Still thinking about how Grace was always treated as disposable. Kicked out of his passion field for his honesty—underpaid as a (very good) teacher, to the point he can’t afford a car—left alone in a room full of argon with a sample that might kill him, while all the indispensable guys who put him there stood on the other side of the glass and watched. Shoved screaming into a mission that would kill him. And then, then this bonkers little alien who just met him gladly trades years off his life (via extended return mission) to save him. Runs burning through deadly air to keep him from dying. Chooses finally to weave their lives together forever and recreate Grace’s best dreams of Earth to make him happy. No wonder Grace told Rocky he doesn’t have to get him a gift, he’s given him everything. To one little spider guy, Grace is irreplaceable. That’s love.
Summary: You work in the basement department of the DSO. There you specialize in creating fake identities for agents, scrubbing the internet for leaked videos and evidence of BOWs, and covering the DSO's digital footprint.
Over the years you have been assigned on and off Leon's cases and before you know it, you develloped a one-sided crush on a guy that doesn't even know you exist. And how could he? No one ever visits the basement department, especially if you are someone as important as THE Leon Kennedy, who works on one of the highest floors. You don't let it get you down and figure it's a silly work crush. That is until you see him in the basement asking for you.
Part 1 (Reading Now) | Part 2 Here | Part 3 Here | Part 4 Here | Part 5 (End)
A/N: Been a while since I've written fanfic lol. Hopefully I am not too rusty.
Song used: Kissing Someone Else by Caroline Kingsbury (Nothing to do with the plot, just obsessed with it right now).
___
The sun hadn't even graced the horizon by the time you stepped out of the subway. Your bag drooped over your shoulder and continued to knock into your thigh as you walked. Sleep tried calling you back behind your eyelids, waiting for them to fully close before capturing you.
You walked your usual route to work. Passing by the many stores, people, and scenery that either grew with time or fought hard to stay preserved in their old ways. A spring breeze rustled your hair and cooled your fingers wrapped around your bag strap.
You enjoyed watching people as you passed them by endlessly every day. Some of those people you saw constantly, and yet they never took a moment to look your way.
That used to bother you.
But after years of growing a thick skin against it, you bask in being invisible. There was something very freeing about it.
Much like how you felt at your job.
As you rounded the street corner you walked towards the dominant skyscraper. The very one many agents and important personnel occupied for mission briefs, training, pencil-pushing... okay you didn't know exactly what they did when grounded here; but it was fun to speculate!
The DSO can be very intimidating. It was in your first few months of starting out. No one looked your way. No one remembered your name. And the one time you tried to venture higher than the first floor you were shut down by security. Again, important personnel only.
Now, years after being that nervous new girl, you found your rhythm and with it your routine.
Part of that routine being Harold.
You smiled at the older man as he rushed to meet you at the front door. He had been working security at the front longer than you know. He was in the same boat as you. Overlooked and ignored. But you found solace in having at least one buddy in your workplace.
"Harold," you greeted while holding up a take out bag.
He grinned and waited for you to fully enter before accepting the bag of muffins. "Blueberry?" He asked with all the hope in his eye.
"This isn't my first rodeo."
Harold stepped back and forth between his feet in a little dance of excitement.
The two of you moved away from the door and further into the lobby where the noise began to pick up in the early morning.
"So, have a date tonight?"
That was a continuous question in your relationship. Him asking, you saying no, and him going on about "getting out there" and "meeting your soulmate". Which then followed with him gushing over his wife.
You chuckled to yourself and walked in step with him. "You know, I thought the muffins would bribe you in holding off on that question."
Harold shrugged, already devouring a muffin. "I will ask until you answer with a yes."
The large windows of the ground floor brought forth the early morning rays. Gone was the darkness that clouded the sky. It ushered in a new day of light and contentment.
And Leon Kennedy.
His dark blonde hair shone in the sunlight and draped over his hard brow that never fully softened. His eyes assessed the crowd of the lobby and scanned over everyone. His hard stare passed through you as he did so.
It was rare he arrived as the sun was rising. From what you heard, he would be in his office as early as 4:00am every day. But, again, that was from what you heard. Which meant you eavesdropping on agents in the lobby.
Your eyes tracked him as he strode past the front desk. The elevator doors already opened for him upon his entrance. Other eyes were staring after him as they usually do when he was around.
His presence commanded attention. It was difficult to disobey.
Harold followed your eyes and nudged you.
"You should ask him out for dinner."
You sputtered over your words at the idea before full on laughing. "Yeah, right. That would go well." You patted him on the shoulder. "You crack me up."
The old man ignored your chuckles and feigned his annoyance. "There is no harm in trying."
You looked at him, still revelling in the humour of the concept. "I think I will save myself the embarrassment and give up now."
"Well, I would very much appreciate it. All you do is stare at him when he's around—"
At that you smacked his shoulder.
Harold chuckled to himself and allowed you your dignity as he said goodbye and walked back to his position.
You scoffed slightly under your breath. "I don't stare..." you said to yourself. "I... admire." You cringed at what you just said aloud and looked around to see if anyone else heard, but of course they didn't.
You made your way to the stairwell and scanned your access card. It beeped and blinked green before you pulled open the door and began your descent.
Sure, there was a working elevator, but it was one flight of stairs down. That one time when you tried to get a higher floor (it was your break and you were bored) security at the floor prevented you from getting off. And with that understanding of how the building works, you could imagine your frustration when you got trapped on the elevator for an hour and a half because everyone decided they needed it in that minute. Trapped with people and no way off.
So, no. A flight of stairs down is way easier than trying to fight an entire building out of an elevator.
When you made it to the basement you tapped your card at the enterence again and was welcomed by silence.
___
Your desk was in the far end of the basement, meaning you could shout as loud as you wanted and no one could hear you. That might be a safety issue, but you didn't care. You preferred it that way.
There were few people in your department. Not many agents liked being cooped up in the dark and dusty basement, away from the action like they always pictured.
They either transferred out or full on quit within the first week.
You sat at your chair and looked over the area you claimed as yours. You didn't have a standard cubicle because after a while when paperwork started to fill up the surface, you had enough of the dividers and tore them out to make more room.
Jerry, your boss, saw the act of frustration and never commented on it. I wonder if that's in my file, you thought to yourself.
Speaking of Jerry, he rarely made his way over to you. You emailed back and forth throughout the day. There wasn't much need for him to make the trek.
The only person in the basement that visits you is the delivery guy, Ben. He was nice, but he didn't stick around for conversation.
You looked back to your computer and started your day. Which was going to be a pleasant one from what you gathered.
The new documents on your desk from last Friday contained a new mission. One for Leon Kennedy.
A smile graced your lips as you looked at his photo in the binder. Your eyes trained on him for a short moment before trailing down to the required information.
New identity needed. Meaning new passport. New driver's ID. New insurance card. Everything a person would have on them when travelling out of country for business.
One time you gave him the fake persona of a race car driver. You always wondered if he took a minute to look at his credentials in confusions.
The idea brought out a small chuckle.
You stretched your fingers and prepared for another long day. Although, this one will be a tad bit more enjoyable.
___
Leon stared at his paperwork while simultaneously flipping through the papers in his folder. Another assignment was approaching and like usual his eyes were glued to his computer.
"If you stare that hard you might break the screen."
He finally looked up, after who knows how long, and slightly softened his crude stare on Sherry. She smiled as she brought herself closer into his office but watched as his brow furrowed.
His sights dropped to her empty hands.
"Where is it?" He asked, sharp and straight to the point. Leon stared down his computer again and returned his attention to work. "What are they doing down there all day that they can't get one identity put together?"
Sherry pursed her lips. "Come on, Leon. Be nice. I think the delivery guy is sick? I saw him on Friday and he did not look so good."
He stroked his brow to ease out the lines in his forehead. He pushed off from his desk and stood.
"Today of all days," he muttered.
Sherry turned with him as he made his way for the door. "Where are you going?"
"Basement." He said so in a clipped voice of pure frustration.
Sherry worried her lip as she watched him stalk off in a cloud of anger and most definitely exhaustion. "Those poor people."
___
I can feel your heart beat
While you're kissing someone else
You met her drinking at a dive bar
Asking 'bout the books you've read
I feel it go bum bum da bum
I feel bum bum bum da bum
You let the music blast over your workspace. No one could it here it from where you were, so this became a regular occurence.
"I feel bum bum bum da bum," you sang with the lyrics, fully enraptured in your report.
Pushing away from your desk, you rolled to the other one behind you stacked with papers. As you looked through the files you moved your upper half with the beat of the song in a small sway.
You kicked off the desk and rolled back to your computer.
I can feel your heart beat
While you're kissing someone else
You met her drinking at a dive bar
Asking 'bout the books you've read
You closed your eyes for a second to feel the beat of the music and bounce your head with it. You looked back to the stack of folders in your lap and placed one on your desk before rolling back to the other desk again.
"I can feel your heart—Oh fuck—"
You were stopped mid swivel in your chair. Your knees nearly slamming into someone. They had grabbed your armrests to keep you from ramming full force into them.
"I'm so sorry I—"
The second you looked up you entire body froze.
Leon Kennedy.
Leon Kennedy in the basement.
Leon Kennedy face to face with me.
Leon Kennedy looking at me.
Leon Kennedy glaring at me.
Hmm... Not a fan of the last one.
All you could focus on was the intensity of his eyes. The blue was dark in the low lighting of the basement. Streams of different shades swirled in his iris. They completely arrested you and robbed of all thought.
The music continued to blast overhead as the two of you continued this tense staring contenst.
You definitely weren't winning.
When the music came to an end, he finally broke his gaze, giving you a second to breathe.
"I was told you were handling my case."
You continued to just stare. He was still extremely close to you. His hands still on the armrests, holding you in position.
When you didn't say anything his eyes snapped back to yours. That cold glare set you ablaze.
"Oh right!"
Leon finally let you out of his grip and pulled away.
You turned to your desk and grabbed the first file before nearly shoving it into his hands.
He looked down at it and frowned. "This is a report on mutated wildlife in Prague—"
"Oh, shit."
You snatched the file from his hands before he could say anything else and started to rifle through your very disorganized desk.
"I was just working on you—on it! On it for you. As soon as I got it. It—it was the first thing I did today. And I was waiting for—for the delivery guy—Ben, that's his name, but he didn't show—"
"He's sick," was all Leon said.
"Right, and then I was thinking maybe I should just bring it to you. But last time I did that and well I was trapped in an elevator—not that I was brining anything to you—I was trying to get the highest floor. For fun? I think. Slow days. Am I right? Anways here. Here it is for you!"
You finally grabbed the right folder and swung around, arm stretched out.
He did not look impressed. His arms remained crossed as he leaned against the desk behind him. Your eyes accidentally trailed down. His tie had been stretched out and dangled around his neck. His biceps bulged underneath the fabric of his collard-shirt and the sleeves had been folded up past his forearm, revealing his toned muscle.
You closed your eyes for a second before looking back up to meet his intense stare. He was observing you.
Great.
He finally grabbed the folder from your hand and looked down at its contents. You thought that would be the end of it. He would leave and never step foot in the basement because of the absolute fool you had just made of yourself.
But no. He stayed, leaned against the desk and flipped through the folder.
"Arms dealer," he noted the fake occupation. "Step down from a race car driver."
You perked up at that and you managed a small, hesitant smile. "Oh. You liked that one? I figured you weren't racing to get it again," you tried. You really really tried.
It wasn't every day that a co-worker, or in this case a supervisor, talked to you.
That was an honest attempt.
You bit your lip at your awful pun.
Leon picked his gave up to you. "Yeah, I guess I just didn't have the drive."
There was an awkward silence before you let out a small chuckle.
The intense glare from your earlier encounter had diminished into... something else. There was a small upturn of his lip at your small laugh.
He snapped the folder shut and nodded. "Thank you for your work on this."
It sounded odd coming from him, like he wasn't sure if he should be thanking you or not.
"Oh yeah. No worries—anytime..."
When he took a sharp inhale you thought he was gearing up to leave. Instead he just focused on you more.
"So how long have you worked here?"
What?
You once again, just stared at him. Why is he still here? Not that you're complaining. But what the hell is happening right now?
"Um... a few years now."
"Really?" He sounded genuinely interested. "I haven't seen you around."
You let loose another awkward chuckle. "Well..." you said as you gestured to the basement. "Not... uh... not many people come down here."
"Right..." He said, although it sounded more to himself.
He stood straighter all of a sudden and looked back to where he had come from. "Thank you, again. For this. I won't keep you from your work."
He stayed for a moment longer than you thought usual. Just the two of you looking at the other, until he turned around with a nod.
"Y/N!" You practically shrieked.
He whipped around confused.
If your face wasn't red, you would be absolutely surprised. It felt as thought it engulfed you cheeks like flames.
You cleared your throat. "Y/N is my name. My name's Y/N. That's me."
The smallest of smiles pull at his cheek. Amusement flashed in his eyes. "Leon," he said in return.
"I know," you thought aloud. "I mean—!" You simply shook your head, clearly exhausted with yourself. "Yeah... I know."
"It was nice meeting you, Y/N."
And with that he turned and walked away.
You on the other hand swivelled slowly in your chair back to your desk. Eyes wide and staring at nothing but the memory of what just happened. You dropped your head to cold desk and giggled under your breath.
That was one hell of a first meeting.
___
A/N: Hope you enjoyed. I have ideas for a part two if people are interested. Might post it either way lol. Who knows.
Does anyone know what happened to @Affinitytales account? Did something bad happen? Did they just change their name? I miss reading their stuff. Below is one of the screenshots I took a while back so I didn’t forget the account name ☹️
entanglement: tutor!kuroo tetsurō x bottom male reader
surface-level reading: you’re a literature major in a class you don’t belong to, stuck memorizing structures that won’t stay in your head—until kuroo offers to help. everything suddenly sticks a little too well, especially when he starts testing your recall with his hand on your throat and your notes slipping off the desk.
contents of the charm: university au, slowburn-ish, kuroo is MEANNN, library sex, hair pulling, dumbification, cockwarming, overstimulation, creampie, belly bulge, anal penetration (reader receiving), degradation, choking, kuroo calls reader’s ass a pussy like once, unprotected sex, exhibitionism, edging, 18.7k words
scribbled in the margin: IM TALM BOUT INNITTTTTT 😛😛😛 the amount of times i rewrote this bc i couldnt decide if i wanted plot involved or js jump straight into the smut is crazy. but i went for the long road bc the loml hikaru requested this + kuroo is actually my husband & we r legally married so i had to!!! ALSO I SEE EVERYONES REQUESTS IN MY INBOX AND TRUSTTTT i will be getting to them soon ‼️
this has to be the worst day of your life.
you’ve had a few contenders in the past—like that one time in high school when your pants split during a presentation, or the day you accidentally emailed your creative writing professor a google doc full of unhinged yaoi tropes instead of your final essay—but no. today might just take the crown.
the reason you even chose a literature major in the first place was because you had a deeply rooted, borderline spiritual hatred for math and science. you suck at numbers, formulas, logic—anything that didn’t let you romanticize a moment or spiral over a metaphor. you’ve made peace with it. and the universe seemed to agree, handing you a knack for analyzing poetry and writing decent essays under pressure. all was well.
until this semester.
not because the university suddenly changed anything, but because you finally ran out of ways to avoid the inevitable. you’ve been dodging your core curriculum requirement for two years—putting it off with every course planning loophole you could find, shifting things around semester after semester just to stay as far away from numbers and lab coats as possible.
but there’s nowhere left to run now. you’ve reached the edge of your degree plan, and the system finally caught up to you. the requirement stands: you have to take at least one math or science course before you can graduate. no amount of poetic suffering will save you this time.
and honestly, you’d rather dig your own grave than sit through calculus again.
so you went with the lesser evil—science. more specifically, general chemistry, which sounds like it could be manageable if you squinted hard enough. it was not. your brain just doesn’t work like that. you tried, you really did, but color-coded notes or crash course videos can’t save you from balancing equations and memorizing the periodic table.
and unfortunately for you, your aunt—your well-meaning, terrifyingly smart aunt—is a chemistry professor on the same campus.
you don’t even wait for the bell to finish ringing. the moment your modern literary theory class ends, you’re already halfway out the door, your backpack flopping wildly against your back. akaashi keiji, the one person in that class who manages to look effortlessly composed even during surprise quizzes, walks beside you at a much calmer pace.
"you look like you're being chased," he says mildly, holding the door open for you.
“i’m chasing salvation,” you mutter, nearly tripping over your own feet. “in the form of last-minute academic begging.”
akaashi gives you a sidelong glance, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you’re going to her office, aren’t you?”
“duh.”
he doesn’t say anything, but you can tell he’s trying very hard not to remind you that your aunt has already given you multiple chances to ask for help and you’ve blown them off every time because your pride told you it would work out on its own.
“tell her i said hi,” he adds eventually, raising a hand in parting.
“you can tell her yourself at my funeral,” you call back over your shoulder, turning around just long enough to wave—and that’s your first mistake.
your body slams into someone solid, knocking the air clean out of your lungs.
“shit—sorry,” you blurt, stumbling back. your hand automatically goes to the stranger’s arm to steady yourself, only for your brain to register broad shoulders, a plain black hoodie, and a sharp-boned face you vaguely recognize from some of the higher-level chem seminars.
the guy raises an eyebrow, one hand lazily tucked into his hoodie pocket. “you good?”
you nod quickly, brushing past him with a sheepish apology and a dramatic wince. akaashi’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to laugh.
you speed-walk toward the faculty building, silently praying your aunt isn’t in the middle of grading or prepping for a lecture. the hallway smells faintly like coffee and disinfectant, and when you reach her office, you knock once before cracking the door open.
“auntie?” you whisper, poking your head in.
she looks up from her desk, reading glasses perched on her nose, red pen in hand. “don’t call me that in here. it’s professor suzuki on campus.”
you step in fully and shut the door behind you. “right. professor suzuki. favorite nephew’s emergency. do you have a minute?”
she sets the pen down and leans back in her chair, giving you the look—the one that says i knew you’d be here eventually.
“let me guess,” she says. “general chem?”
you drop your bag onto the ridiculously expensive couch, the leather creaking under the weight. professor suzuki doesn’t even flinch at the noise. you shuffle over to the chair in front of her desk—the kind that looks like it belongs in a therapist's office and not a university faculty room—and plop down with a dramatic, drawn-out sigh.
not even halfway through the semester and you already want to disappear into the floor.
resting your arms on her desk where there aren’t any papers or mysterious graded horror stories, you mush your cheek down on top of them, eyes half-lidded and full of suffering.
“this university wants me dead,” you announce into the crook of your elbow. “they’re actually trying to kill me.”
professor suzuki doesn’t look up from her red pen. “mm. that so.”
“you know what they did?” you continue, voice muffled and pitiful. “they let me get away with this for two years. two years! i thought i could graduate in peace without ever touching a periodic table again, and then—boom. degree audit. one missing core requirement. one measly little science credit.”
“you knew that requirement existed,” she says, flipping to another page. “don’t act like it ambushed you.”
“i was hoping it would quietly disappear,” you mutter.
“it didn’t.”
“i mean, math was obviously out. i’d rather throw myself into traffic. but science? really? chemistry? do they know how many formulas are in that class? gen chem is actual hell. hell with lab coats.”
“get to the point, drama queen,” she says, finally looking up. she rests her chin on her hand, one eyebrow raised. “unless you came here just to perform your own eulogy.”
you lift your head just enough to give her your best kicked-puppy expression. “let me join your class for the semester. please. i swear i’ll be a good student. i’ll sit in the front and won’t cause any problems. i’ll even participate. like, actively.”
her expression doesn’t change. “you? not cause problems for me? i give it two days before you start texting me during lab.”
“hey,” you say, grinning now. “that was one time. and i was bleeding.”
“you had a papercut.”
“it stung.”
she snorts and leans back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest. “so let me get this straight—you’re finally taking me up on the help i offered you three years ago? when you were in high school? the help you violently refused because, and i quote, ‘i’ll never need science again, auntie, literature is my calling’?”
you bat your eyelashes at her. “it is my calling. and i’m still being called. i just... need subtitles for the chemistry part.”
she groans but she’s smiling, the edges of her mouth twitching like she’s fighting the urge to laugh. “you’re such a little shit.”
“your favorite little shit,” you remind her.
“unfortunately.” she shakes her head and grabs a sticky note from the side of her desk. “fine. you can sit in on my class for the rest of the semester. i’ll register the override and add you officially. but don’t think for a second i’m going to go easy on you.”
“wouldn’t dream of it,” you say, already slouching lower in the chair like your soul is halfway out of your body.
then she fixes you with that look—the same one she used to give you when you pretended not to understand ionic bonds. “you’re going to need a tutor.”
you freeze. “do i have to?”
“you suck at science. i love you, but you do.”
you slump further into the seat. “i don’t even know anyone from chem. they’re probably all hyper-smart anime characters with tragic backstories and lab goggles. i’ll combust from the social anxiety alone.”
“god, you’re such a nerd,” she says, rolling her eyes.
you gasp. “excuse you, i’m a man of culture.”
“sure,” she says flatly. “a man of culture who once cried over an in-class physics demo.”
“i thought the beaker was gonna explode, okay? there was fire.”
she waves you off. “you’ll be fine. whoever agrees to be your tutor gets extra credit, so i’m sure someone will volunteer.”
“that sounds like bribery.”
“it is,” she says, unapologetic.
you groan into your forearm again.
but secretly, you’re relieved. maybe this semester won’t kill you. or at least, if it does, you’ll die under the supervision of someone who knows how to handle acid spills.
professor suzuki hums, leaning back slightly as she checks the time on the little silver watch around her wrist. “good timing, actually. i’ve got class in about fifteen minutes,” she says, reaching for the folder she’d pushed aside earlier. “figured i could use the first few to find you a tutor before we get started. you can leave once someone volunteers.”
you blink up at her from your spot on the chair, still half-melted into the desk. “wait—you’re picking one now?”
“no better time,” she says with a shrug. “do you have class after this?”
you groan, dragging your cheek across your forearm so you can look at the wall clock behind her. “not until, like, an hour from now. some boring elective i took to make up for a late credit. i don’t even remember what it’s called. something about literary movements and existentialism. depressing stuff.”
“perfect,” she says, pleased. “come with me, then.”
you sigh like you’re being sentenced to death but nod anyway, because unfortunately, she’s right. you’ve already delayed this requirement for five semesters straight. if you have to finally face it, then you might as well get it over with now.
the next ten minutes pass in a comfortable lull. you’re back to your usual slouch in the chair while she reorganizes her notes, prepping for lecture with the kind of relaxed efficiency only a veteran professor has. somewhere between page flipping and scribbling new comments in the margins, the two of you start talking again—this time about logistics.
“don’t act familiar with me during class hours,” she says, not even looking up as she writes. “doesn’t matter if the whole building already knows we’re related. i don’t want any weird assumptions about favoritism flying around.”
you snort. “as if i’ve ever benefitted from nepotism. i’m literally three years into this degree and just now confronting one science requirement.”
“exactly,” she says, and you throw a crumpled sticky note at her. she doesn’t flinch.
“rude,” you mutter, crossing your arms behind your head.
“i’m serious,” she says, finally glancing at you again. “you’ll be joining late, and you’re already behind. i don’t want people thinking you got an easy pass just because you’re close to me. i want you to actually earn your grade. got it?”
you roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “yes, professor.”
“say it like you mean it.”
“yes, professor suzuki,” you repeat, with just the right amount of dramatic suffering to make her shake her head in amusement.
at exactly 2:45, the clock above the door clicks quietly, and you watch her stand and start collecting her things. you push yourself up from the chair and grab your bag from the couch, slinging it over your shoulder. when she reaches for the small stack of lab materials on her side table, you step in before she can grab everything.
“i’ll carry that,” you say, taking two folders and a rolled-up diagram that’s poking out of a cardboard tube.
“look at you,” she muses. “finally growing up.”
“i’m carrying two folders and a paper stick,” you say flatly. “don’t make it a moment.”
still, she pats your head once, light and brief, and murmurs a quiet “thanks” before locking the door behind the two of you. the hallway isn’t too crowded, but it’s busy enough that you can hear the distant echo of conversation and shoes on tile as the two of you head toward the lecture hall.
somewhere along the walk, your nerves catch up to you. you’re quieter than usual, the knot in your stomach twisting tighter the closer you get. professor suzuki notices.
“don’t look like that,” she says with a laugh. “you’re acting like i’m marching you into the colosseum.”
you don’t look at her. “because you kinda are. you’re gonna ask the whole class if someone wants to tutor me. you’re making me announce how stupid i am in public.”
“you’re not stupid,” she says, giving your arm a light smack with the back of her hand. “you’re just dramatic.”
