JJK Toji Fushiguro (Zen'in)

You’d been grinding through life in that dingy apartment block on the outskirts of Tokyo, the kind where the elevator always smelled like stale piss and the fluorescent lights in the hallway flickered like they were about to give up the ghost.

Rent was a constant thorn in your side, eating up most of what you scraped together from your dead-end job at the corner konbini, where you’d ring up cigarettes and instant noodles for bleary-eyed salarymen while Megumi napped on the worn couch for coffee breaks in the back of the shop. Toji Zen'in—your husband, the man who’d crashed into your world like a wrecking ball when you were at your absolute lowest, drowning in debt and isolation—hadn’t softened one bit since the day he dragged you out of that mess. He was still neck-deep in the Zenin clan’s bullshit, that ancient family of assholes who treated him like their personal attack dog. They were loaded, sure, with old money from shady deals and underground influence, but Toji? He was the black sheep, the one without their fancy privileges—just because he didn't have any cursed energy—, so he hustled on the fringes—collecting debts with his fists, running bets on underground fights, or whatever dirty job they tossed his way to keep him useful. He hated them, spat their name like poison when he was drunk enough to rant, but he couldn’t cut ties. Blood was blood, and in his world, that meant obligations that kept him out till dawn, coming home with knuckles bruised and pockets either flush or empty.

Megumi, your little miracle turned three-year-old handful, was the spitting image of his dad—wild black hair that stuck up no matter how much you tried to tame it, and those sharp blue eyes that watched everything too closely. You’d hoped the kid would change things, maybe make Toji see the point in building something real, but nah. Fatherhood was just another thing he half-assed. He’d pat Megumi on the head if the boy toddled over, maybe grunt a “good job, kid” if he stacked his blocks right, but that was it. No bedtime stories, no park trips. Toji’s absences left craters in the kid’s world; Megumi would stare at the door during meals, his tiny fork poking at cold rice, waiting for that familiar heavy stomp. And when Toji did show? The yelling, the tension—it seeped into everything. Megumi had started flinching at loud noises, hiding behind your legs when voices rose. You’d catch him drawing scribbles of a big stick figure with a scar on its mouth, and a smaller one holding a woman’s hand, but the big one was always off to the side, separate. It broke your heart, seeing the confusion etch lines into his baby face way too early. He shouldn’t have to wonder why his dad vanished for days, or why his mom sometimes had bruises on her arms that she covered with long sleeves. The instability was messing with him—nightmares where he’d wake up crying for “Daddy,” only to cling to you harder when Toji wasn’t there. You’d rock him back to sleep, whispering it’ll be okay, but deep down, you knew this life was poisoning him slow, turning what should be carefree kid days into a minefield of uncertainty.

But you? You stayed. Fuck, you loved Toji with this desperate, clawing intensity that bordered on addiction. He’d been your lifeline back when your family cut you off, when you were crashing on friends’ couches and scraping by on ramen packets. He showed up, all cocky swagger and that scarred smirk, promising to handle shit if you stuck with him. And he did, in his way—paid off your debts with the Zenin's cash, got you this apartment, put a ring on your finger. But love like that came with strings. You depended on him, craved the rare moments when he’d wrap those massive arms around you after a rough night, muttering “you’re mine” like it was gospel. His personality was trash—arrogant, lazy, crude as hell—but it hooked you. When he was home, he’d lord over the place like a king on his throne, barking orders while lounging in nothing but those ratty boxers that did jack shit to hide his huge cock, the outline pressing against the fabric like a damn threat. Balls dangling free as he shuffled from room to room, no fucks given about modesty. You’d avert your eyes sometimes, heat creeping up your neck, but he’d catch it and grin, that wolfish flash of teeth. “Like what you see? Come fix it then.”

He’d crash on the couch with a beer in hand, legs spread wide, remote flipping through channels while his free hand dove under the waistband to scratch his sack, right there in plain view. “Ah, fuck, that’s better,” he’d groan, not even glancing your way, like it was as casual as checking his phone. Filthy didn’t begin to cover it—sweat-soaked clothes piled on the floor for you to wash, empty cans rolling under the furniture, the faint musk of him lingering on everything. It was like parenting two overgrown toddlers: Megumi with his spills and tantrums, and Toji with his demands and messes. You’d cook whatever he wanted—stir-fry heavy on the beef, or yakitori if he was in a mood—but God help you if it wasn’t perfect. “This tastes like shit. You burn it on purpose?” he’d growl, shoving the plate away. And if his temper flared? That hand would lash out, fingers knotting in your hair for a yank that made stars burst behind your eyes, or a backhand that left your cheek throbbing. You’d swallow the pain, fix the meal, because walking away meant losing him, and that void scared you more than the bruises.

