thumb brushing idle circles into the curve of her hip. protective, sure. but also a little amazed. like he still couldn’t believe she existed. the four of you meandered toward their apartment, voices low and full of warmth. toji didn't talk much. he didn’t need to. the warmth of your hand in his said enough. when you got to shiu’s building, the goodbyes stretched long—talks of next time, maybe a game night, maybe cooking something weird and homemade. she hugged you tightly. you liked her. you could tell.
then it was just you and toji again, walking toward the metro. he noticed you were quieter now. the city around you was humming in a low buzz, but your steps slowed near the stairs that led underground.
“I’m happy for him,” you whispered, almost like you weren’t sure if you should say it. your voice barely carried above the city’s rhythm. toji looked down at you. your hair was blowing a little in the wind. you looked tired but beautiful. soft. still glowing from the night.
he gave a small grunt that barely masked the emotion behind it. “yeah?” he said. “me too.”
the train station lights flickered softly as you descended, the sound of your shoes echoing lightly against the stairs. he held your hand the entire time, firm and unyielding. you leaned into him, shoulder against chest, warmth on warmth. there was a time when the idea of domesticity would've made him scoff. the word itself sounded foreign—fragile, like something you could snap in half. but now? now it was everything he had. everything he wanted. and seeing it bloom in someone like shiu, someone just as wrecked and unfinished as he’d once been?
it made toji believe a little more in miracles. or at least in second chances.
that night, as the train rumbled forward and the city blurred by in streaks of yellow light, toji didn’t say much. but he held you tighter. because love like this—real love—it didn’t need words to be understood. it just needed staying power.
……
toji comes home late tonight, the kind of late that smells like dust and smoke and too many footsteps running from something worse than pain. he’s not bleeding—at least not enough to worry you—but every muscle in his body is screaming exhaustion. it’s a deep, bone-deep tired that nothing fixes except the kind of peace you wouldn’t think he deserves.
you’re there. you shouldn’t be. not with him like this, not with him angry at the world, angrier at himself, not after the day he's had. but here you are anyway, and he’s not letting the moment slip through his fingers. he grabs your wrist, hard enough to anchor his weight down, to keep from collapsing. his tall frame bows down, nearly breaking his own rules about keeping his distance, dipping his face into the curve of your neck. your scent—soft, warm, a strange kind of sanctuary—hits him like a punch he didn’t know he needed. he breathes it in, slow, like it’s the only medicine that’ll put the fire out.
you feel the weight of him as he presses you back against the doorframe, steady and relentless. it’s not just fatigue—it’s loneliness wrapped up in muscle and scars, something almost desperate. he’s letting the world fall off him here, pound by agonizing pound.
you don’t say anything. you don’t need to. he just holds you, steady and silent, like he’s trying to memorize the way your skin feels beneath his calloused hands. sometimes, when toji lets his guard slip, he lets you hold him—wrap your arms around his shoulders, cradle the mess of pain and pride. but not tonight. tonight, he’s possessive, almost feral in his need to claim this moment, this quiet, this fragile tether to something good.
you sink into the couch, and he lets you stay there, letting his head rest heavy against your collarbone, your heart, your existence. hours stretch out, wordless and raw. just two broken people breathing, one holding on because he’s too tired to fight, and the other holding him because somehow, that’s enough.
he’s never going to be a saint. hell, he’s never wanted to be. toji isn’t built for white picket fences or sunday morning brunches. but he’s yours and you’re his.
he can’t undo the past—not the nights he wasn’t there for megumi, not the hands that pulled triggers, not the ghosts that haunt him in the dark. he doesn’t believe in miracles, only in the small victories: better hits, higher pay, more room in his heart for this love you seem to freely give, a better ability to reciprocate it.
it’s not about the dreams he's never given the time of day. it’s about the ones you have—the quiet kind that don’t need fancy fences or spotless lawns. and yeah, maybe that’s why, no matter how hard he tries, he’s never quite left the job. it’s the life he knows, the path he walks. but he’s learning to walk it better, with less weight crushing his steps.
he cooks now. sometimes burns the vegetables. cleans without being asked. takes care of himself, because taking care of you means being a man who’s still standing at the end of the day. because taking care of you means taking care of himself, and that's all he's ever wanted to do, really.
by god, he’ll die trying to take care of you—in every way he knows how, in every way you’ll let him.
the weight he’s carried with him for so long—the guilt, the shame, the regret—it doesn’t vanish. but around you, it loosens. just a little. like a heavy coat in the summer heat, slipping off, forgotten on the floor.
and in that quiet space, between your hands and his scars, toji finds something he never thought he could hold onto: love. love is a weight of it’s own, a kind of weight he’s more than happy to bear.