“same thing,” you mutter under your breath.
she rolls her eyes, lips twitching. “it’s better to get this done now while you’re still not officially on the class list. that way, once the paperwork clears and you’re properly enrolled, you can hit the ground running. besides, i’ll be doing this for the other students too. i doubt you’ll be the only one who needs tutoring. the class is open to freshmen this semester. some of them probably still think covalent bonds are dating advice.”
you huff, but you get the logic. it makes sense. you’re just not thrilled about the execution. being paraded in front of a room full of chem majors like some lost puppy hoping for a bone. and you really don’t want to look like you’re getting special treatment.
but you say nothing, tightening your grip on the folders as the lecture hall door finally comes into view.
your aunt pushes the door open, and the wave of chatter inside the lecture hall settles almost immediately. a few chairs squeak as students shift around to sit up straighter, eyes moving from her to the unfamiliar figure trailing behind—aka you.
you try to act like it’s no big deal, like you’re just another TA or a department assistant. unfortunately, you’re almost chewing your bottom lip off, which kind of gives away how close you are to spontaneously combusting from secondhand embarrassment.
you stand near the whiteboard while professor suzuki walks over to set her things down. she launches into the usual first five minutes of class—reminders about lab schedules, this week’s lecture topics, the upcoming quiz—and you zone out just enough to scan the room.
the lecture hall isn’t full, but it’s comfortably busy. you can tell by the way half of them are squinting at the syllabus on their tablets that most of the students here are freshmen or sophomores. a few familiar faces stand out as juniors, probably others who put this requirement off like you.
you’re mid-scan when your eyes land on someone you definitely weren’t expecting.
oh, shit.
it’s the guy you crashed into earlier. tall, sharp-jawed, messy black hair and an even messier hoodie, lounging in his seat like he owns the whole row. he’s got his chin rested in his hand, elbow propped on the desk, and he’s looking straight at you like he’s been waiting for the punchline all along.
you immediately look away.
“before we begin today’s lecture,” your aunt starts, and your stomach sinks, “i’d like to ask if anyone here would be willing to volunteer as a tutor.”
you resist the urge to melt through the floor.
“this student here—” she gestures at you without any hesitation, “—is a junior from the literature department. general chemistry isn’t exactly his strongest subject, and he’s fulfilling a pre-existing core requirement this semester.”
you wince, just barely, like the words had stabbed your pride. but to your surprise, you catch the quick flickers of understanding from three students in the third row—all of whom look around your age. one of them even nods a little, like yeah, man, we’ve all been there, and your shoulders drop a fraction as you let out a relieved sigh. at least you’re not the only one who tried to outrun the system.
you’re already preparing yourself for an awkward silence, the kind that always follows an open call for volunteers, when a hand shoots up halfway down the left aisle.
your aunt looks surprised. “kuroo?”
your gaze jerks toward the voice and—yep. it’s him. hoodie guy. elbow guy. the guy you slammed into earlier like a poorly written fanfic protagonist.
he shrugs, lazy and unbothered. “i don’t mind.”
you stare at him. not because you’re suspicious—maybe a little—but mostly because what. he doesn’t even know if there’s extra credit involved and he still volunteered? and he looks completely relaxed about it?
your aunt looks over at you with a face that screams told you so. then she turns back to kuroo and says, “great. meet me in my office after class and we’ll go over the details.”
she looks at you next. “come by before your next class. if you’re running late, i’ll write you an excuse slip.”
you nod numbly, still kind of trying to process the fact that you’re not walking out of here completely doomed. “got it,” you mumble, managing a quiet, “thanks,” before turning to leave.
you walk out in a daze, only half-aware of your own footsteps. you barely even register that the door’s closing behind you until instinct makes you glance back one last time. your eyes catch kuroo’s—he’s still looking right at you.
he winks.
you blink, confused, and then keep walking.
...well. he is handsome.
kuroo watches you leave the lecture hall with that same half-smirk tugging at his lips, lazy and amused. the door swings shut behind you, and he exhales through his nose, chin still propped in his palm.
honestly, he didn’t expect to see you again. figured your cute little clumsy ass was a one-time thing—the type to vanish into a crowd after bumping into him like some coming-of-age meet-cute. you were half-apologizing, half-flailing, hands gripping his arm like it was the only thing stopping you from toppling over. he should’ve brushed it off.
but then you looked up at him. flushed, frazzled, blinking like your brain short-circuited. and shit. he almost got hard right there in the middle of the hallway.
kuroo doesn’t do this whole crush thing. never really saw the appeal in fumbling over someone just because they smiled at you or read the same books. bokuto talks about it like it’s the second coming of christ—falling in love or whatever—but kuroo thinks most of it’s corny bullshit. maybe nice in theory, but mostly just a distraction.
but you… you made him pause.
he first saw you in the library, actually. a week or two ago. he was returning a few books from the chem and finance sections, ones he didn’t need anymore, and walked past the front desk just in time to see you sitting a few tables down.
chewing on the end of your pencil like it was personal. eyes fixed on some printed page with that same frustrated little furrow in your brow, like you’d been staring too long and nothing was sticking. probably literature stuff, judging by the length of the paragraphs and the lack of diagrams. you were reading it out loud in a whisper, trying to memorize, stumbling halfway through a sentence and going back to repeat it.
kuroo kept staring. couldn’t help it.
especially when you tugged at your hair with both hands, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “why the fuck am i so stupid” under your breath.
he’s not a pervert. he’s not.
but god, something about that—your brain fried, your lips mouthing words you didn’t fully understand, your pretty little hands clutching at your hair in desperation—sent a jolt straight through him.
he licked his lips, involuntarily. imagined what it’d look like if he was the one pulling your hair back, if you were trying to recite something for him while he fucked you deep, so deep your voice shook and you couldn’t even think straight unless he let you. imagined you blinking through tears, trying to remember a sentence he’d already memorized a hundred times over while his cock pressed up into you again and again, hard enough that he could see the shape of it in your belly.
he didn’t even realize the librarian had been calling his name until she sighed, walked around the desk, and tapped him on the shoulder like a disappointed granny.
“you’re all set,” she said flatly. “if you’re done staring at people.”
he blinked. nodded. thanked her. tried to act normal.
but he couldn’t stop thinking about you for the rest of the day.
and now, here you are again. trailing after professor suzuki like a panicked duckling, clearly about one dropped pen away from sprinting out of the room. you tried so hard to look unbothered and failed so badly. and when your aunt mentioned you needed a tutor, well... kuroo raised his hand before she even got to the incentive part.
it wasn’t about the credit. he just really, really wanted an excuse.
and now he’s got one.
it’s not like kuroo to zone out during class. especially not chemistry. he actually likes this stuff—understands it, excels in it, could probably teach it with his eyes closed if he wanted to.
but gen chem? he could do this shit in his sleep.
the only reason he’s still sitting in this lecture hall as a junior is because he transferred last year. new campus, new department, new bureaucratic hoops to jump through. some transfer requirement mess that forced him to retake general chemistry even though he’s already breezed through organic chem and upper-level finance courses back at his old university. annoying, sure—but easy enough.
so yeah, zoning out wasn’t a big deal. professor suzuki's lecture on limiting reagents and stoichiometry was just background noise to him at this point.
he’s staring at her, but he’s not really paying attention. his mind’s too busy replaying the way her nephew looked standing beside her—clearly wanting to be anywhere else, chewing your lip like it might save you from having to speak. wide-eyed, tense, clutching your bag like you were trying to physically shield yourself from the entire room. god. kuroo could’ve moaned.
he finally had a reason to talk to you. a real one. no more waiting around, hoping to catch you by accident. no more jerking off to the thought of what your voice would sound like, your face, your furrowed brow as you struggled to memorize whatever passage you’d been staring at that day.
it was pathetic, honestly.
you weren’t even someone he saw around often. hell—you probably didn’t even know he existed until your collision earlier, yet kuroo had been keeping an eye out for you long before that.
he even started helping professor suzuki carry her shit between lectures. she didn’t ask, and she definitely didn’t need help. but if there was even a chance you’d be in her office when he dropped by, he was gonna take it. he’d play the long game just to see you, just to maybe say hi.
not that it was hard to figure out who you were. bokuto's a blabbermouth. kuroo hadn’t even asked, just happened to be walking with him across the quad one afternoon when you came out of a building with akaashi.
bokuto immediately lit up. “hey, keiji! wait, that’s your friend, right? the one in lit? the one with the professor aunt or something?”
before kuroo could even blink, bokuto was rambling. how you and akaashi had the same major, how you were super close, how you were supposedly related to one of the professors on campus—though, in true bokuto fashion, he got it wrong and said physics instead of chemistry. thankfully, akaashi had caught up just in time to gently correct him after you said your polite goodbye and disappeared down the hall.
bokuto had launched into another round of Why Don’t You Ever Bring Him to Our Hangouts, Keiji, which kuroo silently agreed with. akaashi, in his usual calm way, told him that you were usually busy but he’d ask. that seemed to shut bokuto up for the moment.
kuroo didn’t say anything, didn’t press. just filed the information away like he always did. he was good at being patient when it mattered.
but he doesn’t need to wait anymore.
now he’s got you right where he wants you. not in a creepy way, not technically. but he is your tutor now. officially. which means he gets to sit across from you for hours, watch you squirm as he walks you through concepts he mastered years ago, listen to you stammer over the difference between molarity and molality like it was brain surgery.
and no one else gets to see that. not bokuto, not akaashi, not your classmates.
just him.
kuroo grins at the thought, chin still in his palm, eyes half-lidded as professor suzuki keeps talking.
this semester might actually be fun.
when professor suzuki finally dismisses the class, kuroo doesn’t waste time.
he gathers his things with practiced ease, tossing his notebook and pen into his bag before swinging it over one shoulder. a few of the freshmen seated nearby glance his way, clearly hoping for some kind of parting glance, and he offers a lazy, polite smile as he descends the stairs. someone shyly waves. someone else looks like she’s about to say something but chickens out at the last second. he nods at them anyway—charisma’s a curse, after all.
his focus shifts the moment he reaches your aunt.
“let me take that,” he says smoothly, reaching for the stack of materials she’s holding—the same ones you’d been carrying earlier, because of course he remembers which ones were yours. she raises an eyebrow, amused, but lets him take them without question.
they leave the hall side by side, their footsteps echoing down the hallway. the building isn’t empty, but it’s quiet enough that their conversation doesn’t need to be hushed.
“you know,” she says after a beat, voice casual, “i’m surprised you finally agreed to be a tutor.”
kuroo glances sideways at her. “oh?”
“mm.” she nods once. “you’ve turned down every request i’ve forwarded since the semester started. especially the ones from the freshmen. some of them actually asked for you specifically.”
he shrugs. “trying something new, i guess.”
she chuckles, clearly not buying it but not planning to press. “well, (name) is lucky, then. you’re one of my best students. if anyone can help him pass this class, it’s you.”
kuroo grins at that. a slow, easy stretch of his mouth like he’s already imagining how many different ways he’ll make you fall apart. oh, i’ll help him pass, he thinks, i’ll drill it into him so well he won’t forget a thing, even if he’s too fucked out to speak.
“i’ll make sure he does,” he says instead—tone light, charming, easy.
professor suzuki hums, unlocking her office with one hand. “also—i didn’t get the chance to say it earlier, but you’ll be receiving extra credit for this. it’s being logged officially.”
he nods. “appreciate it, professor.”
not that he needs it. he’d do this shit for free if it means he finally gets you alone.
before kuroo can spiral too deep into the fantasy—your voice catching on the formula, your pretty little mouth trying to get through the reaction pathway he just taught you while you’re pinned under him, squirming—there’s a sharp click of the door, and it swings open again.
you step in, chest rising and falling like you ran across campus, the door nudging closed behind you with your shoulder. your hair’s a little messy, your eyes wide and still dazed from sleep, and there’s a pink flush dusting your cheeks. kuroo doesn’t even pretend not to look. his gaze skims down once—quick, automatic—then lands on your face like he wasn’t already mentally bookmarking how good you look when you’re breathless.
your aunt levels you with a flat look. “where were you?”
you blink at her, still catching your breath, then rub the back of your neck as you shift on your feet. “sorry—i’m not actually late. i just kinda... accidentally fell asleep. outside. by the fountain.”
there’s a beat of silence, and then kuroo lets out a snort. it’s sharp and loud enough that you immediately turn to him, ears tinting red. he lifts one eyebrow, like he finds it charming. he absolutely does.
professor suzuki exhales, clearly trying not to laugh. “you fell asleep outside?”
“just for a little while,” you mutter, face heating as you glance between them. “like thirty minutes. maaaybe forty. the sun felt nice, okay?”
she gives you a long look and mutters, “you’re lucky no one reported a body.”
you groan under your breath and head further into the room, only for kuroo to suddenly step forward and pull the chair beside his out for you, smooth and easy like he’s done it a hundred times. you hesitate, eyes flicking up to his for a second, and then give a cautious little nod.
“…thanks,” you say, and lower yourself into the chair. your backpack drops beside you with a soft thud, and you settle into the seat a little stiffly, not quite used to the gesture. your fingers start tapping lightly against your thigh, the nervous habit kicking in before you can stop it.
kuroo watches you for a second longer, like he’s trying to memorize every twitch of your hand, every small shift in your posture, and then sinks into the cushioned chair beside you like it was built for him.
your aunt watches all of this unfold with a faint glint in her eye before she laces her fingers on the desk and clears her throat. “right. now that we’re all here, let’s talk details.”
you straighten up slightly, already preparing yourself for some long-winded explanation, while kuroo mirrors you—though even his version of sitting upright still looks unfairly relaxed. like he’s got nothing to prove, even if he kind of does.
“(name), you’re officially added to my class starting tomorrow. your name’s already on the override list, and i’ll upload the syllabus and past lecture notes to your student portal tonight. you can start catching up right away. and as for tutoring—kuroo here will be helping you out until the end of the semester.”
you glance at him, unsure how to respond to that. he just gives you a small smile, casual and harmless, as if he hasn’t been making you nervous since the moment you walked in.
“he’s one of my top students,” your aunt continues, and her tone shifts slightly—just enough to make you raise an eyebrow. “you’re incredibly lucky, (name). i’ve had half the freshman cohort asking me to assign him as their tutor since week one.”
kuroo chuckles quietly at that, running a hand through his hair and ducking his head a little like he’s being modest, but you notice the subtle way he straightens, the satisfied flicker in his eyes. if he had a tail, it’d be thumping against the floor.
“must be nice,” you mutter, voice light, “being the department’s golden boy.”
he grins sideways at you. “i wouldn’t go that far.”
“mhm,” you hum, unconvinced.
your aunt’s smile turns saccharine. “which is exactly why you shouldn’t waste this chance. seriously. don’t make me regret this decision.”
you blink. “you say that like i bribed you.”
“if you screw this up, you’ll be back to begging for help in discord group chats,” she replies, still sweet. “and we both know how well that went last time.”
you groan under your breath and slump back in the chair. “low blow.”
“anyway,” she says briskly, moving on, “you two need to agree on a schedule. this’ll only work if you’re consistent, punctual, and communicate properly.”
you glance at kuroo again. “i’m usually free tuesdays and thursdays. the time depends on the day, though.”
“that works for me,” he replies, leaning back slightly. “we can decide on the time day-of, based on when you’re free.”
you hesitate. “are you sure? that’s kinda last-minute.”
“yeah, but you’ve got the tighter schedule, right? we’ll go with your pace.”
“that’s…” you trail off, blinking. “weirdly considerate of you.”
he smiles. “i get that a lot.”
you huff out a small laugh. “okay, uh—mondays, i have literary theory at ten, then world lit from eleven-thirty to one. tuesdays it’s just creative writing at three. wednesdays are hell—back-to-back classes all morning, and then a three-hour discussion. thursdays, i’ve got poetry at eleven and then i’m done for the day. and fridays i usually just work my part-time at the bookstore.”
you pause, catching yourself. “sorry. that was a lot.”
but kuroo’s expression hasn’t changed. if anything, he looks more focused than before, like he’s actively filing every word away. “no, that’s perfect. helps to know what your week looks like.”
you blink at him. “you’re not gonna write that down?”
he taps the side of his head. “already did.”
there’s a beat of silence before you laugh, unsure if he’s joking. “what about you?” you ask, mostly to fill the quiet. “what’s your schedule like?”
“brutal,” he says, voice casual. “i’ve got upper-level organic chem three times a week, lab on fridays, and a finance capstone that meets in the evenings. plus a couple electives—data analysis and, uh, environmental econ.”
you grimace. “that sounds awful.”
“it is,” he agrees. “but i like being busy. makes the time i waste feel earned.”
you blink. “you waste time?”
“sure,” he says, flashing you a grin. “i’m wasting it right now.”
you stare at him, deadpan. “you’re literally doing me a favor.”
“exactly,” he says, still smiling. “i’m very generous.”
you open your mouth to argue, but your aunt cuts in with a dry cough. “save the flirting for after the exams, please.”
you choke. kuroo just hums, pleased with himself, and leans back. he looks like he’s already got the semester—and maybe you—all figured out.
your aunt scribbles something on a small pad of pink carbon paper, her pen moving with the same annoyed efficiency she uses when grading failing midterms. you watch her carefully write your excuse slip and mentally thank her for lowkey saving your life.
“here,” she says, ripping it out with a satisfying tear. she hands it to you, then reaches for her mug, blowing gently over the rim. “give that to your professor so you’re not marked absent. and tell professor tanaka i said hi. or something ruder, if he makes a comment about my handwriting again.”
you take the slip, folding it carefully so it doesn’t get crumpled inside your bag. “got it. hi from you. and possibly a side of passive-aggression.”
she waves a hand toward the door. “you’re both excused. now go before i change my mind and assign kuroo two more tutees just to make you suffer by association.”
you and kuroo exchange quick glances before you both mumble out a thanks at the same time. his voice is smooth, practiced. yours is somewhere between grateful and mildly concerned.
“see you later, auntie,” you mutter on your way out, and she hums in response, already pulling out another stack of papers from her desk drawer.
kuroo reaches the door first and holds it open for you with a loose, casual gesture, like it’s nothing. like it doesn’t make your chest clench slightly in that weirdly specific way guys do when someone’s unexpectedly polite. you hesitate only a second before stepping past him, nodding once in acknowledgment.
“thanks,” you say again, quieter this time.
he just shrugs, following you out into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft click. the hallway’s mostly quiet now—class must’ve started already—and your footsteps echo as you both start walking toward the stairwell. your excuse slip’s still warm in your hand.
you’re about to say something about how weirdly productive that meeting was when kuroo clears his throat and slows down beside you.
“hey—before you head to class,” he starts, and you glance over at him, watching as he scratches the back of his neck like he’s trying to seem casual about what he’s about to say, “mind if i get your socials? just so i can reach you for tutoring stuff.”
you pause for half a second before nodding slowly, already reaching into your pocket for your phone. “yeah, sure. that makes sense.”
he smiles. “cool.”
you open your profile, flicking to the screen that lists your usernames, and tilt the phone toward him. he leans in just a bit—close enough to see the subtle curve of his grin—but doesn’t touch your screen, just reads.
“got it,” he says after a moment, and then you see him tap something on his own phone. “followed you. that way if you forget something or wanna move sessions around, you can just DM me.”
you raise an eyebrow, a little amused. “and this has nothing to do with you wanting to see what i post at 2 a.m.”
he huffs out a laugh, shameless. “not nothing.”
you roll your eyes but can’t help the slight smile tugging at your mouth. “you better not be the type to react to every story with those stupid emoji faces.”
“nah,” he says, slipping his phone back into his pocket, “i’m more of a serial liker. quiet, but very present.”
you snort. “great. now i get to overthink every post wondering if you’ve seen it.”
kuroo smirks, already walking ahead of you. “good. you should.”
you shake your head and follow, still feeling that weird buzz under your skin from how smooth that whole thing was. what he didn’t say—and what you don’t know—is that kuroo’s known your socials for weeks. he just hadn’t followed you until now because he figured it’d be creepy if he did it unprompted.
he’d already memorized your handle from a pinned campus event post weeks ago. he’s scrolled through your entire profile more times than he’ll ever admit. he’s just glad he can finally like your photos and swipe through your stories in broad daylight like a normal person, without it looking like something it absolutely is.
you check the time and start walking a little faster, excuse slip in hand. kuroo’s still beside you, steps in sync like he’s not in a rush at all.
“see you thursday?” you ask, glancing at him.
“you bet,” he says, already smiling. “just don’t fall asleep outside again or i might have to start checking up on you.”
you give him a look. “you say that like it’s a threat.”
“nah,” he says, hands in his pockets, voice low. “that’d be a promise.”
and see him on thursday, you did.
you walk into the library about five minutes late, hoodie hood pulled up over your head. your bag’s slung carelessly over one shoulder, and you can already feel the sweat starting to pool at the base of your neck from practically powerwalking across campus. it’s not your best look, but you’re here. that’s what matters.
the library’s packed, unsurprisingly. five p.m. means rush hour for panicked cramming, group projects, and people pretending to study just to feel less guilty about procrastinating. what is surprising, though, is the fact that kuroo somehow managed to snag a table—one of the larger ones, too, not shoved into some dimly lit back corner like you’d expected. he’s seated at the front, casually leaned back in his chair, a half-smirk already on his face as soon as you step in.
you make eye contact for maybe half a second before he raises his hand in a slow wave, like he’s trying to be helpful but also kind of enjoying the fact that you look like a walking apology. you don’t wave back, just move toward him quickly, slipping into the seat across from his and immediately pulling down your hood.
“hey,” you mutter, already digging through your bag for a pen, or maybe a hole in the ground to disappear into. “sorry i’m late. i—got caught up with this stupid group project and lost track of time.”
kuroo hums, the sound somewhere between amused and understanding. “group project, huh? must’ve been important if it made you break our lovely library date.”
you glance up at him, and yeah, he’s definitely messing with you—but it’s light, not mean. his expression says he’s more entertained than annoyed.
you groan softly, dragging a hand through your hair. “i know. i didn’t mean to run late. i rushed here as soon as i realized, swear.”
he watches you for a second, tapping his pen lightly against his notebook. normally, people wasting his time would’ve been enough to put him in a quietly bad mood for the rest of the day—kuroo’s the kind of person who runs his life on tight schedules and brutal efficiency.
but the way you’re sitting here, clearly out of breath, avoiding eye contact, shifting in your seat like you’re waiting to be scolded—it softens something in him.
he shrugs. “you’re here now, so i think that’s enough.”
you blink at him. “you sure? i know your schedule’s hell on earth.”
he just smiles a little, like it’s obvious. “for you? i’ll live.”
you pretend you didn’t hear that.
kuroo flips to a new page in his notes, pen already poised. “anyway. your first chem class is tomorrow, right?”
you groan again, slumping slightly in your chair. “yeah. nine a.m. i’m dreading it already.”
“don’t,” he says, that cocky little glint in his eyes lighting up again. “gen chem’s extremely easy. especially if you sit next to me.”
you glance up at him, cautious, not sure if he’s being serious. “...you want me to sit next to you?”
he raises an eyebrow. “obviously. class is boring as hell when you already know half the syllabus. might as well have someone to talk to.”
“right. someone to distract you while you ace everything anyway.”
“someone to make it slightly more entertaining,” he corrects, lips twitching like he’s fighting the urge to grin. “besides, if you’re sitting next to me, i can make sure you’re actually understanding stuff. double win.”
you nod slowly, trying to play it cool even though your brain’s still catching up. “alright. yeah. cool. i’m down.”
“thought so,” he says, smug.
you glance at the open portal on your phone, pulling up the list of uploaded materials from your aunt. “so… i actually tried looking through the files she sent. went through the intro modules and all that.”
“and?”
you deadpan. “i understood maybe five things.”
he snorts. “five’s generous.”
“it was like… matter. atoms. i think isotopes? and that’s only because i remember them from high school. everything else felt like it was in code.”
“you mean density? mixtures? significant figures?”
you blink. “okay, maybe i understood six things.”
kuroo laughs quietly, and it’s one of those sounds that makes it a little harder to be annoyed with yourself. “you’ll be fine. first few lessons are barely chemistry. it’s just science with a calculator. we’ll go through a few now, you’ll be breezing through by the end.”
“you say that like it’s guaranteed.”