The Zenin clan loomed over it all like a dark cloud. Toji bitched about them constantly when he was around, pacing the living room in his underwear, beer sloshing as he gestured. “Those bastards think they’re hot shit ‘cause of their bloodline. Fuck ‘em. I do their dirty work, and what do I get? Fuckin' scraps.” He’d grew up with them, trained to be their muscle since he didn’t fit their elite mold, and it bred this bitter edge in him—always chasing the next payout to prove he didn’t need their approval, but tethered all the same. Family gatherings were rare, but when they happened, he’d drag you along, Megumi in tow, to some sprawling estate where the air reeked of old money and judgment. The elders would eye you like trash, whisper about Toji’s “commoner wife,” and he’d bristle, snapping back with that sharp tongue. “Mind your own, old man.” But he’d come home wired, taking it out on you with rough hands or colder silences. It fueled his gambling habits too—hitting the tracks or underground dens, blowing cash on horse races or fights, coming back either triumphant with wads of yen or pissed and broke, raiding your purse for “just a loan, ma'.” You’d hand it over, watching your savings dwindle, because refusing meant a fight you couldn’t win.

Megumi felt the ripple effects hardest. At three, he was already quieter than other kids, clinging to you during playdates at the park, wary of strangers who reminded him of Toji’s booming presence. He’d mimic his dad’s scowl sometimes, crossing his little arms when things didn’t go his way, but it was the sadness that gutted you—the way he’d ask “Daddy mad?” after hearing raised voices, looking up at you with those wide, innocent baby eyes, or how he’d hoard his toys like he expected them to vanish. The inconsistency was carving him hollow; doctors at check-ups noted his slower speech development, blaming “home environment stress,” and you’d nod, fighting tears, knowing it was Toji’s fault but unable to blame him fully. You missed the bastard when he was gone, that ache in your chest like withdrawal, counting hours till he’d stumble back. The apartment felt hollow without his bulk taking up space, his deep laugh echoing if something on TV amused him. But peace reigned in his absence—you and Megumi baking lopsided cookies, or curling up for naps without fear of disruption. Golden hours, tainted by the longing that kept you chained.

One night, you’d pushed through the exhaustion, rag in hand as you attacked the kitchen grime. The clock mocked you past midnight, Megumi tucked away in his room with his stuffed wolf clutched tight, nightlight warding off shadows. The fridge hummed softly, traffic a distant murmur through the thin windows. Your bones ached from the day’s grind—chasing Megumi around, dodging grabby customers at work—but chores didn’t do themselves. The door banged open like a gunshot, shattering the quiet. Toji barreled in, his towering frame radiating that coiled energy from whatever job he’d wrapped. Scarred lip curled in perpetual disdain, he didn’t spare you a look—just kicked off his scuffed boots, letting them skid across the floor, then stripped his shirt, muscles rippling under scarred skin from Zenin scraps. Pants hit the deck next, pooling at his ankles before he stepped out, leaving him in those threadbare boxers that clung to his thick thighs, the heavy bulge of his cock shifting with each movement, balls swaying unapologetically.

He beelined for the fridge, yanking it open with a grunt, broad back flexing as he rummaged. You paused mid-wipe, pulse quickening, hoping he’d just grab leftovers and pass out. But his search turned frantic, shelves rattling. Empty-handed, he straightened, that low rumble building in his throat like an engine revving. “Where the fuck’s the beer?” he barked, slamming the door hard enough to make the magnets clatter off.

In a blink, he closed the distance, his hand snapping out to seize your hair in a brutal grip. The yank jerked your head back, scalp screaming fire, neck straining as he forced your gaze up to his furious one. His face hovered close, hot breath laced with cheap whiskey and cigarettes washing over you, those piercing eyes narrowed to slits. Pain radiated, hot and insistent, but you clamped down on any sound—Megumi was asleep, fragile walls away. Toji’s voice dropped to a venomous snarl, volume cranked despite the hour. “You too fuckin' stupid to remember the only shittin' thing I ask for? I bust my ass for this family, and I can’t even get a goddamn beer? The hell’s wrong with you, huh?”