ꕥ Warnings: Male reader, m x m, amab, m4m, m!reader, bottom reader, x male reader, sfw ONLY, fluff, Toji x m!reader, affectionate Toji, modern AU, male x male couple, how I think Toji will act if he was gentle and soft, out of character Toji, Husband!Toji x M!Reader
ꕥ Want more similar content? Head over to my masterlist <3
ꕥ Notes: Yeah, uhh.. Enjoy this and if you want more go read other fics I have :3 I have very little drabbles though, mostly from jjk! Yes, I did promise the Argenti fic but Toji popped in my mind last second so I had to write this x-x The Argenti fic is in making progress so don't worry. Just- Just enjoy this
♡Affection♡
╰──╮ ꕥ ╭──╯
୨୧ Toji Fushiguro | SFW ୨୧
What if! Toji came home one day and just wanted to cuddle with you after having a rough day. You gladly accept the cuddles and went to bed with him. The both of you changing into more comfortable clothes before cuddles.
What if! Toji laid there with you in his arms as your presence made him more calm and relaxed.
What if! Toji caressed your arm, moving his fingers gently up at down your arm to make you feel more comfortable as the both of you cuddled on the bed.
What if! Toji gave you kissed on your head every now and then as he let out soft breaths, making you feel known that you're here with him and him only.
What if! Toji lays your head on his pecs that felt like big pillows for you (you've told this to him before but never really gotten the chance to do it. You've only done it once and this is your second time!), making you feel all relaxed and comfy.
What if! Toji wraps one of his arms around you and the other behind his head. Keeping you close to him and keeping you safe from any danger that could come at any time. He could kill in his sleep if someone touched you, literally.
What if! Toji whispered "I love you" in your ear every now and then, making you feel loved. So loved that he couldn't stop saying those three special words to you, you would never get bored of hearing it. You loved it.
What if! Toji kept you as close as possible to himself, giving you all of his affection to make you feel like you're the only one in his world (which you are :3).
What if! Toji played with your hair and giving your cheeks sweet lovely kisses. Unable to stop because of how much he loves you.
What if! Toji hummed a soft tone for you as you slept in his arms peacefully. Not moving at all to not wake you up, not even making the slightest noise or else he would get upset if he accidentally woke you up. Might even put the blame on himself.
What if! Toji watched you sleep in that beautiful peaceful state you were in. Admiring you and adoring you like the good husband he is. Not being able to move his gaze anywhere else, only on you.
What if! Toji moved his hand from your arm to your back, giving it small yet soft caresses with his fingertips as if you were something fragile. Fragile in his big figure.
What if! Toji sleeps after an hour had passed, giving you affection before he slept and in his sleep. Still giving you affection while he slept. I guess it was is subconsciousness?