“because it is,” he says, pulling out a familiar set of notes—neat handwriting, clearly labeled headers, even color-coded highlights that make your own half-assed attempts at studying look like kindergarten doodles. “these are from when i took gen chem back at my old uni. we’ll start with the basics and go from there.”
you sigh, glancing at his notes, already feeling the existential dread bubbling up. but you nod anyway. “alright. let’s do it.”
and kuroo just smiles, flipping to the first page, already ready to teach you.
your first session would’ve gone perfectly, if not for the completely unnecessary spotlight that came with it. kuroo was a great tutor—you had to admit that. sharp, patient, and scarily good at breaking things down without making you feel stupid. he walked you through the first few topics like he was reciting the alphabet, barely even looking at his notes unless he wanted to show you how he organized things visually.
everything from atomic structure to moles and stoichiometry was covered with the kind of ease that made you feel like maybe things would go smoothly. but it was hard to focus with the way half the library seemed more interested in your table than whatever assignments or group meetings they were pretending to be involved in.
and it wasn’t like you were being paranoid. they were staring. like, blatantly. whispering, too. you could hear it every time kuroo leaned over to point at something in your notebook, or when he let out a low chuckle at your half-baked answers, his voice stupidly smooth and just loud enough to turn a few more heads. some people didn’t even try to be subtle about it.
their eyes flicked between the two of you like you were some oddity that didn’t make sense. which was rich, considering kuroo was the main reason you were getting stared at in the first place.
it wasn’t a mystery. kuroo wasn’t the kind of guy people approached for academic help. sure, he was known for his brains, but he didn’t like sharing. he turned people down all the time, citing “schedule conflicts” and “other priorities” when in reality he just couldn’t be bothered. so the fact that he not only agreed to tutor someone, but was doing it publicly, and doing it well—it raised questions. and the fact that you were the one he chose, it raised even more.
still, you figured you could ignore it. grit your teeth, focus on the lessons, and tell yourself the staring would stop after the first session. spoiler: it didn’t. in fact, it got worse.
you sat next to kuroo in class the next day just like he suggested, and the whispers didn’t die down—they multiplied. it was like being the new animal in a zoo exhibit. your aunt had to pause the lecture halfway through just to tell the class, in that no-nonsense tone of hers, that if she saw another pair of wandering eyes, she’d be handing out pop quizzes until graduation.
she didn’t ask you to move, though. if anything, when you approached her after class and mentioned it, she gave you a firm nod and said it was good that you had someone to rely on. that he was a “very dependable young man.” you didn’t know whether to be grateful or concerned.
three more tutoring sessions passed. three more afternoons of students whispering, of people peeking over bookshelves and behind whiteboards like you were hiding state secrets with kuroo. and by the fourth one, you'd had enough. it wasn’t that you cared about what people thought.
it was the way they looked at you—like you didn’t deserve to be there. like you were some leech wasting kuroo’s time. and maybe that was your own insecurity talking, but still. you wanted to learn without feeling like you were under a microscope.
so, after glancing around the library and clocking at least two people pretending to read while side-eyeing your table, you leaned in just a bit, dropped your pen against your open notebook, and muttered, “hey. you mind if we move somewhere more quiet next time?”
kuroo didn’t even hesitate. his eyes flicked up from the diagram he was drawing, that slow, crooked grin forming as if he’d been waiting for you to say that since the moment you walked in. “sure,” he said easily. “know a spot.”
you looked at him suspiciously. “you do?”
“yeah. less foot traffic. no staring. just you and me.” he said it casually, but there was a glint in his eye that gave him away.
and you—clueless, tired, a little grateful—just nodded. “cool. that works.”
bingo. exactly what he wanted.
the following thursday at exactly 6 p.m., you found kuroo waiting by the library entrance, leaning against the glass wall like he had nowhere better to be, like he hadn’t just finished whatever ungodly schedule a chemistry and finance major had lined up for the day.
he looked too relaxed for someone whose brain probably ran on complex equations and market trends, scrolling idly through his phone until he spotted you. he tucked it into his pocket the moment your eyes met, lips quirking up into a half-smile.
“c’mon,” he said, pushing off the wall. “got us a better table this time.”
you didn’t ask questions, just followed him past the main study area and up a narrow staircase tucked into the far side of the library that you honestly didn’t even realize existed until now. apparently, the place had a second level—one quieter and slightly dimmer, with low ceilings and older shelves packed tight with reference books that nobody touched anymore. tucked between a pair of those shelves, with one wide table and two worn-out chairs, was your new tutoring headquarters.
it was perfect. barely any students in sight, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel sterile, just comfortably secluded. the occasional hum of the central AC, a flickering light a few rows down, the muted shuffle of someone turning pages across the floor. that was it. no stares, no whispers, no awkward sense of being watched.
just kuroo, already pulling out his notebook and flipping to a fresh page while you settled in across from him.
that session went smoother than any before it. with the pressure off, your brain finally had room to breathe, and kuroo made it easy to stay focused. he had clear explanations and the occasional dry joke when he caught you zoning out.
it was probably because of the privacy, or the fact that you were finally getting the hang of things, but you found yourself relaxing more than usual—leaning closer when he gestured at your notebook, making quiet comments you wouldn’t have dared to say out loud downstairs, laughing a little easier.
you didn’t even notice that kuroo had gotten a little touchier. a light hand on your wrist when you got something wrong and he wanted to correct the angle of your writing, a palm braced on the back of your chair when he leaned in to explain a diagram, his thigh brushing yours underneath the table once or twice—lingering long enough that it probably should’ve felt deliberate, but not quite long enough for you to call him out for it.
and honestly, it didn’t feel weird. it just felt... natural. so you didn’t pull away.
what did catch you off guard, though, was the way kuroo started praising you whenever you got something right. not the way he used to, with casual affirmations and smug nods. no—this was something else.
softer, lower, with a drop in tone that made your skin buzz every time he said things like “good job” or “that’s it, smart boy.” you told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that he probably just had a flirty tone by default or whatever. but it was getting harder to pretend it didn’t affect you, especially when you felt your ears heat up instantly and kuroo would pause—glance up from your notes, and grin like he’d just caught you in the middle of a crime.
“your ears are red again,” he said once, totally smug.
you mumbled something incomprehensible and hid them with your hands, biting back a groan as he laughed. it was quiet and teasing and way too pleased for someone who was supposed to be focusing on the solubility rules.
“you always get like this when i compliment you?”
“shut up,” you muttered, refusing to look at him.
he leaned his chin onto his hand, looking entirely too amused. “cute.”
you didn’t reply, mostly because you didn’t trust yourself not to combust. but also because, in the back of your mind, you knew he was probably doing it on purpose. pushing just a little further each time to see how far you’d let him go.
not like you were against it or anything.
the more sessions you had up there, the easier it got to be around him. you started talking more, asking questions even when you thought they might be dumb, opening up without really realizing it.
and kuroo listened. really listened. he asked things back, little stuff about your routine, your interests, the way your classes were going outside of chemistry. and whenever you shared something—even something small—he looked pleased. like getting you to talk was a win in itself.
sometimes you’d catch him watching you a little longer than necessary, eyes half-lidded, lips curled faintly at the corners like he was cataloging every little shift in your expression. but he never said anything about it, and you never brought it up.
you didn’t think you’ve ever stayed this long in the library for something that wasn’t a midterm you forgot about until the night before. it’s well past eight now, maybe closer to nine, and the only reason you’re still here is because kuroo hasn’t made any move to pack up—and neither have you.
technically, the study session ended over an hour ago. you went through today's lesson—buffer solutions, acid-base equilibria, and a lot of pKa math that made you want to crawl under the table and rot. and now, instead of reviewing anything, you're sitting with your legs crossed under the table, body turned toward him as you talk about whatever comes to mind.
there’s no real topic, no pressure to sound smart or interesting. you told him about the classmate you want to dropkick into next semester, he told you about how people who don’t label their glassware in the lab make him want to commit homicide. somewhere in between, he mentioned that he transferred because he wanted to be closer to family. you talked about your aunt, and he asked if she was always that intense as a teacher. she was.
it’s weirdly comfortable—just you and kuroo tucked away in your secluded little corner of the library, where no one else exists and the hum of the overhead lights is the only other sound.
you’re laughing at something dumb he said—something about acid-base titration being the most romantic form of chemistry because of “neutralization through mutual destruction”—and you let your head fall forward as you wheeze into the sleeve of your hoodie.
you don’t notice the way kuroo’s watching you, how his eyes drag down to the curve of your mouth when you laugh, the crinkle of your eyes when you glance up at him, the softness in your face that only shows up when you’re too tired to put up walls. you don’t see him licking his lips unconsciously, like he’s trying to commit your expression to memory.
“hey,” he says, voice quieter than usual, and it makes you look up.
you hum, leaning back a little as you meet his gaze. there’s a strange look in his eyes, something unreadable under the dim light, but you don’t get the chance to decipher it before he speaks again.
“don’t you think i deserve a reward for being such a good teacher?”
you blink, caught off guard. “...what?”
“your aunt’s been singing your praises, right?” he says with a smirk, propping his chin on his hand. “pretty sure you’ve never scored this high on a chem quiz in your life. and who do you have to thank for that?”
you narrow your eyes at him, half-suspicious and half-amused. the smirk’s there, yeah, but there’s something behind it—something that doesn’t feel like a joke. “what, you want money? do i look like i have a secret trust fund or something?”
he huffs out a laugh, head tilting. “no. not your money.”
then he lifts a finger and taps it against his bottom lip. “this,” he says. “i want a kiss.”
your brain immediately bluescreens. you stare at him. he stares back. “you—what?”
“just a little one,” he says with the casual audacity of someone asking for extra sauce on takeout. “after every session, if you don’t mind.”
you gape at him, jaw slack, ears going red so fast it’s embarrassing. his eyes gleam like he’s just hit the jackpot and your suffering is his prize. he leans in slightly, elbows on the table, watching you with a predator’s patience.
“you’re serious?” you manage to say, trying not to sound like your voice is going to crack in half.
he doesn’t even blink. just holds your gaze and smiles—slow and maddeningly confident. and that’s all the answer you need.
you rub at your ears with your sleeves, muttering, “you’re actually serious.” because if you say it again, maybe your brain will finally process it.
“so?” he asks, voice a little too pleased with himself. “what about it?”
you open your mouth, try to say something witty—maybe “dream on” or “work harder for it” or literally anything that sounds like you’re not immediately folding like a house of cards—but nothing comes out. because your head’s a mess, and kuroo’s looking at you like that, and you’re suddenly very aware of how close the two of you are.
so you sigh, palm dragging down your face as you groan out, “god, you’re insufferable.”
his grin widens. “i’ll take that as a yes.”
“shut up,” you grumble, heat crawling down your neck. “you get one. don’t get cocky.”
he leans forward like he’s already won. “too late.”
turns out, “just one kiss” was a bullshit deal from the start.
because by the time your next session rolled around, kuroo was already acting like it was a standard post-study ritual. stretching your arms after scribbling through chemical equations for two hours, closing your notes and packing up your pens, then kissing your tutor. completely normal!
you tried to play dumb when you stood up that evening, slinging your backpack over one shoulder as you reached for the remaining papers on the table, pretending you forgot the whole conversation. maybe he wouldn’t bring it up.
but kuroo, of course, leaned back in his chair with all the smugness in the world and said, “hey—aren’t you forgetting something?”
you blinked at him. he just tapped his bottom lip again, lazy and unhurried. he knew he already had you.
“you’re....” you trail off, eyes narrowing as your stomach did a stupid little flip. he just gave you that half-lidded look again, infuriatingly calm, and said, “a deal’s a deal.”
he refused to move until you gave in. arms crossed, legs stretched out under the table, looking like he had nowhere to be and all the time in the world to wait for you to cave. and the worst part was that you did. you leaned down and pressed a fast, awkward kiss to his mouth—barely a second long, just enough to shut him up—and when you pulled away, he made a satisfied little hum in the back of his throat.
you muttered a quiet, “happy now?” as you shouldered your bag, still refusing to meet his eyes, but he only stood up with a light stretch and that same stupid smirk. “very.”
you thought maybe it was a one-time thing. maybe he’d lose interest or drop the act or just forget. but no, it became routine after that. the same stupid dance every session: he’d remind you, you’d glare at him, he’d tilt his head, and you’d kiss him. quick, tame, and automatic.
it didn’t mean anything.
but it did. not in the loud, dramatic way that movies show it—no racing heartbeat, no crashing music, no sweeping monologue. just the heat in your chest that always seemed to rise as you got closer to the end of each session, the way your hands would suddenly feel too big—too clumsy, when you closed your notebook and realized what was about to happen. and the way kuroo would look at you the second you turned his way, eyes already expectant, like he’d been waiting.
you got used to it, kind of.
it got easier to lean in and press your lips to his. your movements weren’t as stiff, your face didn’t burn quite as violently. but it still flustered the hell out of you, because kuroo never reacted the same way twice. sometimes he’d close his eyes and smile faintly, content. sometimes he’d chuckle right after, low and quiet, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
once, he mumbled a soft “thanks” right against your lips, and you nearly dropped your water bottle on the floor trying to rush out the library.
you tried not to overthink it. sure, he teased you all the time. sure, he always sat closer than necessary when guiding your hand through formulas and remembered details you forgot you even told him. but that didn’t mean he liked you.
right?
still, every time you left the library with your bag a little lighter and your face a little hotter, you couldn’t help but think about the way his lips felt against yours. and the fact that you were starting to lean in before he even had to ask.
you aren’t sure what changed after that—maybe it was the lighting, dimmer than usual up here in your tucked-away corner on the second floor, or maybe it was the way kuroo kept looking at you tonight.
but whatever it was, something shifted the moment you leaned in for your usual kiss. you pecked him on the lips, meaning to pull away like always. fast, clean, no big deal.
except this time, he didn’t let you.
his lips stayed on yours, soft and warm and unmoving, just for a second. just long enough for confusion to curl in your chest. and then—his tongue, a slow lick across your bottom lip, hot and deliberate. you froze, a tiny jolt running down your spine, and the noise you let out wasn’t planned—just a small, startled gasp that gave him exactly what he wanted.
his tongue slipped in—smooth, exploratory, careful but sure of itself—and suddenly your hands were fisting the front of his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to earth.
“mnh—” you made a choked little sound against his mouth, not even sure what it was supposed to mean. surprise? protest? more? you didn’t know, didn’t have time to figure it out. because kuroo’s hands had moved up to your face—both of them, palms cupping your cheeks with a kind of gentleness that made your skin burn. his thumbs brushed your cheekbones like he was soothing you through it, even as he kissed you deeper, wetter, as if he wanted to learn the shape of your mouth from the inside out.
he wasn’t rushing. not aggressive or frantic, but slow and steady and annoyingly thorough. he wanted to explore the way you tasted, the way your breath hitched whenever his tongue met yours. he tilted his head slightly, nose brushing yours, and groaned low in his throat when your lips parted more willingly—when you responded without meaning to, letting him pull another soft, involuntary whimper from the back of your throat.
your grip on his shirt tightened, fingers curling into the fabric. you could feel his heartbeat where your knuckles pressed against his chest—fast, strong, and not as calm as he looked.
his tongue stroked yours again, slow and coaxing, and you felt yourself melt into it. your spine pressed into the back of your chair as he leaned in just a bit more, keeping your face between his hands like he didn’t want you going anywhere. the kiss got a little messier after that—less precise. your lips parted with a faint, wet hnngk, your breath catching when he sucked lightly on your bottom lip, just to see what kind of sound you’d make.
you gave him one—unintentionally, embarrassingly—a soft, breathy ahh— that you tried to swallow down the moment it escaped, but you could feel his smirk against your mouth.
“mm, you’re so cute,” he murmured against your lips, voice low and rough with heat.
“shut up,” you whispered back, breathless, too dazed to put any real bite into it.
he hummed—one of those amused little noises that buzzed against your mouth—and kissed you again before you could say anything else. his thumbs were still stroking your cheeks, his hands firm but gentle. he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you senseless or keep you steady.
you parted your lips again without thinking, breath shaky, and let your tongue slide against his—not confidently, not skillfully, but instinctively. you were following his lead, too flustered to overthink it. he groaned, low and appreciative, like you’d done something right, and it made your stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the warmth pooling low in your abdomen.
his mouth slanted against yours, and you followed the angle as if your body had stopped taking orders from your brain, chasing the taste of him, the feel of his breath, the way his lips moved against yours.
you didn’t even notice how long you’d been kissing him. didn’t hear the distant creak of the elevator on the other side of the building or the shuffle of shoes down the stairs. your world had narrowed to this—his hands, your lips, the quiet wet sounds of your kiss in the otherwise silent library, the tiny, embarrassing gasps you kept letting out whenever he did something new.
he pulled back just barely, lips still brushing yours, breath mixing with yours in the space between.
“you okay?” he asked quietly, voice husky and faintly amused.
you nodded—tiny, slow, not trusting your voice yet. “...yeah. i just—what the hell was that?”
“a kiss?” he offered, and you could hear the smirk creeping back into his voice. “you’ve been giving me practice ones. figured it was time for the real deal.”
you stared at him, face burning, lips tingling. “you’re unbelievable.”
“mhmm.” he leaned in again, brushing his nose against yours. “and you taste like spearmint.”
you made a strangled noise—somewhere between a laugh and a groan—and shoved at his chest weakly, still gripping his shirt. “fuck off.”
you guessed that was the beginning of the shift—maybe not a full tectonic plate movement, but something had definitely cracked loose inside kuroo the moment he got a proper taste of you. and the thing about kuroo was that he’d never been good at settling. not in school, not in leadership, not in anything that made him feel like he was holding back.
if he could get a little more, he would. if he could push a little further, he did. and now that you were part of the equation, he didn’t even pretend to hide that same greedy streak.
it stopped being a kiss-for-points system sometime in mid-march, right around the third or fourth time he kissed you so thoroughly you forgot your backpack on the library floor and walked halfway to your dorm with jelly legs and glazed eyes.
and now it was just... this. you’d do your two hours of acids and bases, titrations and thermochemistry, and then you’d end up pressed against him on the second floor, tucked behind tall shelves and peeling bulletin boards, lips tangled together.
you’d feel it coming before the clock even hit eight. the last ten minutes were always the worst—impossible to focus, impossible to listen to kuroo explaining anything about weak acid dissociation constants because all you could think about was the way he was already watching you from the side of his notes, eyes dark, mouth curved just faintly, waiting.
you started to fidget more—fingers tapping the table, foot bouncing. and kuroo, that smug bastard, would say something like, “you good? you look restless,” even though he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
it kept happening. and your body, traitor that it was, kept meeting him halfway.
so really, you shouldn’t have been surprised when things escalated.
you were half-seated on the table—same library table where you’d struggled through stoichiometry on. kuroo was between your legs, arms braced on either side of you like he was trying to keep you there, not that you were making any move to leave. your thighs were spread open around his hips, your hands locked around his shoulders as he mouthed at your neck like he was starved for it.
“ahh—nhn, kuroo—” your voice cracked embarrassingly as he sucked on a spot just under your jaw. his tongue traced the mark after, soothing the sting, but the damage was already done. your head dropped back with your mouth parted, panting lightly.
he didn’t answer. just gave a low hum against your skin before moving lower. his mouth dragged across your throat, tongue warm and wet, before his lips found the edge of your collar. you felt his hands slip under the hem of your shirt, fingertips grazing up your sides.
“nnnnh—god—” you gasped as his thumbs rolled over your nipples through the fabric, pressing circles. “kuroo—”
“hmm?” he murmured without lifting his head, nuzzling just under your ear while his thumbs rubbed firmer, coaxing more quiet sounds out of you. “thought you were used to this by now.”
“not—like this,” you managed, legs tightening slightly around his waist. “fuck, this wasn’t—wasn’t part of the deal.”
“deal’s been null for a while now,” he muttered against your neck, his breath hot as he licked a stripe up to your jaw. “you haven’t exactly been protesting.”
he was right and you hated him for it.
his fingers pinched your nipples softly, just enough to make your body twitch off the table. your head tipped forward, forehead resting against his shoulder, breath shaky as heat curled in your gut, sticky and low and familiar.
“you like it,” he whispered, voice rough now, gravelly in that way that made your stomach drop. “your body’s pretty honest, babe. you’d tell me to stop if you didn’t want it.”
you whimpered into the crook of his neck, clutching his shoulders a little harder. he bit down gently on your collarbone, making you squirm. his hands finally pushed your shirt up and out of the way, dragging it over your chest to expose your skin to the air, and he didn’t waste a second.
his thumbs found your nipples again, now bare, and rolled them between rough fingers while his mouth followed, tongue flicking one and sucking until your legs tensed around his waist again.
“ngh—ahhh, shit—kuroo—” you could barely hear yourself over the sound of your own breath, uneven and high-pitched, as he licked over your nipple and closed his mouth around it, sucking slowly like he was trying to make you fall apart piece by piece.
your hands slid up into his hair, grabbing a fistful, and he groaned against your chest, one of his hands dropping to your thigh to steady you. he was hard—you could feel it through his jeans, the way he was pressed flush against you—and you hated how good that made you feel, how wanted.
“fuck,” you gasped, “we can’t—this is—we’re in the library...!”
“no one comes up here,” he muttered, lips dragging across your skin as he spoke, “you know that.”
“someone might—”
“then be quiet,” he said simply, with the kind of smugness only kuroo could pull off, and bit your nipple, just a quick little pinch of teeth that made your breath catch, burying your face in his shoulder again to muffle the noise.
you didn’t know when you started craving him, but you were past the point of pretending it wasn’t there. it didn’t matter if this was the last thing you expected to be doing with your tutor.
you wanted him. bad.
so you didn’t protest. not when he kissed you during your break between lectures, not when he started texting you more outside of tutor hours, not when he said “you’re coming early today. we’re starting before the session.” with that crooked grin like he already knew you wouldn’t say no.
and definitely not when you ended up like this—sitting on his lap, facing forward with your back pressed flush to his chest, the weight of him inside you making your legs tremble every time he shifted even slightly.
you didn’t expect him to actually keep going with the tutoring like this, but apparently this was some kind of experiment. a test of focus, he called it. and somehow, the asshole was making it work.
he had you cockwarming him, notes in one hand, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose as he read out loud from his tablet—completely unaffected by the fact that his cock was buried deep in your ass, thick and hot and pulsing every time you clenched without meaning to.
“standard electrode potential,” he said against the shell of your ear, his voice unfairly steady. “is the voltage measured under standard conditions—twenty-five degrees celsius, one molar concentration for solutions, one atmosphere for gases—”
you twitched in his lap with a choked little gasp, your fingers clawing at your own thighs because that was the only part of you you could grip without giving yourself away.
you’d been trying, really trying, to listen. but he was inside you. not just barely in—all the way in. sitting so deep it made you dizzy, the stretch still lingering even though it’d been nearly an hour. and the worst part was the fact that he wasn’t even thrusting.
he didn’t need to. just being full like this, surrounded, stuffed with him while he recited electrochemistry was enough to make your brain slide right out of your ears.
“mgh—kuroo,” you whimpered, eyes squeezing shut as you tried to breathe through another wave of heat crawling up your spine. “i-i can’t—can’t think—”
“sure you can,” he murmured, so calmly it made your stomach curl. “you were doing fine a few minutes ago. come on, define oxidation.”
you blinked blearily at the notes he’d laid out in front of you, printed terms highlighted in blue. you knew this. you swore you knew this. he’d gone over it three times already, and you’d even said it aloud once—
“oxidation is… is—” your hips jerked forward before you could stop them, as if your body was trying to move on instinct, desperate for friction even though you knew he wasn’t going to give it to you. kuroo’s arm around your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him, keeping you locked down. the drag of him inside was subtle, almost nothing, but it still made you shiver. “ngh—i don’t know—”
“you do,” he says patiently. the pad of his thumb rubbed slow circles into your inner thigh, soothing and grounding but also not helping because your cock was leaking like a faucet at this point. “don’t pout. you’re not stupid.”
you whimpered again, trying to blink past the static in your brain. “fuck you.”
he chuckled against your ear. “already am.”
you hated how easily he said it. how his voice never wavered, even when your whole body felt like it was on the edge of crumbling. he wasn’t unaffected—you could feel that—but he was composed, in control, and you weren’t.
“oxidation,” he repeated, slower now, “is the loss of electrons. reduction is the gain. you can remember it with the acronym oil rig. say it with me.”
“i can’t say it with you if i’m about to fucking cry,” you groaned, face burying into your sleeve. it was damp. from sweat, from drool, from precum—you couldn’t even tell anymore. all you knew was that you were full. so full. your hole fluttered around him with every breath, with every word he whispered into your ear, and him just staying inside made your insides feel stupid.
he made you sit there—twitching around his cock, his free hand now gently dragging up and down your thigh like he was comforting a very dumb, very overstimulated pet.
“you’re close, aren’t you,” he said after a moment, and it wasn’t a question. “your dick’s dripping like you’re in heat.”
“shut the fuck up,” you hissed, humiliated, but your voice came out thin and needy, barely a whisper. “fucking hate you.”
“you’re the one grinding on me,” he said mildly, lifting his notes a little higher. “not my fault if this is the only way to get you to remember basic redox reactions.”
your head lolled to the side, your cheek resting against his shoulder. your brain was mush. full of fluff and static and kuroo’s voice echoing things that sounded like science but might as well have been a different language.
you blinked once. twice. swallowed thickly.
“oil rig,” you muttered, hoarse.
“good boy,” he said softly, and your stomach flipped.
your walls squeezed around him on instinct, and that finally got a reaction. a low grunt against your neck, half muffled, like he was holding himself back on principle. you felt his thighs tense beneath you, the shift of muscle under denim, and your whole body trembled at the thought of what he’d do if he stopped holding back.
“fuck—kuroo—please,” you whispered, shame forgotten. “please move, just a little, i’ll remember whatever the fuck you want, just—”
“nope,” he said, too brightly. “we haven’t even covered nernst yet.”
“nernst can eat shit,” you snapped, high-pitched and near tears. “i’m—i’m so fucking dumb right now—i can’t—”
“not dumb,” he murmured, breath warm as his lips brushed your temple. “just full.”
“f-full,” you echoed, so out of it you didn’t even realize you were clenching again, your hips twitching involuntarily. “m’full, fuck, i’m gonna—gonna—”
“no you’re not,” kuroo said, and wrapped a hand around your leaking cock without warning, holding it at the base like a leash. you sobbed.
“you’re gonna sit here,” he said slowly, “and listen to me explain how to calculate cell potential. and then, if you can recite it back, i’ll let you cum.”
you whimpered again, incoherent. drool slicked the corner of your mouth. the only thing holding you together was the rhythm of his voice and the steady heat inside you, thick and unmoving, keeping you dumb and pliant in his lap while the second floor remained silent but for the soft rustle of notes and the ruined little sounds spilling out of your mouth.
kuroo hasn’t stumbled once. his voice stays level, calmly reading definitions and equations. he shifts only slightly when he reaches for a new page in his notes, the movement casual, like he’s adjusting his position for better posture—not to rock the thick head of his cock straight into your prostate.
but it does, and you choke.
your whole body tenses when the fat tip drags against that bundle of nerves, your thighs squeezing tight around his hips, shoulders jerking. your head drops back with a soft, broken little uhhh—, and your vision goes fuzzy for a second. your eyes flutter, half-lidded and unfocused, mouth open and panting as heat pools low in your belly, thick and sticky and almost too much.
“fuck,” you whisper, voice barely there.
kuroo doesn’t even pause. “standard conditions: twenty-five degrees celsius, one molar concentration, one atmosphere pressure. standard electrode potential is measured under these conditions,” he says smoothly, as if he isn’t keeping you stuffed to the brim while he lectures you on electrochemistry. “what’s the difference between cell potential and standard cell potential?”
you reach under your hoodie without thinking, palm dragging over your skin, pushing the fabric up until your stomach’s exposed to the cool air of the library. your breath catches when your fingers press against your abdomen, right over where you can feel him from the inside. your skin gives just enough to mold to the obscene shape of him under it—thick and unrelenting, seated so deep you can trace the shape from the outside. you press harder, breath shuddering.
“oh fuck—kuroo—”
you don’t even finish the thought. just let out a whine, quiet and shaky, as your cock twitches helplessly against the soft cotton of your hoodie, still untouched.
“are you serious right now?” he asks, deadpan, and snorts when you give him the only answer you’re capable of—a high-pitched nghh— as you stroke your own stomach like an idiot. “focus.”
“i am focused,” you say, and your voice sounds stupid to your own ears, slurred and thin, too desperate to be convincing.
“on what?” he drawls. “me? or my cock?” his hand slides up your thigh, and his voice dips low, near your ear. “you gonna answer my question, or are you really too full to think?”
you try, but you know it’s a lost cause. you can’t remember what he asked. everything you are has boiled down to sitting on his lap like a plug, trembling every time he breathes too deep, hole clenching every time the angle shifts and you feel the pressure against that spot again.
his hand slips under your hoodie, warm palm flat against your stomach, pressing down right over that bulge with just enough pressure to make your thighs shake and your back arch. your moan is high and hitched and shamefully needy.
“look at that,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “can feel me right there. right where your brain used to be.”
you sob quietly into your arm, hips twitching despite yourself.
he repeats the question, slow and clear like he’s offering you mercy, like your brain hasn’t been wrung out and replaced with the unbearable ache of wanting him to move. “difference between cell potential and standard cell potential,” he murmurs, fingers steady on your thigh.
you bite your lip, force your eyes to focus on the paper in front of you even though the words swim and blur. the letters barely mean anything anymore. all you can feel is the press of him inside, the shallow rhythm of your own panting breath, and the unbearable stretch that hasn’t stopped pulsing since the first second he bottomed out.
“standard… is measured under fixed conditions,” you manage finally, slow and shaky. “cell potential is… is under real—real conditions. like… not ideal. just what’s happening—fuck—now.”
there’s a pause.
he hums. “mm. i’ll give it to you.” and then, cheerfully, as if he isn’t cockwarming you in a public building: “one more, and then we’ll take a break.”
your heart kicks up. you nod, biting down hard on your sleeve as you wait. you really hope this means what you think it means. he’s been edging you with his voice for nearly an hour, and you’ve done what he asked—you’re answering. mostly. good enough. he has to let you—
“okay,” you croak. “what’s the last question?”
you should’ve known he wouldn’t go easy.
“calculate the equilibrium constant,” he says, casual as anything, “given a cell potential of zero point one eight volts at twenty-five degrees celsius.”
you let out a sob—wet and pathetic and drawn out, as your forehead hits the edge of the table with a dull thump. your cock throbs where it rests, leaking miserably onto the hoodie bunched around your lap. you’re so warm, too warm, your whole body hot and trembling and pressed against him while he remains still.
“kuroo,” you whine, breath stuttering. “i—i can’t—don’t remember—fuck, you said it earlier, you said it, i remember the words, i just—just not the math—”
he clicks his tongue quietly, but there’s no malice in it. “sure you do,” he says, fingertips ghosting over that bulge in your stomach where his cock rests. “you’re not stupid, are you? come on, it’s right there. dig it up.”
you bite down on the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood. and when he doesn’t say anything, just waits with that patient silence, you whisper, “n… nine point two times ten to the… sixth.”
another pause. a beat of silence. and then kuroo laughs.
you go limp with it.
“holy shit,” he says, delighted. “look at that. you do retain some info while full of cock.”
his hand sweeps across the table, knocking your notebook to the side and pushing your pens off without care. he’s careful with your laptop, slides it out of the way with one hand before he’s gripping under your thighs and standing like you weigh nothing at all, lifting you effortlessly and laying you down across the now-clear table without pulling out.
you barely manage a gasp before your chest hits the cool surface, arms braced awkwardly, and then he’s bending you over with one arm wrapped around your hips and the other braced beside you, his cock still buried to the hilt, his breath ragged against the back of your neck.
he starts moving before you even adjust. with no warning, he slams back in and sets a pace that rattles through your spine. “this is all you’re good for, huh?” he grunts, thrusts deep and fast and ruthless. “getting your guts rearranged on a study table.”
you try to nod. or say something. but all that comes out is a wrecked moan, your arms buckling as you clutch at the edge of the table for support.
your sweatpants are bunched at your ankles, cold air on your calves, but it’s the last thing on your mind. the zipper of his jeans scratches your thighs with every thrust, undone just enough to free his cock, the band of his underwear pushed beneath his balls, and every slam into you hits deep—deep enough to make you see stars, deep enough to make your brain hiccup mid-thought.
“so dumb for it,” he mutters, and you can hear the grin in his voice even through the panting. “had to fuck the answers into you just to make ‘em stick. is that it?”
“y-yeah,” you breathe, too fast, too hoarse. “please—yes—fuck—”
he keeps you bent over with a palm pressed between your shoulder blades, the table creaking faintly beneath you as he pounds into your ass, slick sounds echoing faintly in the quiet of the upper floor mixed with the broken noises that keep spilling out of your throat no matter how hard you bite them back.
“you’re such a fucking mess, (name).” he hisses, low and tight, thrusts not slowing in the slightest. “drooling over the notes, crying ‘cause you couldn’t remember a formula.”
you can’t look at anything. your eyes are squeezed shut, your face damp with sweat, and your mouth’s hanging open. his cock punches into your prostate again and again, and you lose whatever words you were about to say—reduced to a high, gasping moan as you clutch the table as it’s the only thing holding you upright.
his fingers suddenly tangle into your hair, blunt nails scraping lightly against your scalp before he grips tighter and pulls—dragging a full-body shudder out of you. your back arches with the motion, spine bowing as he draws your chest off the table and presses your body back into him, flush against his front.
the new angle has you gasping, blinking hard as the thick weight of him shifts deeper, cock driving in harder now that he’s got you bent like this.
“there we go,” he mutters behind you, and the satisfaction in his voice is clear. “that’s better.”
you’re not even sure what he means by that, but you can feel the difference. the change in angle hits your prostate sharper, meaner. every thrust feels like it’s knocking the air straight out of your lungs and sending it back in hot.
your stomach rises with each movement, the swell and fall of it exaggerated from the way his cock stretches you out, like he’s trying to fill space you didn’t know was empty.
the table under you creaks softly, a quiet chorus to the slow, steady slap of his hips meeting yours. your cock drags along the cool surface beneath you, twitching every time he bottoms out. the stimulation’s just enough to drive you wild—barely friction, but relentless.
your body rocks forward with every thrust and grinds you against the table in sync, every movement synced to his pace like you’re not in control of it anymore.
you bite your lip hard to stop yourself from making noise. your teeth sink into the skin so deep it stings, and even that’s not enough to stop the way little choked sounds keep slipping out. you can’t even tell if you’re moaning or whimpering at this point, only that your voice is too soft, too fucked-out, and it’s the only thing tethering you to the awareness that this is still a library. a public building.
the second floor’s usually empty this time of night, but the idea that someone could be wandering just below makes your pulse spike every time the slap of his balls against yours echoes louder than it should.
“you’re lucky no one’s come up here,” kuroo murmurs against your neck, breath hot. “bet professor suzuki’d love to catch her little nephew like this.”
you let out a noise—somewhere between a gasp and a whine—and he laughs quietly, clearly enjoying himself.
his hand slides up your chest, calloused fingers brushing over your nipple and pinching just hard enough to make your hips jerk. “wonder if she’d still let you make up that quiz you bombed.”
“shut up,” you manage to croak, but your voice breaks halfway through, too breathless to land even a fraction of the usual bite. your face burns hotter, humiliation mixing with arousal in a dizzying blur.
“aw, what’s wrong?” he says, voice still low and smooth, “don’t like being reminded your aunt’s basically the reason we met? bet she’d love knowing her favorite little nephew’s been drooling into her syllabus while i fuck the sense out of him.”
“kuroo—f-fuck—please—”
“please what?” he grunts, fucking into you harder, hands anchoring you in place as your body jolts with every thrust. “you gotta be more specific than that, baby.”
you can’t. you can’t say anything coherent. your brain’s sludge, your whole world narrowed down to the way he’s ramming into you, the way your cock smears precum across the wood with each grind of your hips. it feels endless—overwhelming in the way it builds without cresting, all friction and fullness and no relief.
“you’re so easy,” he mutters like he’s talking to himself, pushing your hoodie further up your back to get a better grip on your waist. “ask you a question and you cry. say her name and you whimper. touch your fucking nipple and you lose half your IQ.”
you nod, too fast, too desperate. “m’trying—trying t’keep up, i swear—”
“you’re not keeping up,” he says flatly, and you don’t even flinch. “you’re barely standing. just a dumb little fucktoy stuffed full of cock and pretending you’re still a student.”
“m’sorry,” you sob, “i’m—i’m trying to learn—”
he huffs out a laugh at that. “yeah? learning with your ass, then? cause your brain sure as shit clocked out twenty minutes ago.”
you don’t even deny it.
you’re too gone. too fucked open. too soaked in the rhythm of his hips slamming into you, the heat spreading out from your core like syrup in your veins, making you heavy and slow and so fucking good. everything else—classes, grades, reputation, your aunt—melts into nothing beneath the weight of his cock and the humiliating awareness that you’re taking it like you were made for it.
“so pretty like this,” kuroo says suddenly, quieter now, voice rough around the edges. “wasn’t supposed to go this far. but look at you. fucking melting around me.”
you barely manage to moan back, words lost, fingers clutching the edge of the table like it’s the only anchor you’ve got left.
you don't know if you're more terrified of the idea of someone hearing, or the idea that you want them to.
sweat beads down the side of kuroo’s face, catching in his jawline before it trails to his neck, his glasses half-slipped on the bridge of his nose like they're seconds away from falling off entirely. his breath comes out ragged, hot and heavy against your skin, and the groan he lets out when he slams in to the hilt again is something feral, low and rough, straight from the pit of his stomach.
“fuck, this pussy—nghh, shit—this ass,” he pants, hips grinding down as he pulses inside you. “swear to god, no girl’s ever felt like this. no fucking pussy in the world compares to what you give me—fuuuck—you feel insane—”
you shouldn't feel pride in that, you know you shouldn’t, but your whole body reacts before you can even think. your cock jerks and spills untouched, twitching hard as you cum again, thick spurts painting the floor and some splashing up to the edge of the table, sticky lines marking the wood.
you squeeze down around him, too tight, too much, and the choked moan he lets out punches straight through your core.
“hnnnn—god damn—you’re milking me—fuck—” kuroo gasps, voice breaking on the last word as his hips jerk forward and he cums deep, so deep you feel the way his cock throbs inside you, feel the hot flood of it filling you in waves like he can’t stop, like your body won’t let him. your eyes roll back, your jaw slack as your tongue slips out just a little, completely lost in the thick heat spreading through your gut.
he doesn’t even try to stay in when it gets too sensitive—pulls out with a wet, slick sound and curses under his breath when he sees your hole gaping. his cum drools out of you slow and heavy, sliding down to drip over your balls and onto the floor below, a few strands stringing between your rim and his twitching tip.
he stares for a second before he lets go of his grip on you and lets you collapse back onto the table, body limp and trembling, legs giving out entirely as your thighs spasm beneath you.
you whimper, not even sure what for—everything hurts in the best way, and you’re so sensitive it borders on pain, but it’s not enough to make you want to stop.
“look at you,” he murmurs, still breathless, and it’s more amused than mocking, like he really can’t help but marvel at the sight. his cock's still hard, still flushed and slick and dripping even after cumming, and he doesn’t give himself time to go soft before he’s moving again.
he rolls you onto your back with practiced ease, letting your legs fall open while he leans over you, and he lets out this short, hushed laugh when he sees your face—glazed eyes, red cheeks, drool sliding from the corner of your mouth.
“you look wrecked,” he says under his breath, and it sounds more like awe than insult.
you barely manage to lift your head. you’re too far gone to speak, too floaty to care about anything except how good everything still feels. your stomach twitches when he presses closer again, his shadow falling over you, his hands sliding under your knees to push your legs back up and fold you open. you can’t even brace for it when he leans down, tongue swiping slowly across your lips to clean the drool, and just as you’re about to exhale—he thrusts back in.
“ahhh—nghh, fuck—” the noise gets ripped out of you before you even know it’s coming, sharp and loud, echoing too harsh off the library walls. your hands scrabble for something to grab, nails scratching weakly at the edge of the table as your back arches up again.
his palm slaps over your mouth before the second cry can escape, holding you down as he fucks into the mess he made, his cum squelching inside you with every wet thrust. “too fuckin’ loud,” he mutters, almost to himself, but his grin betrays him, all teeth and smug heat. “someone’s gonna hear, baby. you want that?”
you shake your head, whimpering under his hand.
“yeah? didn’t think so,” he grits out, cock already pulling back and slamming into you with the kind of force that knocks every thought clear out of your skull. his hips smack against your ass, fast and unforgiving, fucking you into the table like he’s trying to make it split down the center.
he doesn’t just keep the same rhythm—he doubles down on it, like punishing you is instinct now, like your body’s only good for getting ruined over and over again under him.
you gasp out, or try to, but it cuts off into a whimper when his pace doesn’t even falter. “sh-shit—”
“better be quiet, baby,” kuroo mutters, voice rasped and half-laughing, like the heat in his throat is strangling him too. he leans in, mouth slamming against yours in a kiss that’s all tongue and spit and uneven breath. it’s filthy—wet noises filling the space between your mouths as your lips slide together, teeth knocking once when his thrusts shove you up the table again.
his hand never leaves your throat—rests there like a weight, warm and wide, fingers stretching around your neck.
you whine into the kiss—high, messy, humiliated—your legs locking tight around his waist like you’re scared he’ll pull out even though you know he won’t. you’re soaked inside, so much slick and spit and cum mixed between your thighs that every thrust sounds disgusting.
the table keeps creaking beneath both your weights, his hips slapping into you over and over with wet smack—smack—smack as you moan into his mouth, tongue slipping past his lips even though your jaw’s barely working. every breath gets eaten before it hits your lungs.
he pulls back, panting, watching you from above, eyes sharp under the mess of sweaty bangs stuck to his forehead. “you still with me?” he huffs out between thrusts. “still got anything goin’ on in that head?”
your eyes only roll back in response.
“that’s what i thought.”
his hand tightens as if he’s testing limits. your throat tightens under his palm and your cock jumps, spurting a little without being touched, a fresh drip of precum painting your stomach.
your moan comes out high and fucked and broken—“ahhh—kuh—kuroo—nnnhggh—” and your hand flies up to his wrist again, not to stop him, just to feel it, feel the heat of him clamped around your neck, the way his thumb presses into the hollow beneath your jaw, the way your pulse flutters like it’s panicking.
“you’re liking this way too much,” kuroo growls, hips slamming in harder, dragging every inch of his cock through your ass while he’s grinding the head against that spot inside that makes your whole body twitch. “you get tighter every time i cut your air.”
“hahhh—fuuuh—fuck, fuck—!” you sob out, the words barely forming before they dissolve into a series of whimpers. “please—please—” but there’s nothing behind it, no demand, just need.
he lets out a snort—short and incredulous. “please what, huh?” he thrusts again, sharper, your ass clapping back around him with a loud, wet slap. “please don’t stop? please split me open? please choke the last working thought outta my brain?” he leans closer, breath burning your cheek as he whispers, “not even sure you know what you’re begging for anymore.”
you cry out, your voice cracking into something barely human—“ahhh—nnnngh—kuroo—” and he grins, all teeth, sweat dripping from his temples onto your chest.
“listen to yourself,” he pants, his voice catching a bit with how tight you’re gripping his cock. “just fuckin’ whining, babbling, makin’ noises like that’ll earn you anything but more dick. but hey—” his fingers flex on your throat, and you moan loudly when he squeezes harder—“if that’s all you’ve got left, then that’s what i’ll take.”
you’re throbbing around him, whole body tightening up like a trap snapping closed, and the way you clench on him draws a groan out of kuroo’s chest, deep and hoarse. “fuckin’ hell,” he growls, voice cracking, “you’re suckin’ me in like a damn vacuum—how’re you this tight still? you get trained on the wrong end of a beaker or something?”
you try to say something back—anything—but it just spills out as, “aaahhh—hahh—hah—fuck—fuck—can’t—” before your mouth drops open, breath stuttering as your body rocks under his, your legs starting to tremble where they stay locked around his waist.
he reaches down, grabs your cock at last, and your entire spine arches off the table like you’ve been hit with a live wire. he pumps it once, twice—rough and fast, hand slick from sweat and spit—and you cum so hard you think your vision blanks out. it sprays across your chest, hits your chin, some even landing near his collarbone, and you scream for it—high, raw, cracked in half.
“f-fuckin’ knew you were close,” kuroo groans, hips jerking through the tight spasms of your hole milking him. “so goddamn obvious. you always cum the second someone touches your dick.”
you’re shaking, fingers clawing weakly at his arms, your voice a wreck of sobs and gasped vowels—“uhhhhn—nghh—hah—fuhhh—kuroo—too—too much—”
he doesn’t slow down. his hips are still driving into you, deeper, harder, chasing his own orgasm, his cock punching into overstimulated flesh, and your body spasms with every brutal slam of his hips.
“nah, baby. not done yet. you’ve got more in you. i’m not fuckin’ done using you—” and the sound that comes out of him when he buries himself to the hilt again is something obscene, guttural, half a growl and half a moan. “nghh—fuhh—shit—fuck—gonna cum in you again—stuff you full ‘til it’s dripping down your thighs and i still don’t believe your body’ll let me go.”
and you’re not even responding—just twitching under him, mouth open, tears beading at the corner of your lashes. all you can do is moan.
“ah—uhhh—kuh—kuroo—nnh—!”
kuroo exhales hard through his nose, jaw tight, sweat dripping off his chin as he peels your legs from around his waist. your thighs twitch as they’re lifted, knees folding awkwardly until he lets one drop, the other slung up over his shoulder. you’re already whining—quiet, pitiful—just from the change in angle, breath catching like you think it’s over, like he’s letting you go.
but then he runs a hand through his hair, pushing the sweaty strands back, and that grin creeps onto his face—sharp, tilted, unbothered. cock still fully sheathed inside you, twitching like it’s got a mind of its own, and you whimper when he starts moving again. slow just for the first thrust, just to feel your body react, then brutal right after. your sob catches in your throat, jaw falling open around a sound that comes out as a strangled, “nnnngghh—hahhh—kuroo—”
“what’s wrong?” he pants, voice thick with breath, eyes glued to the way you’re clenching around him. “thought you loved this shit. that dumb little noise right there?” he moans—“hnnh—fuck—”—as your hole spasms again. “means you do.”
you try to speak, but it’s just sound. “ahhh—uhhh—nnhhh—p-please—” and your nails are already back to digging into the wood under you, trying to ground yourself against the pounding he’s delivering now, your stomach jerking with every sharp shove forward.
his gaze drops, and the sight nearly breaks him—your belly bulging just slightly every time he thrusts deep, every time his cock drags up against your guts like it’s too big, too much. he groans—deep and shaky—eyes narrowing as he watches himself hit you from the inside. he growls, “your fuckin’ stomach reacts faster than your brain.”
then he reaches up, plucks the glasses off his own face, and without even thinking twice, he slides them onto yours. they sit crooked, fogging slightly from your panting. he doesn’t fix them. doesn’t need to.
because the second they’re on you, his cock twitches inside you hard, and his hand trembles on your thigh.
“jesus,” he mutters, voice cracked around the syllables, “you in my glasses—fuck, fuck—you look so fucking hot like this.” he moans through gritted teeth, hips slamming forward again, the sound lewd and slick. “you even know what two plus two is right now?”
“uhhh—ahhh—hah—” you can’t even pretend to respond. your body’s gone rigid beneath him, and every time he pounds in, it’s like your hole locks down and refuses to let him go. you’re shaking, twitching, your cock just barely stiff, drooling helpless across your own belly as the white ring of cum around your hole starts to foam from the friction. it clings to your rim and his balls like whipped cream, sticky and wet, strung between you in frothy strands.
“holy shit,” kuroo moans, dragging his hips back just enough to watch it stretch, then slam in again, balls slapping wetly against your ass. “look at this fuckin’ mess—look what i did to you.” he grits his teeth, eyes glassy now, focused only on where your bodies meet. “you hear that? that squelch?”
you nod, drool slipping from your mouth, and your cock twitches pathetically.
he leans forward, bracing himself over you, leg still hooked over his shoulder, glasses lopsided on your face as he slams into you faster. the sound is obscene—wet and constant, every thrust pushing his last load deeper and frothing it up until your rim’s dripping down onto the table.
“gonna give you one more,” he grunts, mouth right at your cheek, hips jerking faster, cock pulsing inside. “gonna fill you again, right in this same ruined fuckhole, and you’re gonna—ahhh—gonna take it—gonna feel me in your gut for days—”
“tetsu—! ahhh—hahh—nngghhh—! f-fuck—”
you moan like your whole body’s breaking. your cock jerks against your stomach again and cums—barely, just a few thick dribbles that pulse out with every clench of your walls. you cry out, voice cracking as you shake through it, and kuroo loses it.
“hahhh—fuck, fuck—gonna—!”
his cock slams into you one last time and he groans, mouth open as he cums hard inside you, hot spurts painting your already soaked insides. you can feel it—every throb, every pulse, every thick shot adding to the mess, until his cum is spilling out around the base of his cock and soaking down your ass in milky white rivulets.
his hips twitch through the aftershocks, cock still buried to the hilt, balls sticky against you as your bodies shudder in sync. he watches a fresh string of cum ooze out the side of your stretched rim, licking his lips with a pleased expression.
friday rolls around like a punishment.
you’re limping across campus with a spine that feels like it’s been rearranged by a medieval torture device. every step sends a dull ache up your back, sharp enough that you consider skipping genchem lab altogether. unfortunately, skipping would mean dealing with your aunt later—and you’re not sure who’s scarier: her, or the guy currently walking beside you with the most irritatingly smug expression known to man.
kuroo, of course, is whistling.
he keeps a hand hovering at your lower back, guiding you with just enough pressure to keep you upright but not enough to be obvious. it would’ve been sweet if he wasn’t the reason you could barely walk in the first place.
“you’re enjoying this,” you mutter under your breath.
he doesn’t even try to deny it. “me? never,” he says, tone light, eyes glinting with amusement as he glances over. “just being a supportive tutor.”
“you’re a menace.”
“technically, i’m on the dean’s list.”
you don’t dignify that with a response. mostly because it hurts too much to breathe deep enough for a comeback.
when you finally step into the lab, it’s like someone hit pause on the room. heads turn. a few students blink in surprise at the sight of you clinging to kuroo like he’s your personal cane. you pretend not to notice the quiet whispers or the way one girl subtly elbows her friend. your eyes land on your aunt, who’s standing near the front bench, fully geared in lab equipment and looking every bit the intimidating academic she always is.
her eyes sweep over you, narrow at the limp, then flick up to kuroo with suspicion. she doesn’t say anything at first, but you can tell she’s assessing every detail.
when you’re close enough—right in front of her, just out of earshot from the others—she leans in slightly and asks, voice low and clipped, “what the hell happened to you?”
before you can even open your mouth, kuroo cuts in smoothly, slipping his hand off your back like it wasn’t there to begin with. “he fell down the stairs.”
your eye twitches so violently it might qualify as a medical emergency.
your aunt gives him a long, scrutinizing look, the kind that probably scares freshmen into dropping her class. “is that so?” she says, unimpressed.
kuroo, unfazed as always, just nods. “yep. unfortunate angle. gravity’s a bitch.”
you stare at him like you want to stab him with a glass stirring rod. he smiles back, all innocence and charm.
your aunt turns to you next, clearly waiting for confirmation. you force your face into something neutral and give the weakest shrug in history. “yeah. stairs,” you mumble. “very slippery.”
her mouth presses into a line like she doesn’t buy a single word, but she lets it go with a sigh and moves past you, muttering something about lab safety and liability waivers.
you let out a breath once she’s gone.