What if! Toji continued caressing your back in small circles, unconsciously. Guess it was out of habit x)
summary: you get groped in the club and you come home to your boyfriend, Toji, who tries his best to comfort you
content/warnings: mentions of being groped by a man/unconsented touching, pure fluff, f!reader x toji who’s your long term boyfriend
word count: 2.7k
a/n: this may be triggering to some so pls read with caution! i thought of this scenario after experiencing this myself this is so not me projecting my own trauma into fictional writing and i just thought this would be a perfect toji hc PLS GOD WHY ISNT THIS MAN REAL i love me some smutty toji but i also love imagining this man be soft from time to time too <3
The blaring of the music suddenly came to a standstill- you whipped your head back just to realize it was all in your head. The music from the DJ booth, the wild array of colors from the club’s spotlights; they were all still there, but time felt like it just suddenly came to a halt. You froze in your position, elbows resting on the bar, leaning slightly forward, when you realized your ass was being groped by an unknown man’s hand. Without even thinking, you turned your head to the right, no one was there. When you turned your head to the left, you saw a man talking to the bartender, ordering his batch of drinks. You squinted at him, trying to make his face out under the dim lights and flashing colors. I don’t know this man. Still frozen in your stance, he removes his hand from your behind and smirks. He was wearing a jacket decorated with a famous designer brand’s logo, gold chains hanging from his neck, and hair done up a little bit too well. You could tell he was well off, and judging from his actions, you could immediately conclude that he was nothing but a snotty-rich brat who thinks he could get away with anything. Before you could give him the satisfaction of showing any sort of reaction, you pushed your arms off the bar and stormed off, opposite his direction.
Your head felt fuzzy. Was it anger? Disgust? Frustration? You didn’t know what emotion was coming over you. You mindlessly pushed your way through the crowd, ignoring the dirty looks and curses thrown at you from intrusively making your way to your table. When you reached your group, your friends were all on their feet, dancing to the beat of another generic EDM song. You tried to compose yourself as best as you could before reaching them, but you were always the type to wear your emotions on your sleeve.
“Y/N, honey, what’s wrong? Where are the drinks?” Your friend immediately noticed something was off about you. Her curly locks that were put up in a ponytail when you all first arrived are now messily spread out over her shoulders.
“I don’t feel so good right now. I think I’m gonna head home first.” You crossed your arms over your stomach, faking a stomachache.
You trusted your friends. You knew that if you told them about what just happened, they’d know exactly what to say and do to make you feel better. But you didn’t want to bring down their mood, and right now, you just wanted to be where you felt safe, home.
“Okay, sweetie, I’ll come with you on your way out, gimme a sec.” You nodded at her, thankful she didn’t pry any further. After grabbing your bag and saying your goodbyes to your other girlfriends, you two made your way out of the club.
You sighed in relief when the club doors closed behind you, somewhat blocking off the music from the inside. You pulled out your phone to check the time, 11:24pm.
“Are you sure you can get home by yourself? Why don’t you call Toji and get him to pick you up?” Your friend showed obvious signs of concern on her face as she gently rubbed your arm up and down.
“It’s okay, I think my tipsiness has worn off. And I’ll just take a taxi back.” You reassured her with a gentle smile.
A part of you wants to call your boyfriend immediately and have him pick you up from this place. You wanted to report everything that happened to him, and you know he’ll be right next to you in a matter of seconds after learning about what you just encountered. But you also knew all too well how Toji would react, and the last thing you want happening right now is your boyfriend murdering a man. The thought sent shivers down your spine.
Your friend steps up to the curb of the street to hail you a taxi. After giving the driver your address, you walk up to her to give her a hug. You didn’t notice but the hug you gave her was extra tight, and you stayed in that position for a few seconds longer. Although your friend noticed that this was seemingly out of your character, she decided not to ask any further and just wished you a safe trip back.
The ride home was quiet, a little too quiet for your liking. The taxi driver had the radio on, but the volume was turned down to the point it was barely audible. You found yourself crossing your arms around yourself as if you were hiding or protecting yourself from unknown harm. It’s not that you didn’t feel safe inside the taxi, but the feeling you felt at that bar started creeping up on you, reminding you of the unpleasantness of it all.
Finally, after about fifteen minutes of silence, your house came to view. You shut your eyes for a second, breathing in and out in relief. After paying your fare, you quickly made your way up the steps to your house. Your hand froze before turning the doorknob, an unfamiliar feeling of uneasiness coming over you. You didn’t know why you were still feeling anxious. You were finally at your house where you knew you’d be safe and sound, and waiting for you inside was your boyfriend of almost four years, whom you loved and trusted with your life. You decided to ignore the uneasy feeling and opened the door.
The sound of a game playing on the tv surprisingly comforted you. You smiled weakly when you saw Toji on the couch with his feet up and a bottle of beer in his hand.