“see?” kuroo whispers near your ear, voice laced with amusement. “i’m good under pressure.”
WISHBOUND LOG [ENTRY 004]ㅤSLICK ON THE EVIDENCE FILES!
entanglement: l lawliet x male reader
surface-level reading: the cases pile up but it’s the tension that breaks first. heat builds and instinct cracks through logic. the moment his desire catches and yours tips over, nothing holds. the knot locks in before either of you can stop it.
contents of the charm: omegaverse au, alpha!L, omega!reader but reader is on top, heat cycles, amab reader has a pussy, nesting, a lot of slick, knotting, cockwarming, oral sex (reader receiving), face sitting, dry humping, unprotected sex, cervix penetration, multiple orgasms, praise, thigh riding, squirting, breeding kink elements, handjob, riding, 7.2k words. L has a big dick !!!!!
scribbled in the margin: this is the first omegaverse work ive done like EVER SO CUT ME SOME SLACK OKAY,,, also i forgot to implement the handcuffs anon requested SO IM RLLY SORRY POOKIE 😞😞 to this day im still mad L is dead i LITERALLY had to completely stop watching death note ever since he died 💔 like FUCK mello and FUCK near GIVE ME L BACK BRO. THIS IS NOT PROOFREAD GUYS
you stretch your arms over your head, spine popping as you blink at the mess of papers spread out across the table. the documents blur a little at the edges, mostly because your brain feels like someone stuffed cotton in your skull and told you to solve murder with it. there's a coffee cup somewhere near your elbow. it's empty. you don't remember finishing it.
the case itself was brutal, if not exactly headline-worthy—two high-profile disappearances within the same corporate circle, both staged like drownings, neither body recovered. it didn’t reek of anything dramatic like organ trafficking or political intimidation, but something about the way both victims had gone completely off the grid without warning made L suspicious.
the company had hired him privately, and because of your established track record with similar corporate crime cases, you were pulled in too. bonded or not, professionalism came first when a case was active. that was the rule.
at least, that was the rule when your hormones weren’t trying to set the office on fire.
you shift in your chair, uncomfortable, pulling at the collar of your shirt. the air conditioning is on—obviously, L keeps it at polar vortex levels—and yet you're sweating. a faint sheen clings to the back of your neck, and your inner thighs are damp in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with weather.
you know this feeling. the cramps had started that morning, low and dull in your belly, and now they’re pulsing with a kind of clawing insistence that makes it hard to sit still.
L had told you to stay in bed when he caught you rubbing your stomach with that glazed, exhausted look in your eyes. he hadn’t even opened the blinds—just rolled over, sniffed once, and said, “your cycle is irregular by approximately 4.3 days. you're entering pre-heat.”
you told him you were fine.
he said, “you’re not.”
you got up anyway.
now you’re sitting in your shared office space at the company building, thighs pressed together a little too tightly, blood hot, and thoughts circling things that have nothing to do with murder. like how your lower back aches. or how badly you want to crawl into something warm and soft. or how L smells sharper than usual—sugar and static, grounding and almost unbearable.
you press the heel of your palm to your temple, jaw tight.
“you’re overheating,” L says, not looking away from his monitor. he’s crouched in that signature posture of his—barefoot in the chair, knees tucked up, thumb hovering over his lip. “take off the hoodie.”
you glance at him sharply. “i’m fine.”
“you’re clearly not.” his eyes flick to you for only a second, but that’s enough. he’s already catalogued the sweat on your brow, the fidgeting, the tremble in your fingers.
you tug the hoodie off anyway, biting your tongue. your shirt underneath clings damply to your skin. gross.
it’s starting to get worse. your scent’s thickened, syrupy and sweet in a way that makes you wince. you’re normally good about suppressants—routine, reliable—but you’ve missed a few doses this week thanks to night shifts, and now your body’s punishing you for it. you can feel it happening, feel your body curling in on itself, soft and touch-starved, desperate. a low ache pulses between your legs, and your thighs twitch.
L still hasn’t moved, but his eyes have been on you for the past full minute. his pupils are blown just slightly too wide. he’s scenting the change.
you snap your pen in half.
“fuck,” you mutter, more to yourself than anything. “this is so inconvenient.”
“your suppressants are ineffective,” L says simply. “likely due to irregular dosage and increased stress. that, or your body is rejecting the current blend entirely. i would suggest returning home before it worsens.”
“we’re in the middle of a case.”
“we are,” he agrees. “but you’re not currently able to contribute. you’ve been reading the same document for nine minutes without turning the page.”
you stare at him. “i haven’t.”
“you have,” he says flatly, and then, after a beat: “even the beta staff are starting to notice something’s off.”
you blink. the betas?
as if on cue, one of the admin assistants sticks her head into the office and says, “uh, sorry, i—i just wanted to drop these off—” before her eyes flick to you and her whole vibe does an awkward little oh. she sets a stack of files down quick, gives L a polite nod, and vanishes again.
you slump into your chair and drop your face into your hands.
“don’t say anything,” you mutter into your palms.
L is silent for a moment. then he says, “i wasn’t going to.”
you lift your head an inch from your hands and drag your palms down your face like that might squeeze the heat out of you, but it only smears the sweat. your cheeks are flushed, your skin clammy, shirt clinging to your lower back. your eyes skim the case files again, not absorbing a single word, and land instead on a grainy CCTV still of the last confirmed sighting of one of the victims.
he’s stepping into an elevator. it should matter. it should be important. but your brain latches instead onto the thought of what it would feel like to be pressed into the wall of that elevator. enclosed. dark. warm. with L.
you groan, loud enough to make your own ears twitch, and slump forward again, this time letting your forehead thump hard onto the table. your whole body jolts with the impact, and the cool wood feels like a relief for exactly half a second before the cramps come back, worse now—deep, pulsing, clawing right under your navel.
“this is so fucking dumb,” you mutter into the table. your voice is muffled and hoarse, like it’s been scrubbed raw from the inside.
L doesn’t answer. you hear a soft shift—the creak of his chair—and then the tap of a key being tapped as he rewinds a piece of footage again, eyes flicking between monitor feeds and files. if you didn’t know him, you’d think he was unaffected.
but you do know him, and you don’t miss the faint twitch of his nose as he keeps scenting the air. his thumb keeps hovering near his mouth but not quite making contact, like he’s trying not to let it become a new fixation. his pupils are blown. you don’t say anything.
he already knows.
he's always known.
you glance toward the door. it’s closed, but your scent’s not contained. you know it isn’t. L never scent-proofed the office—not out of carelessness, but because he’d calculated there’d never be a need. everything’s so measured, so precise, like the world’s a machine and he’s memorized the gears. suppressant schedules. scent control. rut cycles down to the decimal. no margin for error, especially not here.
but heat always finds the cracks.
you shift in your seat again and grit your teeth when it drags another damp, humiliating sound from your body. not loud, not obscene, but enough. enough to make your face burn.
you reach under the desk and tug the fabric of your sweatpants away from your skin, trying to air it out, but the cling of slick is already unbearable. warm and cloying. it’s like your body’s preparing without permission—muscles lax, skin hypersensitive, brain short-circuiting.
L finally speaks again.
“the office floor has cleared.”
you blink and look at him. “what?”
he doesn’t glance over. just leans a little closer to the monitors, bare feet curling against the seat cushion. “twenty-three minutes ago, foot traffic decreased by seventy percent. sixteen minutes ago, the front admin desk emptied. beta staff are less sensitive, but not immune. one of the security alphas took lunch early. three haven’t returned.”
you stare. “you’re saying they’re avoiding us?”
“they’re avoiding you,” L says mildly. “but yes. i would estimate your scent is reaching approximately fifteen meters through closed doors. possibly more.”
“great,” you mutter. “so we’re contaminating a whole crime floor.”
“only this one,” he says. “and only temporarily.”
you huff, more irritated than embarrassed. the back of your neck is still flushed, but it’s the pressure between your hips that makes you shift again. the cramps have sharpened, like something restless is pacing inside you. your body wants soft things. safe places.
you’re eyeing the corner of the office near the coat rack like it might spontaneously produce pillows and blankets if you glare hard enough.
L’s eyes flick to you again. “you’re starting to nest.”
“no, i’m not.”
“you are,” he says. “you looked at the supply closet four times in the past ten minutes.”
you press your knuckles to your mouth. “i’m not leaving.”
“i didn’t ask you to,” he says calmly, but he does finally move—sliding out of the chair with a quiet stretch, feet hitting the floor with a soft slap. his shirt’s wrinkled, collar askew, belt missing. he never wears belts when you’re close to heat. you’re realizing that now. the thought hits like a punch: he was prepared for this, even if he didn’t want to be.
you’re still panting, sweat sticking to your ribs, when L crosses the room with steady purpose. there’s a faint sheen at his temples now too, though his hands stay calm, his voice even. you follow him with your eyes, dazed, hips twitching with every breath.
he reaches the secondary desk—half-buried under footage printouts and scattered folders—and brushes a stack aside to uncover the black clamshell communicator he always keeps nearby. not a cellphone. not traceable. you’ve only seen him use it a handful of times, and only for one person.
he flips it open and presses a single button.
“watari,” he says, voice low and even but carrying weight. “i need you to bring up fresh blankets. pillows. as many as you can without drawing attention.”
a pause.
“yes. i’m aware of the hour. no, it can’t wait. he’s entered full heat.”
you freeze where you’re half-curled in the desk chair, trying not to shake. L doesn’t glance at you.
“nothing used. brand new. unmarked. the room isn’t scentproof, and it’s too late to relocate. we’ll be here for the duration.”
his voice is flat, clinical. precise. and yet every word feels like a hand braced against your chest, solid and steady.
another pause.
“yes, just outside the door is fine. no need for contact. thank you.”
he ends the call with a quiet click, closes the device in his hand, and doesn’t look at you right away. he lingers by the desk, thumb against the hinge, eyes distant. he’s calculating—timing, temperature, how long before you stop fighting what your body’s already decided.
“watari’s on his way,” he says finally. “he’ll leave the supplies at the door.”
you nod. you don’t ask what he told him. you don’t have to. it’s watari.
the silence stretches. L watches the door like it might open any second, but his scent’s already thickening again—controlled, but reactive. yours has gone syrupy, nearly suffocating, mixing into the air like heat shimmer off asphalt. the office feels too big and too cold, but something in your chest eases because L is taking this seriously.
and that means you can too.
you sit cross-legged on the floor while you wait, thighs sticky with sweat and slick, shirt twisted around your hips, breath shallow. it’s not the first time you’ve gone into heat, not even the first time since you bonded with him, but it’s the first one that hasn’t been dulled by medication. you’d forgotten how sharp it could get. how loud your body becomes without chemical barriers to muffle it.
a gentle knock breaks the quiet.
L moves before you can, cracking the office door just slightly. a moment passes. then he pulls in a large cloth bag with both hands and shuts the door again, locking it with a quiet click.
“he didn’t look in,” L says. “he won’t.”
you exhale, grateful. “thanks.”
he sets the bag down beside you and steps back, crouching on his heels. “they’re all new,” he says. “still sealed.”
you peek inside. pillows. folded fleece blankets. a small quilt, still wrapped in plastic. soft, untouched. unscented.
your fingers twitch.
you reach into the bag slowly and pull one out, then another. you press your nose to the cotton cover, but it’s neutral. it smells like packaging and air. no memory, no warmth, no you. that needs to change.
you get to work.
you start with a single blanket, spreading it flat in the corner of the office with care, smoothing it outward like fresh skin over tile. then another overtop, folded once. you press your palm into each layer, pushing your scent into it—slow, steady, deliberate. a rhythm. yours.
the pillows go next. you strip off your hoodie, your shirt, bury them into the center. then you take the scarf from your bag, twist it loose, and knot it into the corner nearest the wall—like a marker. your body follows the motion easily. you know how this works, even if you haven’t done it properly in years. even if you didn’t think you could anymore.
you grab one of the pillows and press your face into it, breathing deep and hard until your scent begins to cling to the cotton. you roll it once, place it at the head of the nest. you do the same with the rest, building a soft wall around yourself—barriers for warmth, for comfort, for safety. you press the undersides of your wrists into the center to share your heat. then the crook of your elbow. your cheek. the inside of your thighs.
you don’t speak the entire time.
L doesn’t interrupt.
you’re halfway through layering the quilt when he says quietly, “you’re scenting it like it’s permanent.”
you don’t look at him. “it might need to be. if this is how strong it’s going to hit now.”
“...then you’re adapting. good.”
you nod, pressing your shirt into the nest again before crawling into the center. you settle in with your knees tucked, shoulders loose. your body still hums. the ache hasn’t gone anywhere—it won’t—but something in you eases now that you’re surrounded by fabric that smells like home, like heat, like you.
L stands just outside the edge, eyes tracking the nest’s perimeter. you glance up at him, expectant.
“come here,” you say.
he moves immediately.
you watch as he kneels, smooth and unhurried, sleeves sliding up his forearms. he pauses at the edge, then leans forward and presses the side of his jaw to the outermost pillow, dragging his cheek across it once, twice. no words. just movement.
you breathe in as his scent begins to layer over yours—sharper, cleaner, grounding. next, he presses his wrist to the quilt’s edge, dragging it slow. then both palms. steady pressure, one on each side. no hesitation. no comment. just him, adding himself.
“i thought you said this was mine,” you murmur.
“it is,” he says, not lifting his head. “but i belong in it.”
your throat tightens.
you let him finish.
when he finally sits back, the nest smells like both of you—bright, heavy, saturated with bond and need. the sharp charge of his scent cuts through the sugar-sweet thrum of yours, and it grounds you, even as your hips shift restlessly and your skin pulses with want.
“come inside,” you whisper.
L doesn’t hesitate. he slides in beside you and lies down on his side, one arm tucked under a pillow, the other wrapping around your waist. his fingers spread over your stomach, just above the worst of the cramping, and his scent settles deeper into the nest with every breath.
“is this enough?” he asks.
you nod, slow and unsteady, then press into him like your body was made to fit there—nose tucked into the hollow of his neck, arms locked around his shoulders, legs cinched at his hips like you’ll fall apart if you let go.
his scent hits you full-on: sharp and electric, warm and grounding, threaded with your own and thickened by heat, bond, time. it’s not just comforting. it’s intoxicating. it smells like him, like you, like everything that matters, fused and spiked into the air.
you inhale deep, nuzzling along his scent gland, greedy and desperate. the second it hits, you whimper—quiet, raw—and your hips twitch. the rutting starts slow, unthinking: your pussy pressed to his thigh, grinding down through soaked sweats, heat-slick fabric dragging over taut muscle.
L shifts slightly under you and flexes that leg in response, bracing his thigh to meet every helpless grind.
your breath catches. your slick spills hotter. the pressure’s unbearable now that you're safe in the nest, in his arms, with your mate’s scent soaking your lungs. all the need that’s been building in your body all day finally crests, spilling out in low, broken noises as you hump down against the hardness of him.
L hums in approval, deep and low in his chest. his hands slide down your sides, fingers slipping under your shirt to find skin, his palms dragging slow over your spine, grounding you.
“you’ve been holding it back all day,” he murmurs, lips close to your temple.
you press harder into him, rolling your hips slow and filthy against his thigh, the heat flaring with every stroke. “couldn’t help it—fuck, L—feels so good—”
“you’re soaking everything,” he says, voice calm but thick, his eyes on your face, watching the way you fall apart against him. “the moment you settled in the nest your slick doubled. your body knows you’re safe.”
you let out another broken sound, more whine than word, and shove your face deeper into his neck. your fingers are digging into his back, anchoring, but they’re shaking. your whole body’s trembling—overstimulated, underfucked, heat rolling through your nerves like a fever.
“stop teasing,” you mumble. “need you—”
“then take,” he says simply, like it’s obvious.
you push him down flat against the floor of the nest, bracing yourself on his chest. his arms fall back, palms open, nonresistant, willing. the moment you’ve got him on his back, you’re on top of him, straddling his lap, rutting forward with your soaked cunt grinding against the solid line of his cock straining behind his jeans.
the case notes, the last CCTV image, the company’s missing executive—they all fade. L’s eyes stay locked on you, heavy-lidded and flushed, and for once his mouth isn’t running. his breathing faster.
“should’ve let me do this earlier,” you mutter, your hand fisting in the collar of his shirt, dragging your hips in tight, grinding pressure. “should’ve shoved you on the desk.”
“mm,” he exhales, chest rising under your weight. “would’ve made a mess of the files.”
“don’t care.”
you dip down and kiss him before he can say anything else, sealing your mouth to his like you want to drown in it. it’s hot and desperate and tongue-slick, all teeth and panting breath and the wet slide of lips against lips. L groans into the kiss, short and sharp, like the sound’s being pulled from him. you tug on his hair with one hand and use the other to shove under his shirt, fingers splayed over the bare skin of his chest.
his hands find your hips, then slide under your waistband, kneading. the contact makes your back arch, and you grind harder, slick now dripping through your sweats and painting his jeans dark. the friction is messy, wet and noisy, your clit dragging against the denim again and again, hips moving with sharp need.
“hah—L—fucking—need more—” you gasp between kisses, your voice breaking.
he doesn’t try to stop you.
“your scent’s changing,” he says, voice rough. “your skin temperature just spiked. you’re about to crest.”
“then help me,” you groan. “get these off.”
L’s fingers hook in your waistband and pull, slow but firm. you lift yourself just enough for him to slide your sweatpants and underwear down your thighs until it was completely off, baring your soaked pussy, the inner folds slick and flushed. he doesn’t say anything—but the sharp inhale says enough.
you straddle him bare, your cunt pressed directly to his clothed cock, heat radiating off you in waves. you drag yourself along the shape of him again, and both of you groan, hips twitching.
“this is better,” he murmurs, dazed, hands gripping your ass. “you’re leaking all over me.”
you kiss him again, rougher. hungrier. your tongue pushes past his lips and he opens for it like instinct, letting you take and take and take—grinding that slick, desperate cunt over his lap while his cock twitches beneath the denim.
“fuck—” you whisper into his mouth. “i’m not gonna last.”
“then don’t,” he says, voice breaking. “just fuck me.”
you rut harder, grinding your dripping cunt over the rigid shape of his cock through his jeans, dragging slick across the thick fabric until it’s soaking wet under you. L groans again—quieter this time, like he’s trying to stifle it—but his grip on your ass tightens, guiding you, matching the pace of your desperate humping.
your clit keeps catching on the seam with every forward roll, nerves sparking raw and overworked, slick gushing in little bursts you can’t control.
you pull off his mouth with a gasp, lips spit-slick, eyes glassy, hips jerking. “ah, L—alpha—”
he looks up at you like he can feel it building in you, smell it in the air. “cum for me.”
you do—hips locking up, a high, gasping cry ripping out of you as you grind down hard once, twice, and then tremble through it. your orgasm hits sharp and hot, pussy clenching helplessly around nothing, slick flooding out of you and soaking straight through his jeans in a fresh rush. the pressure snaps inside you and you ride it out with ragged little moans, body twitching, brain blank.
L shudders underneath you, exhaling hard. his hands stay put, but his thighs are tense, his clothed cock twitching violently.
“almost—” he murmurs, nearly breathless. “almost came watching you like that.”
you slump against his chest, trembling, arms draped around his shoulders, heart pounding out of sync. but even as the peak fades, the ache doesn’t. the heat doesn’t. the orgasm was too quick, too shallow—no cock, no stretch, no fullness. it didn’t count and your body knows it.
you whine, burying your face in his neck. “it’s not enough.”
“you just came,” he says, but his voice is softer, like he already knows the answer.
“not on you,” you whisper. “not in you. i need you, alpha.”
you start tugging at the hem of your shirt—sticky with sweat, clinging to your skin like it wants to suffocate you. your fingers fumble. it’s stuck. it smells too much like your heat and not enough like him, and it makes your skin crawl.
“off—L, please—off.”
he sits up instantly, hands replacing yours, dragging the shirt up over your head and off your arms with practiced precision. his fingers brush your sides, your back—gentle, fast. the moment it’s off, you’re already pawing at his chest.
“your turn. take it off.”
he doesn’t hesitate. his shirt’s gone in a breath, and you’re on him again, bare chest pressed to his, sweat and skin and heat colliding. your scent floods the air—rich and sweet and so thick it clings to your tongue. L’s lips part again as he breathes you in, nostrils flaring.
you’re about to climb back onto his lap when he shifts underneath you, moving fast—faster than you expect. his hands grab your hips and lift you, strong and certain.
“what are you—”
he doesn’t answer.
instead, he lowers you directly onto his face.
you let out a startled, shattered moan as your thighs land over his shoulders, your pussy pressing flush to his mouth. the slick, the scent, the taste—it hits him all at once, and he groans deep against you, a sound that vibrates up into your core. his tongue is on you immediately, flat and hot and dragging a long, hungry stripe through your folds, licking up the mess you’d just made all over his jeans.
your hands fly to his hair, fingers curling into the black strands, and you gasp, eyes rolling.
“fuck—hnghh—b-baby, shit—”
his hands grip your thighs, holding you steady against his mouth, and he moans again when your hips twitch and roll down. he doesn’t guide your movement. he just lets you. mouth wide, tongue moving, dragging, curling, sucking your clit into his lips and pressing it just right.
your hips start to move again, instinctively—grinding, riding, using his mouth like you were built for it. L’s eyes are half-lidded, gaze flicking up when you glance down at him, and the look he gives you makes your thighs shake. reverent. wrecked. completely lost in it.
you rock down harder, chasing friction, slick dripping down his chin now. his tongue flicks in tight little strokes, then pushes lower, lapping up through your folds, catching the swollen rim of your hole. the wet, hungry slurp when he drags back up is obscene, and your breath hitches on another moan.
his mouth is hot, wet, perfect. his nose drags over your clit as he eats you out, tongue pushing deeper again, tasting the slick pooling at your entrance. he keeps moaning against you, small, ruined sounds as if he can’t help it, like your taste is driving him just as insane as the scent of your heat.
you rut down harder, panting, eyes unfocused. “don’t stop—nnghh—don’t fucking stop—”
his hands slide from your thighs to your ass, holding you steady, letting you grind down with as much weight as you want. his tongue fucks into you once, twice, then drags up to your clit again, circling it, sucking it soft then firm, like he’s memorizing every way to make you break. his teeth scrape just enough to make you jolt, and you sob out another needy moan.
you don’t even realize you’re riding his face—fucking yourself against his mouth like it belongs to you
your thighs shake harder with every rut, your hips chasing the wet heat of his mouth like instinct’s taken over everything. L keeps his tongue moving even when his lips go glossy with spit and slick, even when your weight sinks down heavier on his face and his breath starts to come harder through his nose. he doesn’t slow. doesn’t flinch.
your voice cracks. “fuck—hah—alpha—‘m gonna—ngh—gonna cum again—”
you barely get the words out before he groans into your pussy, deep and guttural. the sound buried deep in your pussy, his tongue redoubles in pace immediately, lapping faster, messier—the tip flicking your clit in tight little strokes before his mouth seals over it again, sucking you like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.
his grip on your ass tightens, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. he shifts just enough to pull you down closer, burying his face in you completely, tongue relentless even as it starts to ache from the strain.
your back arches, the muscles in your stomach coiling tight, pressure unbearable. L moans again, sloppier now, and that’s all it takes.
you break.
“ah—ahhhnn—fuck, L—!”
your thighs lock around his head, and your whole body jerks with the force of it. your orgasm crashes through you like lightning—sharp, bright, wet—your pussy spasms and squirts, gushing hot against his mouth, over his chin, soaking him in one messy, uncontrollable wave.
L grunts loud beneath you—nnnnhhhfff—and drinks it down without pause, without breaking rhythm, his hands holding you in place as his mouth keeps working you through it. the slurping is obscene, noisy, wet and guttural, and your head tips back as another broken moan rips out of you.
“alpha—fuck—hah—i—i can’t—shit—”
you’re trembling above him, thighs quaking, heat radiating out from your core in stuttering bursts as he sucks the last of it from you, licking into your folds like he’s addicted to the taste. your slick’s still leaking, messy and endless, and L laps it up like he needs it, moaning low, nearly undone himself.
his tongue eventually slows, mouth dragging lazy, reverent strokes through your folds. every movement softer, drawn out, savoring. your thighs are still twitching. your breath won’t catch right. your heart feels like it might punch through your ribs.
he doesn’t stop touching you. not for a second. his hands are still on you—one sliding up your spine, the other cupping your ass, keeping you close like he’s not ready to let go.
and when you finally look down—he’s wrecked.
face flushed, lips parted, pupils blown wide. his mouth gleams with slick, chin soaked, tongue still flicking gentle, almost lazy licks over your clit like he can’t stop tasting you.
“L—” you breathe, voice hoarse, chest heaving.
he licks you again. slow. long. satisfied.
you're still panting, straddling his face, thighs trembling against the nest floor. your pulse remains erratic; nothing in you is settled. the heat simmers under your skin—molten and restless—but for the first time since this began, your nerves have stopped screaming.
L’s grip has grown gentle, drawing slow, grounding circles into your hips and lower back. he doesn’t try to move you, just lets you come down.
your breathing evens. a little.
he licks you once more—slow, indulgent—and you whimper from the overstimulation, hips twitching. “mmnh—enough,” you mutter, voice shredded. “too sensitive.”
a soft, pleased hum escapes him, and only then does he let you shift off.
you crawl back down his body, and his arms fall away so you can settle over his lap again. still bare, your slick-soaked thighs straddle his clothed hips; his jeans are utterly ruined—drenched dark from where your cunt dragged across them, stained with every thrust. his face is a mess too, glistening with your cum, mouth parted, eyes hazy. he blinks at you as if momentarily lost for words.
you lean down and kiss him slowly.
his lips part immediately, welcoming, and the first press is soft—slippery from your release still smeared across his mouth—but he returns the kiss with slow, deep savoring, tasting you on his tongue. he doesn’t rush or push, he just lets you kiss him repeatedly, lips dragging and breaths mingling.
he moans into your mouth when you shift your hips slightly, grinding just enough to remind him of what’s still between you.
your fingers trail down, sneaking under the hem of his shirtless waist, tracing the line where skin meets denim. you pop the button on his jeans and he jolts slightly under you, breath hitching. the zipper follows—slow, deliberate—and then you tug them down, just enough to expose him.
his cock springs free, flushed dark, thick, already leaking. it twitches hard against his stomach the moment it’s exposed to the air, and he gasps—“hhah—fuck—” his hips give a small jerk, thighs tensing under you.
“sorry,” you murmur, eyes locked on the way it pulses. “should’ve done something earlier.”
you wrap your hand around it, base to tip, and L chokes on a moan, lips stuttering against yours. “ghh—nnaaah—”
he’s massive. hard as stone, vein thick along the underside, the head glossy with pre and angry-red from being ignored too long. the cold air of the office has his whole body twitching, and the contrast of your palm—warm, slick from your own release—makes him groan again, deeper this time, the sound caught somewhere between a hiss and a breathless, “mmfuck—”
you stroke him slowly, dragging your palm up his shaft, twisting at the head to smear the precome. he bucks up slightly beneath you, the motion erratic, and you kiss him through it, swallowing the shuddery “ah—ahhnn, shit—” that tumbles from his lips.
his hands twitch at your hips again, not pulling you down, just clinging like he needs something to hold onto before he breaks.
your head clears a little—just a sliver of cool air in your brain, just enough to register the way L’s looking at you. the flush on his cheeks, the tension in his jaw, the way his cock throbs in your palm like it’s seconds from snapping. he’s watching you with that same calm calculation he gives to murders and puzzles and security feeds, but underneath it, barely contained, is heat. want. you.
his voice comes rough, almost hoarse as he says, “put it in.”
your breath catches. something clicks low in your belly. the haze slams back in, harder than before, flooding through your veins.
you let go of him only to brace your palms on his stomach, lifting your hips. your cunt aligns with the flushed tip of his cock, already soaked and dripping, slick pooling down the underside of him. the knot’s starting to swell at the base—still soft enough to slip past, not fully inflated yet—but the pressure of it throbs against you.
L inhales sharply, watching the way your slick strings between you and him. “you’re dripping,” he murmurs. “gonna make a mess…”
“good,” you whisper.
and then you sink.
the fat head of his cock parts your folds as your slick eases the stretch, the both of you groaning. L’s head hits the nest floor with a dull thump. your eyes flutter, mouth falling open as the first few inches press in.
“hha—fuck, alpha—” you gasp, nails digging into his skin. “so big—”
“mnnh—feels—nnngh—feels unreal—” he pants, voice breaking.
but as always, you can’t take him all at once. not yet. halfway in, the resistance kicks back, your body tight and straining. your walls flutter and clamp down too hard around him, and your hips freeze, a frustrated whimper tearing from your throat.
“nggh—w-won’t go—why won’t—”
“shh, you’re okay,” L says, even though his voice is unsteady. his hands find your waist again, grounding, thumbs rubbing low on your hips. “you always do this. let yourself open up. you’ll take it.”
you grind down, desperate, shifting side to side, dragging his cock against your walls in small, shallow thrusts. every move makes your cunt twitch, so slick he keeps slipping further inside by fractions. L’s groans grow lower, drawn out.
“c’mon—fuck, baby, c’mon—i need you,” you mumble, grinding harder, panting. “need it all, i need it—”
L’s barely hanging on. “you’ve got it—hah—you’ve got me—just a little—just—”
then your body gives.
with a wet, sudden pop, the head of his cock slips slips through the tight ring of your cervix and slides all the way in.
your mouth drops open—no sound at first, just raw shock—and then a filthy, broken cry tears out of you as your eyes roll back.
“AH—FUCK—!” you scream, thighs locking up, hands bracing on his chest like you’ll melt through him. “so fucking full—i can’t—”
L groans like he’s been punched, spine arching beneath you, hips twitching up into yours. “shiiit—nghh—your cunt—hah—clenching so tight around me—feels—feels—”
you’re not even moving. you’re just sitting there, stuffed full, your walls fluttering helplessly around the thick stretch of him. your slick drools down your thighs, messy and warm, soaking the base of his cock. the knot’s pulsing, swelling slowly inside you.
your voice is barely coherent. “s-so deep—‘s in my guts, alpha, f-fuck—”
you ride him slowly—tilting your hips just enough to feel every inch of his cock drag through your soaked heat, slick walls fluttering tight around him. your thighs tremble, stomach clenched, but it’s the way he hits you that steals your breath.
the head of his cock bumps the rim of your cervix with every rise and fall, knocking against it with a kind of pressure that makes your whole lower body jolt.
“fuck, alpha—” your voice breaks, lips parted. “you’re—mmnh—you’re hitting so deep—”
L’s grip tightens on your hips, steadying you without controlling the rhythm. he watches you like you’re in slow motion—wide-eyed, pupils blown, chest rising in sharp, unsteady breaths.
every time you lift an inch, the swollen head slips free from the seal of your cervix, and every time you sink back down, it punches right into it again—blunt, deliberate, exact. your womb knocks from the inside, heat lashing up your spine as the pressure coils tight, unbearable and addictive.
“nnnh—ngh, fuck—” you gasp, grinding down, your clit catching just above his base. “it’s—it’s bruising it—i can feel you in my womb—”
you rock your hips in a slow, trembling circle, and he twitches beneath you, hips jolting just enough to drive the next thrust deeper—harder. the impact makes you shudder, a full-body ripple every time he connects, and your cunt squeezes down like it’s trying to suck him through, to pull him past the barrier and keep him locked there.
you cry out, head falling back, body pulled tight like a bowstring. “L—hah, i—i can’t—every time—!”
“ride it, omega,” he growls, breath hitching. “you can take it. let your cunt open for me.”
your pace picks up—thighs burning, mind gone hazy under the weight of every brutal collision. you drop harder with each motion, rhythm turning frantic, the thick pop of his cock hitting your cervix again and again.
your eyes roll back as you slam down, full weight crashing into him. “haaa—fuck, fuckfuck—feels s-so fucking good—”
he moans, long and hoarse—“hhrnghh—your cervix’s gripping the head, you feel that? fuck—fuck, it’s clamping—”
your pussy’s a mess. he’s buried to the hilt, and slick pours down his cock, dripping over his balls, sticky heat coating everything between your thighs. you buck forward, hard, and the head knocks just right—your clit catches, the pressure spikes—and your moan punches out of you, ragged and loud.
“gonna break me,” you pant, fucked-out, bracing your hands on his stomach. “you’re gonna—gonna dent it...!”
L groans deep in his chest, mouth slack with hunger.
you grind down hard, frantic and fast, hips circling as his cock nails that same sweet spot over and over. it’s too much. too deep. your body isn’t moving with thought anymore—your heat’s taken over, driving you with nothing but instinct and desperation for more. more stretch, more weight, more of that thick head hammering your cervix, more of his knot swelling at the base, heavy and aching to lock you down.
“give it to me—want it in—knot me, alpha, fuck—don’t pull out—don’t ever—” you sob, feeling the pressure cresting high again.
your rhythm falters.
you feel it first—subtle, at the base of his cock. the swell. thickening. stretching you wider, inch by inch, with every grind of your hips. it punches a gasp out of you, sharp and desperate, as your walls start to give around it—elastic and soaking, molding around that growing pressure.
L’s voice comes out broken, barely audible. “you’re... tight,” he mutters, like it’s a fact he didn’t mean to say out loud. his breath stutters. “too tight.”
he starts rutting up into you—shallow at first, then rougher. every thrust drives that swelling further inside, makes your cunt stretch around him in slow, brutal pulses. the pressure is unbearable—hot, full, deep—and your body writhes helplessly from the inside out.
you sob, voice cracking. “a-alpha—i can’t—can’t move—fuck, it’s—too much—”
“you can,” he breathes, jaw clenched.
his hands stay locked at your hips, fingertips digging into your skin. he’s shaking, tension pulling tight through his shoulders as he holds back—barely. you can feel how hard he’s trying not to lose control, how it’s killing him not to let go.
he shudders, hips bucking once, sharp and instinctive. “gonna—” his breath hitches, eyelids fluttering. “...inside.”
you barely register it before his base swells hard and locks you down. he buries his cock to the hilt, tip slamming flush into your cervix—and then he cums.
your whole body jerks. heat floods your cunt in heavy, pulsing waves, thick and endless, spilling into you like molten glue. your pussy clenches so hard you feel it ripple through your legs. your eyes roll back as you squirt uncontrollably, wet and sudden, soaking both of you as stars explode behind your vision.
L doesn’t speak. just groans—guttural, unguarded, almost startled by the force of it. his fingers dig in deeper, keeping you flush against him as he twitches inside you, knot swollen, locked, stuck.
you can barely breathe. “o-oh fuck—alpha—s-so much, i can’t—”
he exhales through gritted teeth. his eyes are blown wide and unfocused, hair sticking to his cheeks. there’s something wrecked in the way he watches you—like he’s processing it in real time and still doesn’t fully believe you’re real.
“don’t—move,” he manages, voice rough and quiet. “not yet.”
your body trembles, locked around his knot, cunt fluttering with every aftershock. his cum leaks out in slow drips, hot and thick, forced back by how full you are.
you twitch—full-body, uncontrollable—when another aftershock pulses through you. it forces a tiny, broken whimper out of your throat, and your muscles clamp again around the thick knot plugging you open, sealing you full.
“nnn—ah,” you choke out, head spinning. “a-alpha, it’s—all... inside—”
“yes,” L mutters, breath hitching. “i know.”
he sounds more composed than he should be. but his chest rises in sharp, uneven bursts beneath you, and his voice has that thin, clipped edge it only gets when he’s overwhelmed—like he’s trying too hard to stay unaffected and it’s backfiring.
you collapse onto him slowly, boneless and slick with sweat, your body sliding over his like it’s instinct. the office is too quiet now. your panting fills the space, thick and humid with the scent of sex and heat. every shallow inhale reminds you of the mess he made inside you—how warm it still is, how heavy.
his knot throbs once. you whimper again, and his arm wraps around your waist like a reflex, dragging you tighter into his chest.
“…omega,” he murmurs, low and dazed. the word sticks in his throat like he’s not used to saying it out loud.
your fingers curl against his collarbone. you press your forehead to the damp skin of his neck. “y-you did so good,” you breathe, voice small, wrecked. “felt… s’full, alpha—s-so good, c-can’t even think…”
he lets out a quiet, shuddering exhale. one of his hands moves—sliding slowly, almost hesitantly, up your back until it rests between your shoulder blades again. a grounding touch. anchor-point.
“you’re trembling,” he says softly.
“m’still coming down,” you mumble.
he hums. not his usual flat, neutral one. this one’s quiet. like he’s tasting the afterglow and doesn’t know what to do with it.
you shift slightly—only to twitch again when his knot nudges something inside you, and your walls spasm around him in a wet, tight flutter. L groans under his breath. a short, strangled sound, half-swallowed.
“don’t—move,” he warns again, voice rougher this time. “you’ll—trigger another—”
“another what?” you ask, dazed and teasing. “mmnh… another round?”
he goes silent. but the sharp breath he drags through his teeth betrays him.
you chuckle—weakly, still twitching. “thought so.”
“…you’re relentless,” he mutters, eyes falling shut like he can’t look at you without short-circuiting.
“you’re the one still buried inside me, baby,” you whisper, biting back a smile.
a pause.
then, “...unavoidable,” he mutters. a confession. maybe even praise.
you sigh and settle against him, skin burning. everything aches—in that good, swollen, utterly used way. his scent curls around your brain like fog, but now it feels soft. low tide. the peak passed, just for now.
his cum doesn’t spill out. can’t. not with his base swollen the way it is, thick and pulsing and locked inside you. the pressure’s unreal, but somehow comforting.
you don’t know how long you lie there. minutes, maybe. your body twitching now and then as aftershocks fade into warm static, as his knot slowly starts to soften, not enough to pull free but enough to ease the burn.
pilot link designation: dog hybrid!fushiguro toji x bottom male reader
memory fragment: your new dorm assignment comes with classified variables—fushiguro toji, hybrid designation, non-disclosed. he doesn’t speak on it, but he stops hiding it around you. proximity stabilizes into something deeper. then physical. and when his rut initiates, it’s you he gravitates to—without hesitation, without protocol.
lcl-embedded data: slowburn, plot with porn, college university alternate universe, aged down toji, reader doesn’t know toji’s a hybrid at first, rut cycles, marathon sex, unprotected anal penetration, anal gaping, fainting during sex, creampies, reader’s called omega even if he’s human, aftercare, possessive behavior, a lot of marking, manhandling, degradation & praise, 19.8k words wtf
pilot data no. 00: THIS TOOK LIKE THREE OR FOUR DAYS TO WRITE OH MY GOD. this genuinely wasnt supposed to be this long bro i got carried away w the plot 💔 i promise a separate fic that leans more on smut will be posted soon bc that was the original plan HELP,, ALSO THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE i love toji sm my dilf king ALSO NOT PROOFREAD
Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO ENDS UP AS YOUR ROOMMATE AND MAKES YOUR DORM FEEL LIKE ENEMY TERRITORY . . .
your life flashes before your eyes the moment you see the name on the roommate assignment sheet.
fushiguro toji.
the name is bolded at the top of the email, like it knows it’s about to ruin your entire year. at first, you think it might be a glitch—maybe the system crashed, maybe this is someone else’s result—but no. it’s definitely your name at the top, and fushiguro toji’s just underneath it. perfectly centered. stamped in fate.
you scroll through the rest of the email hoping for a way out. what you find is a cold, corporate statement at the bottom:
roommate assignments are final. changes may only be made if serious conflict is reported and verified by university housing.
so, basically, you’re screwed.
you wouldn’t care this much if toji was just some overly sociable senior who threw parties and blasted music all night. that kind of nightmare, you could handle. maybe you’d even end up bonding over a shared hatred of 8 a.m. lectures. but no—this is something worse.
toji is popular for one reason and one reason only: he’s terrifyingly hot. unfairly so. tall, athletic, all sharp features and a stare that could crack concrete. he’s the kind of guy who always has people whispering about him but never seems to speak more than a few words himself. and when he does, it's usually to tell someone to get lost.
you’ve seen him around campus—at the gym, outside class, walking back from practice with that same blank look on his face like he’s permanently bored with existence. once, a girl tried to flirt with him after a lecture, and he shut her down so fast she looked physically winded. another time, a group of guys tried to invite him to a party after a basketball game. he only clicked his tongue and looked at them in disgust before he walked off.
so, yeah. that guy is your new roommate.
you stand in front of your dorm room with your suitcase in one hand and your phone still pulled up in the other. the screen’s gone dim by now, but the name is seared into your memory. you stare at the door for a long second, then glance down the hallway, seriously wondering if sleeping on a bench outside might be more manageable.
you’re halfway through debating whether or not that counts as a “serious conflict” when the door suddenly swings open.
toji stands in the doorway, already looking irritated. he’s wearing a black hoodie with the sleeves shoved up his forearms and a pair of worn basketball shorts. his hair’s damp, probably from a recent shower, and his eyes drop down to your suitcase before settling on your face. you haven’t said a word, and yet he already looks done with you.
“you just gonna stand there all day?” he asks flatly. “or do i gotta drag you in?”
you freeze. “uh. no—i’m coming in.”
you shuffle past him, tugging your suitcase behind you and kicking your shoes off in the process. the room’s already been claimed, of course. his bed is made, desk half-organized, shelves lined with protein powder and gym gear. your side is completely untouched. as you move toward it, you hear the door click shut behind you, followed by the sound of fabric rustling as he flops back onto his bed like it’s been a long day.
you hesitate for a second, awkwardly standing in the middle of the room, unsure what to say. you glance back at him.
“how’d you know i was out there?” you ask.
toji doesn’t even look up. he’s opened a protein bar and takes a bite before answering. “heard you breathing.”
you blink. “you heard me breathing?”
he shrugs like it’s not weird at all. “thin door.”
right. sure.
you don’t press him on it. instead, you start unpacking your things, quietly arranging your side of the room while trying not to feel weirdly self-conscious about… existing. he doesn’t say another word, and you don’t push your luck. you’re just grateful he hasn’t kicked you out yet.
but the silence is heavy. like he’s listening to everything.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO ONLY EVER SHOWS UP TO THE DORM LATE AT NIGHT WHEN HE THINKS YOU’RE ASLEEP . . .
you’ve been staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours. the tiny red numbers on your digital clock have been crawling toward 2 a.m., but sleep still hasn’t even attempted to visit. the dorm’s too quiet. the mattress is too stiff. the shadows in the corners of the room don’t quite feel like they belong to you yet.
it’s been almost two weeks since you moved in, and your body still refuses to get comfortable here. every creak of the walls, every shift of the pipes makes your brain go full alert. you’ve tried everything—music, a hoodie over your face, pretending the ceiling is one of those cheesy mobile night skies from when you were a kid—but nothing helps.
except, maybe, the weird new ritual of waiting for toji to come back.
because the thing is he always shows up late.
like clockwork, somewhere between 1 and 2 a.m., the door opens. and it’s not like he’s out partying—you know that for a fact. he’s never smelled like smoke or alcohol, never drags himself in like someone who’s been drinking. and it’s not like he has friends. you’ve never heard him on a call, never seen him with anyone outside of class. he barely talks to you, and you live with him.
so, yeah. it’s unsettling.
your eyes shift toward the door now, like instinct. as if on cue, the lock gives a soft click, and the handle turns with that smooth, controlled motion that tells you he’s done this hundreds of times before.
you close your eyes.
it’s stupid, probably, but it’s become routine at this point. pretending to be asleep makes it easier. easier to avoid the awkwardness, easier to ignore the weird twist in your stomach when you think too hard about how secretive he is. easier to avoid the fact that sometimes you hear him pause by your bed, like he’s checking something.
you keep your breathing even and let your hands go limp at your sides.
he steps in. shoes come off at the door with barely a sound. there’s the soft rustle of fabric, the dull thud of a bag being dropped, and then the creak of the bathroom door as it opens and clicks shut again behind him.
you wait. one minute. two. three.
the room is silent. you start to shift a little, letting your eyes peek open just a sliver—just enough to glance at the clock again, maybe reposition your arm under the pillow—
and freeze.
toji is standing right next to your bed.
he’s just there, looming like a sleep paralysis demon with his hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. his expression is unreadable at first, something bored and neutral—until his mouth quirks up slightly in that almost-smirk you’ve only seen once or twice.
“caught you,” he says, voice low and amused.
you jolt upright like someone just pulled the fire alarm.
“jesus christ—! what the fuck—”
he tilts his head. “you always fake sleep when i come back?”
“what? no,” you lie immediately. “i was sleeping. i was—i’m a light sleeper.”
toji hums, clearly not buying it. he stays where he is, relaxed and unbothered, like he’s used to making people squirm. “nah. you breathe different when you’re actually asleep.”
you blink. “…what?”
“your breathing pattern. it’s off.” he says casually. “when you’re asleep, it slows down after a while. your shoulders don’t tense like that either.”
you stare at him, deeply unsettled. “why do you know that?”
he shrugs, unhelpful as always. “i notice things.”
“okay, but that sounds like something a serial killer would say.”
he raises an eyebrow at you. “you saying i’m a serial killer?”
“i’m saying you act like one.”
there’s a pause. then, to your shock, he actually lets out a short laugh—quiet and raspy and short-lived, but a laugh nonetheless. you don’t know whether to feel accomplished or concerned.
“maybe i just don’t like being watched while i come in,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.
you frown. “i’m not watching you. i’m—i’m just awake.”
“every night?”
“…coincidence?”
toji gives you a look that says he doesn’t believe you for a second, then turns away and heads back toward the bathroom like the conversation’s over. just like that.
you fall back into your pillow, heart still racing.
you don’t know what he’s doing out there this late. you don’t know why he watches your breathing. you don’t know why he seems so familiar with your sleep patterns after just two weeks.
you also don’t know why none of that is enough to make you ask him to stop.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO ACTS LIKE YOU PISSED ON HIS TERRITORY WHEN YOU SIT ON HIS BED FOR THE FIRST TIME . . .
you’re already swaying before you even make it through the door.
the hallway spins a little when you try to kick your shoes off, but you manage—barely—until one of them gets stuck halfway and you just kind of… give up. your brain’s too fried to deal with it. your bag slumps to the floor next to them with a heavy thud, the zipper halfway unspooled from how fast you yanked it open earlier in class.
your phone buzzes somewhere in your pocket, but you ignore it. everything feels too loud. your clothes are clinging to your skin, your shoulder’s sore from carrying that bag all day, and you swear whoever came up with a 9 a.m. to 8 p.m. class schedule deserves jail time.
you shuffle into the room, squinting at the dull lighting, and drop yourself onto the first soft surface you can find. it’s a bed. whatever. it’s close enough to the floor that you don’t have to fight gravity. you don’t even think about it. you just sit—on the edge, hunched forward, head hanging low like your neck gave up holding itself up. you let out a sharp breath and close your eyes.
you don’t hear the bathroom door open. you do, however, feel it when the air in the room changes.
“...that’s not your bed.”
his voice isn’t loud. it doesn’t need to be.
you crack one eye open, head still tilted down, and find toji standing a few feet away. his hair’s shoved under a backwards cap that makes him look ten years younger—until you see his expression. the slow-burn scowl twisting up his face is not youthful in the slightest.
he’s dressed in yet another hoodie clinging to his frame, hands shoved in the pockets like he’s trying not to do anything impulsive with them. but the look in his eyes? sharp. warning-level sharp.
“shit,” you mumble, throat dry. “sorry. didn’t even notice.”
you make a weak attempt to stand, one hand bracing your knee, but your legs buckle halfway and you end up slumping back down with a quiet groan.
toji doesn’t move. he just stares at you like you’ve violated some ancient blood pact.
“yours is literally two steps away,” he mutters.
“i know, i just—” you gesture vaguely, too tired to explain. “long day. can’t feel my spine. let me sit for, like… thirty seconds.”
he exhales, slow and sharp through his nose, and you can tell he’s debating whether or not you’re worth the argument. most days, he probably wouldn’t care—he’d just drag you by the collar or say something mean enough to get you off his shit. but today, you must look pathetic enough that even he’s hesitating.
he takes a step forward, then stops.
“you smell like campus.”
you squint at him. “...what does that even mean?”
he doesn’t answer. just grimaces a little, like the scent of other people on you bothers him more than he expected.
you blink slowly, head tipping forward again, this time resting fully in your hands. “toji, i will get off your bed in a minute. if you push me right now, i’ll die. you’ll have to clean up a corpse.”
“don’t tempt me.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO ALWAYS WEARS HOODIES AND STUFF ON HIS HEAD, NO MATTER THE WEATHER . . .
toji’s been lying on his bed for the past thirty minutes, doing absolutely nothing but scrolling on his phone and occasionally sighing like you ruined his day. you don’t know what he’s reading. probably death threats. maybe recipes. who knows. he’s weird.
the room’s dim, just your desk lamp casting a soft yellow glow over your laptop. the air conditioner’s barely keeping up with the weather, and there’s a faint hum of someone’s bluetooth speaker from a few doors down. it’s summer, people are loud, and everything feels sticky.
you wipe your forehead with your sleeve and keep typing, barely registering the sweat clinging to the back of your neck until it drips down your spine.
“jesus,” you mutter under your breath. “how are you not melting.”
you don’t even mean to say it out loud. but then you glance over, and see toji lying flat on his back with his hood up and sleeves down. he hasn’t taken off that damn hoodie all day.
“what?” he says without looking up.
you spin a little in your chair, elbow propped on the armrest, cheek squished in your palm. “you’re not hot?” you ask, a little louder this time.
toji’s thumb stills on the screen. “no.”
you blink at him. “you’re wearing a whole-ass hoodie.”
“and?”