The sound of the door opening rattled him slightly. He quickly whipped his head back. The frown that came with his surprise quickly changed to a more gentle expression when he saw it was you.
“Hey, baby.” He set his beer down on the coffee table before getting up to greet you. “You’re home early.”
He opens his arms to envelope you in a hug but stops himself when he sees you flinch. You too were surprised. Your eyes widened slightly as you looked up to see his reaction. You didn’t mean to do that. You don’t know why you unconsciously flinched. Toji was obviously surprised, but not mad. You couldn’t paint the expression on his face. More than anything, he looked concerned.
“I’m sorry, Toji- I didn’t mean-”
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He furrowed his eyebrows together, trying to get a better look at your face. His arms which were once spread out are now resting at his sides. You saw his hand reach up to touch you but he quickly put them back down. It was clear to him that you didn’t want to be touched right now, and he respected that.
You couldn’t find the right words to say. You didn’t know how to begin. You dropped your head in front of you, covering your face with your hands.
“Did something happen at the club, babe?” His deep, raspy voice surprisingly came out weak yet gentle. It was rare to hear him like this, but you knew this was him being comforting.
You simply nodded in response, hands still over your face.
“Okay, why don’t we sit down on the couch so you could rest for a bit, yeah?”
“Okay.” You answered weakly. Still being careful of mindlessly touching you, he waited for you to make your way to the living room first. He kept his distance a little bit but still walked close behind you. You sat down in the middle of the sofa, and Toji followed, sitting right next to you. You two sat in silence for a little bit. Toji waited for you to speak first before asking any questions.
“Don’t get mad, okay?” You knew starting off any story with this line was ineffective. It was obvious to him that what happened to you will cause him to get mad.
“I won’t, baby.” He reassured, turning his body to face you completely.
“Promise me, okay?” You insisted.
“How could I ever get mad at you babe? Try me.” He chuckled softly. You tried your best to return his expression, but you were worried about something else.
“No, I know you won’t get mad at me...” You played with your fingers, Toji watching you carefully.
“I-” As the words formed in your head, you suddenly started to doubt yourself. The big feelings you were feeling suddenly started to feel small when you realized you may be overreacting. Maybe it isn’t such a big deal? Why am I getting so worked up over this?
“Mmm?” Toji hummed when you suddenly stopped. “Go on, darlin’.”
“I was groped in the club. Some guy had his hand on my ass as I was ordering a drink.” You shut your eyes, nervously anticipating his reaction. When you heard nothing but silence and steady breathing, you looked up at Toji. His eyes were closed, seemingly calm, but you could see he was gritting his teeth. His reaction worried you, but it was better than what you had expected.
“And? Where’s the little shit now?” He opened his eyes slowly to respond.
“I don’t know, probably still in the club. I couldn’t say or do anything, really. I just got up and walked away.” You lowered your head a little, embarrassed by your lack of proactiveness.
“It’s a good thing you walked away and quickly went home. But why didn’t you call me? I could’ve gone right over to pick you up.”
“I didn’t really want to witness a literal murder happen before my eyes, Toji.”
“Damn right. If I were there I would’ve used my bare hands to beat the living sh-”
“Toji...” You whined a little when you saw him get a little too worked up imagining the things he could’ve done to the man.
“Sorry, sorry.” He leaned back a little, pushing his imagination to the side.
“I know it’s a dumb question to ask, but are you okay?” You smiled a bit at your boyfriend’s efforts. You knew that he wasn’t really the soft type, he didn’t really know what to do whenever you were sad or going through something. Usually, he’d have you sit on his lap as he embraced you in his arms. But now that you were wary of a man’s touch, he didn’t know what to do.
“I honestly don’t know.” You shot him a sheepish smile which he returned with a worried expression.
His body slightly stiffened as he watched you make your way over him. You put your arms on his shoulders to support yourself as you sat down on his lap, legs together and spread out across the couch. With your arms still over his shoulders, you pulled him a little bit tighter, your head nuzzling the crane of his neck. You breathed in, taking in his scent- the scent that comforted you so much. You relaxed a bit more when you felt his arms wrap over your body, cradling you. You two sat in silence for a few more seconds, relishing the embrace. He swayed you slowly from side to side. Careful not to shake you up so much, which he usually does. You grazed your nose slowly against the bare skin on his neck.