“it’s september.”
he shrugs one shoulder. doesn’t bother to elaborate.
you stare at him for a beat. then two. then—“are you bald.”
toji looks up this time.
“…what?”
“like, under the hood,” you say, gesturing vaguely at his head. “you got, like, a cue ball situation going on? or… a monk thing? is it a religious vow?”
toji squints at you like you just accused him of arson. which, to be fair, feels like the same level of offense in his book.
“what the fuck are you talking about.”
“i’m just saying,” you continue, utterly unfazed, “no one’s ever seen your head. i’ve known you for months and i don’t even know what your hairline looks like. you don’t take your hood off. you wore a beanie for three weeks straight. someone saw you at the gym with sleeves down. at the gym, toji.”
he blinks at you. expression unreadable.
“so,” you say slowly, “i’m just wondering… is it, like, a wig? do you glue it down?”
a silence settles between you. toji sets his phone down on his chest, his eyes still fixed on yours.
“you wanna die that bad?”
you snort. “that wasn’t a no.”
“you think i’d wear a wig?”
“well,” you gesture, “i don’t know what’s going on under there. maybe you got, like… patchy scalp. or mange. or a giant birthmark in the shape of a penis.”
he stares at you. not even mad. just… silent. eerie.
“i’m gonna bury you in this hoodie,” he says eventually.
“joke’s on you,” you mutter, turning back to your laptop.
there’s a creak of movement behind you. your skin prickles. you pause mid-sentence and glance over your shoulder just as toji sits up, slow and fluid, elbows resting on his knees.
hood still on. naturally.
he reaches up.
you freeze.
his fingers brush the edge of the hood—just barely tugging it back.
you catch the briefest flash of something dark at his hairline, the shadow of ink-black strands—real, not a wig, thick and messy like it’s been pushed back hastily—and then he yanks the hood right back on like he changed his mind halfway through.
“there,” he says, voice flat. “you happy?”
you blink. “…you still might be bald.”
toji grabs the nearest pillow and hurls it at your head. you duck, barely, cackling under your breath as it thuds off your chair.
“you’re actually insane,” he mutters, lying back down with the most violent sigh you’ve ever heard.
“what, i’m just curious.”
“you ask questions like you’re trying to get shot.”
you grin and spin your chair slowly back around, resuming your typing like nothing happened. still, you can’t stop thinking about the glimpse you saw—just enough to tell that there’s nothing weird under there. no scars. no tattoos. no signs of trauma.
you don’t say anything else after that, but the image sticks with you. the quiet look in his eyes. the flash of hair, thick and real. the way his hand twitched when your eyes lingered too long.
it wasn’t embarrassment.
it was… something else, like instinct. like hiding.
like he didn’t want you to see too much.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO GETS TWITCHY WHEN YOU COME BACK SMELLING LIKE SOMEONE ELSE . . .
you barely finish locking the door behind you when toji’s voice cuts across the room.
“the fuck is that smell?”
you freeze mid-step, one shoe half off. “huh?”
he’s sitting on the couch, legs spread, arms folded, looking at you like you just dragged roadkill into the apartment. the tv’s on, something muted and boring, but his eyes are glued to you—sharp, irritated.
you sniff your shoulder. “i... don’t smell anything?”
“you don’t,” he mutters, eyes narrowing. “but i do.”
you straighten up, confused. “i came from the library. i was with—”
“yeah,” he cuts in flatly. “i know.”
there’s a pause. just long enough to make your stomach twist.
“you gonna shower or what?” he asks.
you blink. “right now?”
“yeah. now.” he leans forward, elbows on his knees, tone low and firm. “you’re tracking three other people’s scent all over my apartment. it’s disgusting.”
“jesus, okay—sorry i have a social life.”
he doesn’t respond. just stares. the kind of stare that makes your skin prickle, like you’re too close to something that might bite.
you toe off your shoes. “it’s not that serious, man. give me five minutes to eat and—”
“no,” he snaps.
you look up, startled.
“you’re not putting your shit on the couch. not touching anything. not even the floor. you reek.”
his voice is calm, but there’s a weight behind it—cold and heavy, pressing down the back of your neck. you’ve seen toji irritated before—usually over traffic or a chipped mug—but this is different. his whole body’s coiled like a tripwire, and it’s all directed at you.
“alright, fuck, i get it,” you mutter, raising your hands in mock surrender. “i’ll shower.”
he doesn’t reply. just watches as you backtrack toward the bathroom like he’s making sure you actually go through with it.
you shut the door a little harder than necessary and lean against it, heart thudding. the hell was that? he’s never been this intense before. sure, he’s blunt and weirdly strict sometimes, but this was something else entirely.
you glance at your reflection and wrinkle your nose. do you really smell that bad?
as soon as the water starts running, some of the tension bleeds off—barely. you try not to overthink it while stripping down, stepping under the stream. but the image of his face—jaw tight, eyes cold—sticks in your head. it wasn’t just annoyance.
it was something closer to disgust. territorial.
you scrub harder than usual.
when you come out ten minutes later, towel around your neck and hair still dripping, he’s right where you left him. still on the couch, but now leaning back with one arm slung over the backrest, watching you with unreadable eyes.
“…better?” you ask dryly.
he doesn’t answer right away. then:
“yeah.”
just that.
you hesitate for a second, then head toward your room, still towel-clad. he doesn’t say anything else, but you can feel his eyes on your back the entire way there.
it makes your skin crawl.
but not in a bad way.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO GROWLS IN HIS SLEEP . . .
you’re not sure what’s more exhausting—your presentation due tomorrow or the fact that you’re still working on it while half-asleep and slightly cross-eyed. the glow of your laptop screen is starting to burn into your retinas, but the moment you shift to close the damn thing, your brain remembers a slide you forgot to fix.
so you grit your teeth and keep going, back pressed against the headboard, blanket half-draped over your legs, and a half-empty water bottle rolling dangerously close to your ankle.
it’s one of those rare nights when toji knocked out before you did. not that you’re keeping track or anything—but it’s so uncommon that it almost feels like witnessing a shooting star. he’s curled up under his blanket across the room, a pillow covering his entire head like he’s trying to suffocate himself on purpose.
you're not even sure if it's comfortable, but he hasn't moved in the past twenty minutes, so maybe he's dead. or just incredibly asleep.
you're halfway through rephrasing a sentence when you hear it.
a low, guttural noise. deep. primal. angry.
you freeze. like actually freeze—fingers hovering over your keyboard, heart doing this little hiccup in your chest. you glance toward toji’s bed, thinking maybe he's awake, maybe he's watching something on his phone with the volume down low and bass on max. but his screen is off. and he hasn't moved.
then it happens again.
grrrrrrrrrr...
you nearly jump out of your skin. it sounds like a fucking animal. like something you'd hear behind you in a horror game just before you get mauled.
and then you realize.
it's coming from toji.
“what the fuck,” you whisper to yourself, staring at the pillow-covered lump across the room. “are you growling right now?”
there's no response, obviously. just another rumble, this one more of a snort, like he’s annoyed even in his sleep. you don't know whether to laugh or leave the dorm completely. who the hell snores like that? no—this isn't even snoring.
you’re half-convinced if you yank that pillow off his face, you’ll find a second mouth under there or something equally cursed.
you glance back at your laptop, then at him, then back at the laptop again.
“…i’m gonna pretend i didn’t hear that,” you mutter, dragging your blanket higher and doing your best to ignore the occasional low growl still rumbling from his bed like distant thunder. "whatever eldritch shit you're dreaming about, that’s between you and god."
still, you don’t go back to your slide right away.
you just sit there listening, vaguely unsettled.
he sounds like he’s guarding something.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO KEEPS DOING THINGS THAT ARE BORDERLINE AFFECTIONATE . . .
you don’t expect him to be home.
technically, he’s not supposed to be. you remember him saying something earlier—something about going to train off-campus, something vague and grunted in that gravelly voice of his while you were half-asleep and facedown in a bowl of cereal. it didn’t sound like he’d be back anytime soon.
which is why it doesn’t make sense that the lights are on when you get back to the dorm.
you blink at the door, then double-check the hallway. no one around. it’s not late, but it’s quiet—just the hum of old pipes and the faint buzz of a vending machine down the hall. you unlock the door slowly, warily, like the inside might look different somehow.
and it does.
not by much, but still. there’s a plastic bag sitting on the kitchen counter, and when you peek inside, there’s a neatly packed to-go container. your stomach turns on instinct—recognizes the smell before your brain does. the grilled meat rice bowl from that place you keep swearing you’re gonna quit ordering from because it’s overpriced and always sold out by the time you get off campus.
except they didn’t sell out today. because it’s right here.
you stare at it for a moment. then glance toward the hallway. the bathroom door’s shut. faint sound of running water.
he is home.
you don’t even get a chance to call out before the door opens and he steps out, rubbing a towel over his head. his hair’s damp, skin still flushed from the shower, and he freezes the second he sees you holding the bag.
you lift it slightly. “this yours?”
he doesn’t answer right away. just shrugs the towel off his head and tosses it toward the laundry bin with a lazy flick of his wrist. “got two. figured you’d be hungry.”
“you went out of your way to get this,” you say slowly, watching him. “that place is like fifteen minutes from the gym.”
“so?” he mutters, brushing past you toward the fridge. “it’s not that far.”
“you hate crowds.”
“it wasn’t crowded.”
“it’s always crowded.”
he opens the fridge. stares inside like it’s got the answers to life’s greatest mysteries. then shuts it again and turns around, his face unreadable.
“are you seriously gonna bitch about getting free food?” he asks.
you narrow your eyes. “no. i’m just confused.”
“you want the food or not?”
“…i want the food.”
he responds flatly, “then stop talking.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO ACTS WEIRD WHEN A FULL MOON IS APPROACHING . . .
“oh, hey. full moon this weekend,” you say absentmindedly, tossing your phone face-down onto the table after seeing a random post about it on twitter.
you don’t even glance at him. you’re too focused on finding the tv remote between the couch cushions. maybe that’s why you miss the way he freezes. he doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t make a sound. his posture stiffens like something just locked up in his spine, and his hand—resting on the armrest—curls just slightly into a fist.
when you finally glance over, he’s already looking away. his jaw is tight, visibly clenched, and his fingers flex like he’s trying to shake tension out of them. the muscles in his neck twitch once before going still again.
you blink and squint at him, confused for a second. “…what?”
he doesn’t answer directly. after a beat of silence, he mutters something low under his breath about having stuff to do that weekend. the words come out flat and quiet enough that you barely catch them. he doesn’t elaborate.
you frown a little, but let it go. you don’t think anything of it—until the disappearances start.
at first you assume he’s just being his usual asshole self again. toji’s not exactly known for consistency. ever since you started rooming together, he’s mostly been lazy, half-asleep, or lounging shirtless on the couch with no sense of shame or schedule. he’d gotten too used to your presence. now, suddenly, he’s gone at 2 a.m. with no warning or reason?
the first night it happens, you wake up because you heard the faint sound of footsteps, quiet but quick, and the soft click of the front door locking behind toji. when you peek into the hallway, it’s empty. the living room too. his shoes are gone. his jacket isn’t on the rack.
you check the clock: 2:47 a.m.
you frown and crawl back to bed, telling yourself not to be weird about it. maybe he just went for a walk. maybe he was hungry. maybe it’s not your business.
but then it happens again the next night. and again after that.
every single time, he comes back around dawn—sometimes a little after 6 a.m., other times just as the sky is starting to lighten. his hoodie is usually smudged with dirt, and you notice his jeans have grass stains near the knees. sometimes his hands are scraped up. other times, there’s something off about the way he moves, like he’s sore in places he doesn’t want to talk about.
he never says where he’s been. he just walks in, heads straight for the shower, and crashes in bed without another word.
you’d ask if he was getting laid somewhere, but honestly, he looks too pissed off and exhausted for that. more than once, you hear him groan like his body’s giving out, and on one occasion, he drops his keys so hard it makes you flinch in your room.
huh.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO GETS DEFENSIVE THE MOMENT YOU ASK HIM WHAT HE’S HIDING . . .
after the fourth day, you stop pretending you’re not noticing.
“what’s going on with you?”
toji doesn’t look up from the fridge. he’s rifling through it with one hand, the other braced on the counter for balance. his hair is still damp from another early morning shower, and there’s a faint bruise forming under his jaw that you’re sure wasn’t there yesterday. his hoodie is unzipped halfway, revealing a flash of his collarbone and the line of muscle that disappears into his sweatpants.
“you gonna get to the point or just keep staring?” he grunts, not even bothering to turn around.
you ignore the sarcasm. “you’ve been disappearing every night this week.”
he snorts and reaches for a water bottle. “what’s it to you?”
you fold your arms and keep your voice level. “seriously, toji. where the hell are you going?”
he shuts the fridge harder than necessary. the bottles inside rattle against each other, and the sound echoes in the quiet kitchen. “none of your business,” he replies without looking at you.
you follow him to the table, watching the way he drops into the chair like his whole body aches. “it kind of is, man,” you argue. “you’re not going to classes, you look like shit, and you come back covered in dirt like you fought your way out of a fucking grave. if you’re in trouble—”
“i said drop it.”
his voice is sharp, cutting clean through your words. it isn’t loud—he doesn’t need to raise it—but the edge in it is enough to shut you up. he doesn’t yell, doesn’t glare, but the tone is enough to make your pulse skip for half a second.
toji unscrews the cap of the water bottle and downs half of it like he’s been in a desert for days. his fingers tap against the label once, slow and controlled.
“i don’t owe you a play-by-play,” he says eventually, eyes still fixed on the bottle. “we’re not dating.”
you try not to let the frustration creep into your voice. “i didn’t say we were.”
“then stop acting like you’re my fuckin’ wife,” he mutters, standing abruptly. he walks off without giving you another glance, the sound of his bedroom door shutting behind him louder than it should be.
you stare at the hallway, arms still crossed. your jaw clenches, but more than that, you feel unsettled.
this isn’t normal for him. toji’s secretive, yeah. you’ve gotten used to that. he’s not a guy who talks just to fill silence. but this isn’t privacy—this is avoidance. and whatever he’s avoiding, it’s starting to look less like a bad mood and more like something he can’t control.
you think about the moon again. think about how he froze when you mentioned it.
and you wonder what the hell it is you’re not seeing.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO FINALLY GETS CAUGHT . . .
you honestly thought you'd get a few hours of peace today. toji had a required lecture he couldn’t skip unless he wanted to repeat the whole damn semester, so you figured the dorm would be empty.
you’d even planned it out: find your charger, eat something that wasn’t instant noodles, and maybe breathe without walking on eggshells for once. ever since the tension between the two of you started, you’d been giving him space. or at least trying to.
you unlock the door with your head down, muttering under your breath, “where the hell did i put that charger—”
your words die in your throat as you step inside and look up.
toji’s in the room. and he is definitely not at his lecture.
he’s also shirtless, standing with one arm halfway shoved through the sleeve of a black t-shirt. his chest rises slightly as if he was startled mid-movement, but that’s not what has you frozen.
the ears are what make your brain short-circuit.
short, pointed, and covered in black hair, they sit at the top of his head like they’ve always belonged there—twitching subtly like they’re tracking you. for a second you honestly think you might be hallucinating, except you blink, and they’re still there.
your eyes drift lower. he's ripped, obviously—you knew that—but now there’s the added complication of the thick black tail hanging behind him. it curves slightly at the end, curling over the waistband of his sweatpants like it’s completely normal. like it isn’t the most insane thing you’ve ever walked in on.
toji stares at you. you stare back. neither of you move.
“uh,” you say after a long, painful silence. “is this why you’ve been disappearing at night? because... you’re a furry?”
toji’s expression immediately sinks into one of pure disdain. he exhales loudly, dragging a hand down his face as the shirt falls forgotten to the floor. his ears twitch sharply in irritation, which only makes it worse because now you’re staring at them in real time.
“jesus,” he mutters. “i knew you were a fucking idiot.”
you blink. “i mean, i didn’t know the tech for those ears got this advanced—”
“shut up,” he snaps, cutting you off like he doesn’t even want to humor whatever’s happening in your brain. “just shut up and close the damn door.”
you’re still frozen in place, heart hammering, but your hand moves automatically to shut the door behind you with a soft click. the air is thick with something unspoken, something raw and charged, and you can’t tell if you should be afraid or impressed or deeply, deeply confused.
your brain is still trying to catch up to what you just walked in on, but you push through the mental static and do your best to sound... normal. supportive, even.
“look, man,” you begin, carefully, hands raised halfway in a peace gesture. “i just want you to know that if—if this is your thing or whatever, i’m not judging. like, at all. live your truth. some people knit, some people join cosplay clubs, some people—i don’t know—put on ears and tails. who am i to say anything? we’re all just trying to get by.”
toji doesn’t even look at you as he pulls his shirt over his head. it’s one of those tight black ones that clings to every inch of muscle on his torso, and it takes real effort not to stare too long at the way it stretches across his chest and arms.
especially when his tail flicks once behind him in irritation, drawing attention to itself like it knows you’re trying not to look. great. now the damn thing has presence.
“you’re not helping,” toji mutters, voice flat as he smooths the hem of the shirt down over his abs. “and i already told you to shut the hell up.”
“right. right,” you nod quickly, still standing awkwardly near the door. “just thought i’d let you know i’m chill about it, is all. you don’t have to feel weird around me. you know, if this is a lifestyle thing—”
he turns to you sharply, ears twitching again. “what part of ‘shut up’ did you not understand?”
you clamp your mouth shut.
he sighs, long and heavy, and stalks toward you with the kind of slow, predatory energy that immediately sets your nerves on fire. before you can take a step back, his hand curls into the front of your shirt and he drags you—effortlessly—across the room.
you stumble into the couch behind you as he shoves you down into it, still standing over you with that same deadpan expression. his tail twitches behind him, and it takes everything in you not to say something about how real it looks. mostly because you’re now very aware that it is real.
he leans down slightly, resting a hand on the couch back as his eyes bore into yours.
“if you say another word,” he says calmly, “i will bite your goddamn head off.”
your eyes flick to his mouth, where his lips are pulled back just enough to show off a gleam of teeth. not normal teeth. sharper. animal-like. they catch the light and make your stomach drop in a way that’s equal parts awe and concern.
“got it,” you whisper, pressing your lips tightly together.
the silence that follows is thick. you sit there frozen, unsure whether you’re allowed to blink. toji stares at you for a second longer, then lets out another sigh and straightens up. he turns away from you, scratching at the back of his neck like this whole thing is more annoying than anything else.
but the silence keeps growing. and your mouth, unfortunately, has never learned how to stay shut for long.
“so... you are gonna explain this, right?”
he turns his head just enough to shoot you a glare. “disobedient little shit.”
you flinch a little, but don’t look away. your hands are clenched in your lap now, and your voice comes out a bit smaller than before. “i mean, i think i’m owed at least some context here.”
toji huffs. his ears twitch again, betraying the irritation he tries to keep off his face. after a beat of silence, he finally mutters under his breath.
“fine.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO LOSES HIS SANITY TRYING TO EXPLAIN WHAT HE IS . . .
toji starts pacing.
he doesn't even bother trying to act casual about it—his movements are sharp, almost agitated, like he’s trying to burn through a fuse before it catches. your eyes track him automatically, more out of instinct than curiosity, but you can’t help noticing how his tail flicks wildly behind him, like it's just as tense as he is.
his ears are twitching nonstop too, swiveling every time you so much as breathe. the worst part is how normal it all looks on him. like they belong there.
he finally stops mid-stride and whips around to face you. “stop looking at me like i’m one of those freaks,” he snaps.
you blink, caught off guard. “freaks?”
“yeah, the freaks,” toji repeats, like it’s obvious. “the ones who buy glue-on tails and make weird sounds at each other in public. fuckin’ wannabes.” he sounds personally offended, like you’ve just accused him of war crimes. “they’re pretending. i’m not. don’t lump me in with them.”
your eyebrows slowly start to rise as your brain catches up to what he’s implying. and once it does, your concern skyrockets.
“wait,” you say carefully, “do you... do you think you’re, like... different? like biologically? are you mad because you think the furries are stealing your... i don’t know. culture?”
toji’s face twists into something murderous.
“don’t finish that sentence,” he growls.
you shut up instantly.
for a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of him breathing through his nose, sharp and irritated. then, like a switch flipping, he exhales in a long, frustrated sigh and runs a hand down his face.
“i’m just trying to understand,” you say weakly, shrinking into the couch. “this is a lot.”
he turns his head slowly to glare at you over his shoulder. “stop thinking so loud.”
“i—what?”
“i can hear your stupid thoughts. you’re spiraling.”
you avert your eyes, guilt prickling at your spine. “sorry,” you mumble.
toji mutters something under his breath and drags a hand down the back of his neck again. for the first time, he seems reluctant. not because he’s shy, obviously, but because explaining this seems to physically pain him.
“look,” he says flatly, “whatever you’re imagining, it’s not that. i’m not delusional. my ears are real. so is the tail. they’ve always been. i don’t know what kind of advanced psycho bullshit you’re trying to diagnose me with, but this isn’t that.”
you stare at him in silence for a long second, brain slowly melting. he sounds serious. dead serious. which would be fine if this wasn’t the most unserious shit you’ve ever heard in your life.
“so you’re not roleplaying,” you say dumbly.
toji throws you a look like he’s two seconds from strangling you.
“okay, okay,” you raise your hands quickly, “just clarifying.”
he rolls his eyes and starts pacing again, muttering something under his breath that sounds like another insult to furries. your gaze drifts back to his tail as it sways behind him, less agitated now but still clearly alive.
your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “what if it’s just really good prosthetics?” you say to yourself.
“what the fuck did i just say about your thoughts?” toji snaps.
you ignore him. curiosity gets the better of you.
the moment he passes by the couch again, you reach out on instinct. your fingers close around the thick base of his tail and you tug, expecting something light or fake to give way.
what you get instead is a sharp, very real jolt of resistance—and a very real reaction.
“fuck—!” toji snarls, whirling around with wide eyes and a tick forming near his brow. his hand flies back to swat yours away, and his tail immediately coils like it’s guarding itself. his ears pin flat against his head, and for the first time all evening, he looks genuinely pissed.
“what the hell is wrong with you?” he demands, practically vibrating with rage. “do i look like a fucking toy to you?!”
you’re frozen, staring up at him with your mouth slightly open. “it’s real,” you whisper, horrified.
he throws his hands in the air. “yeah, no shit! that’s what i’ve been saying this entire fucking time!”
“i thought maybe it was a delusion!” you yelp, genuinely panicked now. “like, you believed it was real, but it wasn’t actually, you know? like a... tail placebo!”
“a what?”
you try to explain, but words are failing you. mostly because your entire worldview just took a nosedive into the uncanny valley.
toji glares at you like he’s actively fighting the urge to murder you on the spot.
“pull that shit again,” he says lowly, “and you’re gonna lose a fucking finger.”
you nod mutely.
the silence stretches thick between you, broken only by the angry flick of his tail and your own stunned breathing.
finally, toji turns away again and mutters, “you’re the actual psychotic one.”
you decide not to argue.
instead, you sit very still for a moment, reeling. not because he threatened to bite your finger off, though that part was admittedly a little terrifying, but because now there’s a lot more you have to wrap your head around.
namely: why the hell is fushiguro toji—your very human-looking, emotionally constipated roommate—suddenly the poster boy for something out of a dystopian anime?
“okay,” you say slowly. “then... what are you?”
he tenses again. not as violently as before, but it’s enough to notice. his back is to you, shoulders squared, head tilted like he’s deciding if you’re worth answering at all.
“i’m not some fairy tale,” he grumbles.
“i know,” you say quickly. “i’m just trying to understand. i’ve never seen anything like this before, and i’ve definitely never heard of—whatever this is, hybrids?—being real.”
toji exhales hard through his nose and turns slightly to glance out the window, as if pretending he’s somewhere else will make this conversation end faster. you don’t miss the way his fingers flex again at his sides, as if he’s fighting some invisible impulse. his voice is low and tight when he finally responds.
“don’t call it ‘whatever this is.’ and stop saying that hybrid crap.”
you blink. “okay. then what is it?”
he turns around fully this time and meets your gaze, his expression unreadable. there’s no twitching ears or angry tail flicking now. he just looks... tired.
“synthetica,” he says. “that’s the real term. ‘synths’ for short.”
you stare at him blankly. “that sounds made up.”
toji snorts. “it is. someone in a lab probably got bored and slapped a cool-sounding name on us so they’d feel less like criminals.”
you’re not sure what to say to that, so you don’t.
he goes quiet for a moment, jaw working. then, begrudgingly, like it’s physically painful to get the words out, he adds, “we’re not common. there’s only a handful of us out there. most people don’t even know we exist.”
“but... why?” you ask, voice soft. “how?”
toji shrugs, eyes flicking to the floor. “top secret international experiment. bunch of countries working together on god knows what. japan was one of them. they tried to engineer living weapons or something close to it. human bases, animal enhancements. better senses, faster reflexes, that kinda shit.”
your brows furrow. “you were made in a lab?”
he gives you a sharp look. “don’t say it like that.”
“i didn’t mean—i’m not trying to be an asshole, i just—god,” you exhale. “that’s a lot.”
toji lets out a humorless laugh. “you think it’s a lot hearing about it? try being it.”
you swallow thickly. “how many of you are there?”