“Your smell comforts me.” You mumbled quietly against his skin.
“Should I be offended, or?” He pokes at your side, attempting to pull a laugh from you.
You swat his hand away, pulling away from the hug. You gaze into his eyes for a moment. How is it that the man who thinks so little of killing is able to look at you with so much love in his eyes? You pressed your forehead against his and you both close your eyes from the intimate contact.
“I can’t explain how I feel... I feel angry and frustrated... But at the same time, I feel disgusting. The part he touched- I- it’s like I lost something back there. I feel like my dignity was stripped away and I was reminded of how inferior I am when faced against a man.” You opened your eyes slowly, the mixture of feelings inside of you threatening to spill out all at the same time.
Your eyes wandered around your living room avoiding your boyfriend’s eyes, who was inches away from you. You glanced back at him for a second but quickly looked away when you saw the pain on his face. He felt helpless. He racked his brain for the right words to say, frustrated at himself when he realized he couldn’t turn back time to stop this from ever happening. His blood was boiling from the thought of a man hurting you this much.
“If only I agreed to you coming with me tonight... If only I didn’t wear this dress that exposed so much of my-”
“No, okay, stop. Stop that.” He pushes your shoulders back slightly, forcing you to look at him. He carefully places his calloused hands against your soft cheeks, cupping them.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, okay? This was no one’s fault but that asshole’s. Want me to teach him a lesson?” He raises his eyebrows, showing his sincerity.
As much as it would’ve satisfied you to see the man beaten and on his knees asking for your forgiveness, you just wanted to spend the rest of the night like this- in your boyfriend’s arms, surrounded by warmth and comfort.
You shake your head.
“Okay.” He responds quiety, stroking his right thumb across your left cheek.
“I’m so sorry this happened to you. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop it from happening.” His voice was sincere and kind. Completely opposite from how he usually is. You leaned against his hand, smiling slightly.
“Is there anything I can do?” Toji’s eyes were begging for an answer. He didn’t like the idea of being useless, especially in this situation. He was hoping for something, anything he could do to make you feel better. One word from you and he’d do anything you asked without hesitation. You shook your head slowly.
“It’s okay, baby. I just need you by my side, like this.” He was doubtful, but he still nodded his head, acknowledging your request.
“Okay, we can stay like this for as long as you like.” He forced a reassuring smile, running his hand up and down your back. You noticed his eyes travel from your forehead to your eyes, your nose, then finally stop at your lips.
“-s it okay if I kiss you?” You were taken aback slightly by his question. It wasn’t like him to ask permission to kiss you. Then you quickly realized he was still being cautious of how you felt. After what you just went through earlier tonight, suddenly kissing you might be the last thing you wanted.
“Of course, Toji.” You chuckled lightly against the kiss. He wasted no time before connecting his lips to yours. His lips felt warm, his breath slightly smelling like alcohol from the beer he was drinking. After the quick connection, he pulls back slightly, searching for any hint of uneasiness on your face. When he saw that you were okay with the kiss, he leaned in again for another, much deeper this time.
“I promise this’ll be the last time.” He mumbles against your lips, not stopping from the kiss.
“Hmm?” You hummed back.
“This won’t ever happen again, I promise you.” He pulls back this time, gazing straight into your eyes. Toji often makes promises to you.
I promise to never hurt you for as long as I shall live.
I promise to love you in this life and in the next.
I promise to never bring my work home.
I promise to always clean up after I eat and to put my dirty clothes straight into the hamper before showering.
But despite the many promises he has made to you, he has never broken a single one. That’s why the words he just spoke to you put your heart and mind at ease. Once he promises to do something, he never forgets.
“Thank you, Toji. I love you.” You tried to smile despite the stinging in your eyes. Without missing a beat, he swiftly wipes away the tears that have escaped from the corners of your eyes.
“I love you.” He softly responds before kissing your tear-stained eyes. His lips find their way to yours and you’re once again safe and sound in his arms.