“not many,” he says. “low success rate. most don’t survive the process, and even the ones that do usually break down early. mentally, physically. too many issues. the ones that make it—” he gestures vaguely at himself, “—they monitor for years. and if you’re stable enough, they sell you.”
the words hit you like a brick to the chest. “they sell you?”
“yeah. to the rich. collectors. freaks with too much money and not enough morals.”
you feel sick.
he glances at you again and, for a second, something softer flickers in his eyes. something almost self-deprecating.
“i got lucky,” he mutters. “guy who bought me... he treated me like a person. raised me like a normal kid. not a pet, not a fucktoy. just a kid.”
toji’s expression hardens. “most aren’t that lucky.”
he doesn’t elaborate. he doesn’t have to.
you let the silence stretch for a minute. the room feels colder than it did before. outside the window, the campus lights glow dimly under the night sky, but in here, it’s like the entire world narrowed down to just him.
fushiguro toji, who has ears and a tail and a past stitched together by governments and greed.
he shifts his weight like he’s ready to be done with this conversation, and honestly, you don’t blame him. “you satisfied?” he mutters. “or you gonna keep grilling me like some nosy fuck?”
you shake your head quickly. “no, i’m—i’m good. i mean, not good, but... i get it. kind of.”
you nod slowly, letting the weight of his words settle in your chest. the silence between you stretches again, long and taut like a held breath. you don’t really know what to say, but you know what not to say. no wide-eyed sympathy, no pitying bullshit, no “you’re still you” garbage that he would probably spit back at you with disgust.
instead, you meet his eyes—still sharp and waiting—and say, “i’m not gonna tell anyone.”
he doesn’t respond immediately. he just stares at you like he’s assessing whether or not you’re lying. then, with a small scoff and an exaggerated roll of his eyes, he leans back against the window frame and mutters, “i know.”
you raise a brow. “you know?”
“if i thought you were the kind of idiot who’d go running your mouth, i would’ve broken your jaw ten minutes ago.” his voice is casual, like he’s talking about the weather. “my old man has enough money to erase people. wouldn’t be hard.”
“great. comforting.”
he shrugs, unfazed. “wasn’t meant to be.”
still, the threat lingers in the air—a reminder that you’re not dealing with a regular guy. there’s something sharper beneath the surface. something more dangerous. even if he’s choosing not to aim it at you.
you swallow hard and draw your knees to your chest, propping your feet on the couch and resting your chin on top. your voice is quieter now when you ask, “does anyone else know?”
toji scoffs, as if that question alone was insulting. “of course not.”
you nod, feeling a little stupid for asking. “right. yeah. didn’t think so.”
he doesn’t say anything to that, but you notice the way his body has eased slightly. not relaxed, exactly, but the tension in his shoulders seems to have drained just a bit. like something inside him uncoiled the moment you said you weren’t going to tell.
he stays standing for a few more seconds, watching you. his gaze isn’t hostile anymore—it’s just unreadable. and then he pushes off the wall and heads toward the kitchen like the conversation never happened.
you stay where you are, trying to make sense of everything. trying to piece together the version of toji you thought you knew with the one who just admitted to being engineered like a weapon.
from the kitchen, you hear the fridge door open and then shut again.
“you want anything?” his voice is gruff, casual, like he’s asking about a beer run and not pretending you didn’t just shatter a government secret between you.
you blink at the back of his head and answer, “no, i’m good.”
he grunts something noncommittal and disappears behind the fridge door again.
and somehow, despite everything, you find yourself exhaling. not because things are normal—they aren’t. but because, for whatever reason, he told you the truth. and that has to count for something.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO DOESN’T TALK ABOUT IT BUT DOESN’T HIDE IT EITHER . . .
things have been going… smoother, somehow. or at least, as smooth as things could be when your roommate was a genetically engineered hybrid with a tail that twitched every time you said something stupid. you don’t talk about the night you found out. he never brings it up, and you don’t push him to.
but the atmosphere between you has shifted, like something’s settled.
it’s a thursday afternoon when you catch him lounging on the couch. he’s got some rerun playing on the tv, barely paying attention, scrolling through his phone with one hand. he’s still got a jacket on—black, zipped halfway—but for once, the hood is down. and his tail is out, relaxed and lazily draped over the side of the cushions. it twitches slightly when you walk past.
you don’t mean to stare. really, you don’t. but you do.
toji catches you almost immediately. doesn’t even look up from his phone as he grunts, “if you’re gonna gawk, at least grab me a drink or something.”
“you want anything specific, your majesty?”
he finally looks over then, eyes dragging up lazily to meet yours. “cold. fizzy. preferably not your cheap-ass soda.”
you huff a laugh and make your way to the fridge, grabbing a can and tossing it to him. he catches it with one hand like it’s nothing, then cracks it open with a satisfied sigh. his tail curls slightly, almost subconsciously.
you’re still watching him. not as obviously this time, but he notices anyway.
“what now,” he mutters, side-eyeing you.
you hesitate, then ask, “can you, like… retract them?”
“what the fuck.”
“your ears and tail. can you make them disappear? like in anime.”
he lets out a groan that sounds half like a growl. “stop comparing me to that fictional bullshit.”
“it’s a valid question,” you mutter.
“no, dumbass. i can’t retract them. this isn’t some magical girl shit.” he takes another sip of his drink, then adds, more begrudgingly, “old man said the lab’s working on some suppressant or whatever. chemical compound shit. supposed to help us blend in easier.”
“like a serum?”
“something like that.”
you raise an eyebrow. “and… you’re not using it because…?”
toji shrugs. “probably costs a fuckton. not like he can’t afford it, but i’d rather deal with annoying stares than inject myself with some new experimental crap.”
you hum under your breath, thoughtful. it’s easy to forget sometimes—how advanced science had gotten. and how most people were probably walking past synths without even knowing. the fact that someone like toji was one? someone who kept to himself, skipped parties, threatened to bite your head off for sitting on his bed? it felt unreal.
and yet here you were. watching his ears twitch every time the soda fizzed too loud. watching his tail flick with annoyance when you took too long to respond. watching him, quietly, and thinking maybe it wasn’t all that strange anymore.
“you done staring?” he asks, voice low.
“nope.”
“i’ll fucking deck you.”
you smile. “you say that every time.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO STARTS LEAVING HIS HOODIE OFF WHEN HE’S HOME . . .
the first time it happens, he comes out of the shower wearing nothing but a fitted black tank top and sweatpants, towel slung around his neck. no hoodie. no cap. his hair is damp, clinging to the sides of his face, ears twitching every so slightly as he walks past you like nothing’s changed.
he doesn’t say a word. just heads straight to his desk, opens his laptop, and starts clicking through whatever work he’s got lined up. you catch the faint flick of his tail, lazy and relaxed, swaying near the floor.
your footsteps creak a little on the floorboards as you cross the room, and his ears twitch again—subtle, but you notice. like they’re still getting used to being out in the open. but he doesn’t tense, doesn’t glare at you, doesn’t even tell you to fuck off.
you throw yourself on your bed with a soft thump and bury your face into your pillow, biting down a smile. you don’t say anything, don’t point it out. you just… let him be. and he lets you be. which, in a weird way, feels like a win.
the next time, he gets back from the gym late, the front door creaking open as you sit by the fridge, lazily picking at the grapes you’d stuffed into a bowl earlier. you look up just in time to see him tug his hoodie over his head and fling it onto the nearest chair, cap following suit as he runs a hand through his messy, sweat-damp hair.
he’s shirtless. again. glistening slightly from the workout. you tell yourself not to look. then you promptly look.
you clear your throat and pretend to cover your nose. “jesus, you stink. that gym must be cursed.”
he doesn’t miss a beat, twisting open a water bottle and chugging half of it before glancing down at you with a faint scowl. “funny. you smell worse every time i walk through the door.”
you snort, almost choking on a grape. “rude.”
he smirks faintly, the curve of it just barely there before he turns and leans on the counter beside you, tail flicking once near your leg. you try not to stare again. or maybe you do, just a little.
either way, it’s hard not to admire the way his shoulders flex when he lifts the bottle to his lips again.
you lose the teasing edge in your voice as your gaze softens, eyes flicking to his ears—twitching once, but no longer tense. “i’m glad you’re not hiding anymore.”
he pauses. not long. just enough for you to catch the faint shift in his expression.
he scoffs, rolling his eyes as he pushes off the counter and mutters, “don’t get used to it.”
but you both know he doesn’t mean it. his tail brushes lightly against your shin before he walks away.
he’s still the same pain in the ass. but little by little, the armor’s peeling back.
you watch him as he flops onto the couch, tail draped lazily over the side, scrolling on his phone like he didn’t just take a step forward. like this is normal now.
and maybe, for him, it’s starting to be.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO STARTS ACTING LIKE HE ACTUALLY CARES ABOUT YOU . . .
it’s subtle. toji never makes anything obvious—like you’re supposed to piece him together on your own, without a manual, without instructions, just a mess of sharp edges and muscle memory.
you're half-asleep on the couch after a long-ass day, your laptop still open beside you with a half-written paragraph glowing on the screen. the dorm’s quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the soft pat of footsteps across the floor. you don’t even lift your head until there’s a soft thump on the table next to you.
a glass of water. cold. no ice, because you never like ice.
you blink at it, then slowly glance up toji, who’s standing a few feet away, already looking at his phone like he didn’t just do something weirdly considerate. you open your mouth to say something—anything—but he cuts you off before the words come out.
“you looked like you were dying,” he mutters. “hydrate or whatever.”
you stare a second longer. "...you feeling alright?"
“shut up.”
your charger breaks, and without a word, he leaves his on your desk before he heads out for the day.
he starts ordering extra food. not a lot. just enough for you to notice that he keeps dropping a second serving of dumplings on the counter. he never says it’s for you, but he never eats it either.
you come home late one night, tired, brain-fried from a group project that went nowhere. the dorm is dark except for the glow from toji’s side of the room. he’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, hoodie off for once, tail curled lazily around his hip. his ears twitch when you enter, but he doesn’t say anything. just glances up briefly before going back to the old paperback in his hands.
you throw your bag down and flop into your bed with a groan, muttering into your pillow, “kill me. please.”
toji’s voice is quiet. “what happened.”
you blink. roll over. “what?”
he doesn’t look up. “the group thing. whatever.”
you stare. “…you actually listen to me?”
“unfortunately.”
and maybe it's nothing. maybe it's just these little things, these offhand gestures and quiet reactions. but when you glance over at him later that night, you find his tail slowly tapping against the mattress in a steady rhythm.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO LETS HIS GUARD DOWN AROUND YOU . . .
somehow, toji ends up sleeping in the most random-ass places these days.
like the couch. or the floor near the closet. you caught him passed out in the weird little nook by the window once, with a blanket half-draped over his chest and his tail lazily curled around a throw pillow.
he doesn’t even bother hiding anymore. no more burying his face under pillows like he’s allergic to being perceived. instead, he just knocks out cold wherever he feels like it. sprawled across the mattress like a corpse, one arm over his eyes, mouth slightly open, and snoring like a hellbeast.
no, really. it’s not cute. you thought the growling thing he did in his sleep was rare—some weird fluke that happened when he was having a bad dream or something—but no. apparently, that’s just his baseline.
there’s one night he falls asleep on the couch and you actually pause your movie because you think something’s growling behind you. turns out it’s just toji, chest rumbling, ears twitching, looking way too peaceful for someone snoring like a monster truck.
you try not to think about how comfortable he’s gotten. or how normal it feels now to see a tail flick lazily over the back of your shared couch. or the way his ears move when he hears you unlock the door, even if his body doesn’t.
and then there’s the food thing.
you come home one day and the dorm smells like grilled meat. actual grilled meat. not the instant crap you usually microwave. you turn the corner into the kitchen and there he is—shirtless, obviously, because why would he cook with clothes on—leaned over the counter with three full plates of steak and chicken and god-knows-what-else.
you deadpan, “did you eat someone?”
toji doesn’t look up. he rips into a piece of meat like it insulted his family. “don’t fucking talk to me while i’m eating.”
“yes, sir. my bad.”
somewhere between the fourth and fifth steak, he looks up and notices you still staring.
“…want some?”
you decline, because you’re not sure your digestive system could survive whatever prehistoric protein he’s inhaling.
but it’s weirdly domestic, watching him eat like this—no posturing, just unapologetically wolfing food down like this is his house and you’re the guest.
that night, you’re both in bed—your beds, respectively, because boundaries—and you’re scrolling through your phone while he lies there with his arm over his eyes, tail twitching every now and then like he’s already halfway to sleep.
you speak before thinking. “hey.”
he groans. “what.”
“…what breed are you?”
you swear you hear him physically grind his teeth together.
“cane corso,” he mutters, like it physically pains him to say it. “now shut up and go to sleep.”
you blink up at the ceiling. “huh. yeah. no, that makes a lot of sense actually.”
“sleep,” he growls again, but there’s no bite in it. just exhaustion.
you smile to yourself, just a little.
cane corso. yeah. big, territorial, kind of scary, probably could rip your face off if he wanted.
but he hasn’t. and he won’t.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO BEGRUDGINGLY LETS YOU TOUCH HIS EARS . . .
you’re both slouched on the couch, some true crime documentary droning on in the background. the narrator’s going on about a decades-old cold case, but you haven’t absorbed anything since the last commercial break. your focus has… shifted.
specifically, toji’s ears.
they twitch sometimes. subtle little movements, like a cat’s. one flicks toward the TV when the sound gets sharp. the other flicks back toward the hallway when something thuds faintly in the dorms. it’s not like he’s doing it on purpose either—he looks completely checked out, arms crossed, legs folded underneath him, blank expression fixed on the screen.
you glance at him from the corner of your eye, then look away.
and then you do it again.
and again.
by the seventh time, he lets out a heavy, annoyed huff through his nose. doesn’t look at you, just mutters, “what the fuck are you lookin’ at?”
you freeze for a second. then purse your lips, squinting forward like you’re pretending to focus on the documentary again. “nothing.”
his gaze sharpens. “bullshit.”
you sigh, giving up the act. you turn your head fully this time, resting your cheek against the back of the couch as you stare at him openly. “can i touch your ears?”
he blinks. once. slow and unamused.
“…what the fuck did you just say to me?”
you sit up straighter. “your ears. i just—i’m curious, okay? do they feel like real dog ears or not?”
his eyes narrow, jaw clenching slightly like you just insulted his bloodline. “the hell kinda dumbass question is that?”
you shrug. “a valid one?”
“do i look like a fucking golden retriever to you?”
“no, you look like a pissed-off cane corso, which is worse,” you mutter under your breath, not quietly enough.
he gives you a long, exhausted look.
but you’re already leaning forward with your hands clasped together. “c’mon, just for a second. please. i’ll stop if it’s weird. i swear.”
he stares at you. you can practically see the gears turning in his head—probably weighing the annoyance of saying yes against the bigger annoyance of saying no and having to listen to you whine about it.
eventually, he exhales through his nose. short. sharp. “fine. one second.”
you grin, victorious, and scoot closer. “hell yeah.”
you reach up carefully, fingers brushing the edge of one of his ears before you press in gently. it’s soft. like really soft. surprisingly warm too, and there’s a slight twitch under your touch like he’s trying not to flinch.
“huh,” you murmur, dragging your thumb along the velvety surface. “that’s crazy.”
he doesn’t say anything. just sits there with his arms still crossed, legs pulled up into a lazy cross-legged position, looking like a statue carved entirely out of apathy. his eye twitches every few seconds. you pretend not to notice.
you keep petting, half-entranced by the texture, the subtle responses—his ears flicking slightly, one tilting toward your fingers.
then, after a minute or so, his ears suddenly flatten back against his head and he swats your hand away. not hard, not with the kind of force you know he’s capable of—just a low-effort thwap, like he’s shooing a fly.
“that’s enough.”
you draw your hand back with a small pout. “damn. you’re no fun.”
“they get sensitive if you keep messing with ’em,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s already regretting all his life choices.
you lean back again, arms crossed now. “kind of a good thing you don’t take the serum to hide ’em. they’re soft as hell.”
toji groans and tilts his head back against the couch like he wants to melt into it and die. “are you a fucking moron?”
you blink. “rude.”
“it doesn’t remove anything,” he grits out. “the serum just lets me retract ’em when i feel like it. doesn’t make ’em disappear forever.”
you raise an eyebrow. “so you could pop them back out on command if you wanted me to pet you again?”
he clicks his tongue and says nothing. which is… kind of an answer in itself.
you grin. “noted.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO RESPONDS TO YOUR TOUCH WITHOUT THINKING . . .
the walk back from the convenience store is quiet.
the sky is dark but not black, the kind of shade that clings to the edges of streetlights and turns the air soft and heavy. you’re carrying a couple of plastic bags full of snacks and canned coffee, the handles cutting into your fingers with each step. toji walks beside you, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, his head tipped just slightly forward like he’s too lazy to hold it up.
you glance at him out of the corner of your eye.
his ears are tucked flat, and his tail—though mostly hidden under his hoodie—is low, swaying just enough that you can tell he’s not irritated. not entirely.
you shift the bags in your hand, then reach over and press your knuckles lightly against his arm, bumping him once.
he doesn’t say anything, but he leans slightly into the pressure. barely. like he’s pretending it didn’t happen.
you do it again, knuckles tapping against his jacket. “you’re always so damn quiet when we go out. people probably think i kidnapped you.”
“you did,” he mutters.
“right. because i dragged a six-foot-two musclehead out of the house at gunpoint for banana milk.”
“wasn’t banana milk,” he says, eyes still on the sidewalk.
you bump into him again, a little more deliberately this time. “don’t change the subject.”
his tail twitches, just once.
you cut through a back alley to avoid traffic, feet crunching over loose gravel and wet leaves. there’s a vending machine humming against the wall, its light flickering faintly. you stop there, mostly out of habit.
toji stands just behind you as you bend down to press the button for canned tea.
you glance back at him. “you want one?”
he shrugs. “don’t care.”
you get two anyway.
when you hand him his, your fingers brush his. he flinches—not a big, obvious jolt, but a tight flick of his fingers before he pulls them back like the can’s too cold.
you pretend not to notice. “burn your delicate hands?”
“shut up,” he says flatly, but he doesn’t let go of the can.
you walk a few more minutes like that, trading quiet sips from your drinks, his shoulder brushing yours occasionally. it’s casual, incidental. it should be. but every time your sleeve touches his, he stiffens just slightly. not like he’s uncomfortable—more like he doesn’t know how to relax into it.
you try something.
you let your pinky drift, just enough to graze his hand.
his fingers twitch again. then… stay still.
you stop at the low brick ledge outside a closed café, dropping your bags at your feet and sitting with a sigh. “my legs are gonna fall off.”
toji stays standing for a beat before finally sitting beside you. there’s space on the ledge, but he sits close—close enough that your knees knock together when he adjusts his weight.
you don’t pull away.
neither does he.
the silence stretches again, thick but not awkward. just full. you lean back, elbows propped on the edge behind you, head tilted up toward the sky. no stars tonight, just gray clouds moving slow and heavy.
you glance over at him.
he’s watching the street across from you, his face unreadable, mouth set in that neutral line he wears like armor. but when your knee nudges his again, gentle and intentional this time, his eyes flick to you for half a second.
you do it again—press your knee to his and leave it there.
toji doesn’t move.
you slide your hand down between you, let your fingers settle lightly on the edge of his thigh. you don’t grip, don’t squeeze. just let your touch rest there, warm and barely-there through the fabric of his sweats.
he goes still.
completely still.
but he doesn’t pull away.
his tail flicks behind him once, slow and uncertain, like he’s thinking about what to do. then he shifts just slightly—almost imperceptibly—into your touch. like his body is moving before he can second-guess it.
you don’t say anything. neither does he.
your fingers stay right where they are.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO LETS YOU SLEEP ON HIS SHOULDER . . .
you’re both slouched on the couch with a textbook cracked open between your knees and your notes scattered across the coffee table. it’s past midnight, the room dim except for the soft glow of the floor lamp in the corner. you’ve been trying to understand the same formula for the past twenty minutes, and your brain feels like it’s turning to paste.
you rub your eyes and groan, voice muffled behind your palm. “toji. i’m actually gonna die.”
toji sighs like he’s regretting every life choice that brought him here. “you’ve said that five times.”
“because it’s true.”
you slump sideways, cheek pressed against the back cushion. toji doesn’t look at you—he’s too busy scribbling numbers down in your notebook with that impatient grip of his, handwriting rough and fast but somehow still legible.
“this isn’t even your major,” you mumble.
“nope.”
“why do you know this?”
“i’m not stupid,” he says flatly.
you make a halfhearted noise of agreement. his tone is sharp, sure, but his tail’s swaying lazily over the side of the couch and his ears are relaxed, twitching now and then at the sound of the pages flipping.
he finally taps the corner of the book with his pen. “look. you’re messing up your order of operations. it’s not that complicated. you just keep rushing through the setup.”
you lift your head enough to squint at the equation. “okay, but explain it to me like i’m a dumbass.”
he grunts, but obliges.
the next ten minutes are him walking you through the problem step by step, voice low and even, surprisingly clear for someone who always sounds vaguely annoyed by everything. you nod along, jot down a few things, and try your best to follow, but your focus keeps drifting. the warmth of the room, the steady cadence of his voice, and the weight of the day all start to pile on.
he keeps talking. something about rearranging terms, then canceling them out—
but you don’t respond.
“hey,” he says eventually, glancing over. “you listening?”
he turns his head just in time to feel a sudden weight against his shoulder.
your head.
you’ve knocked out completely, slumped sideways into him with your lips parted and breath slow.
toji goes very still.
his hand hovers midair for a moment, pen still between his fingers. your temple is tucked neatly against the edge of his collarbone, and he can feel the warmth of you, the slight drag of your breath brushing through the fabric of his shirt.
he exhales through his nose, low and tired. “...seriously?”
his voice is quiet, but there’s no bite to it.
your notebook is still open on your lap, pencil caught between the pages. your fingers twitch slightly in your sleep like you're still trying to write something down, and toji watches you for a second, then mutters something under his breath and closes the book for you.
he lets you lean there longer than he should.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO STARTS TOUCHING YOU WITH HIS TAIL . . .
the first time it happens, you honestly think it’s an accident.
you’re leaning against the kitchen counter, half-awake and waiting for the kettle to boil, when something soft brushes the back of your hand. it’s fleeting, just a light flick of movement, but distinct enough to make you freeze.
you glance over, and sure enough, toji’s crouched in front of the fridge with the door wide open, tail lazily swaying behind him. it’s the only thing about him that ever seems relaxed—long and dark, fur thick and well-kept, curving through the air like it has its own moods.
your eyes drop to your hand, still resting on the counter’s edge, and then shift back to him. he doesn’t turn around right away. just grabs a container of something, straightens up, and finally glances over his shoulder like he already knows what you’re thinking.
“move your damn hand,” he says, tone flat.
but there's something off about his mouth—a flicker of amusement curling at the corner. blink and you’d miss it.
you do as he says, not because you’re scared (maybe a little), but you’re trying to figure him out.
he’s unpredictable, the type who doesn’t like people close unless he has a reason to keep them there. so you assume it’s a one-time thing, a coincidence born out of bad spacing.
except it keeps happening.
not every day. not even predictably. but often enough that you start to notice.
like when the two of you are sitting at the table—he’s reading something, and you’re mindlessly scrolling through your phone—and his tail shifts under the surface, brushes your ankle once, then again, light and purposeful.
or when he walks past you in the hall and it flicks against your knee, just enough to make you feel it.
at first, you think he’s messing with you. so you say something one night, voice low and careful, like you’re testing the water. “your tail’s got a mind of its own, huh.”
he doesn’t even look up from the couch. “you got a problem with it?”
you blink. “no. just saying.”
he hums—neutral, unimpressed. but there’s a twitch of his ear that betrays him.
he’s doing it on purpose.
you start to notice how deliberate the touches are. they’re always brief, just enough to draw your attention without drawing anyone else’s. never lingering too long. never paired with words. it’s like some unspoken agreement. he gets to reach out in his own way, and you don’t ask questions.
but you do start sitting a little closer.
one night, it’s just the two of you again—late, quiet, the kind of atmosphere where time feels heavier than usual.
you’re both on the couch like you always are when you both have free time. the tv’s on, but neither of you are really watching. he’s stretched out on one end, socked feet propped up on the coffee table, while you’re sitting near the opposite corner, elbow resting against the armrest.
his tail shifts once. then twice. it curls slowly toward you, brushes against the back of your hand like a test.
you don’t move away. instead, you curl your fingers slightly and let them graze along the fur—barely a touch. the texture surprises you. it’s softer than it looks.
he doesn’t say anything, but his tail stills for a second. not pulling away. not twitching in warning. just still, like he’s registering it.
your eyes flick to him.
he’s looking at the screen, jaw slack, head tilted slightly like he’s more focused on the sound than the visuals. he hasn’t acknowledged what just happened, but his ears have angled faintly back—toward you.
so you trace a little more of it, fingertips dragging lightly along the curve of it.
“you’re gonna make it shed,” he mutters after a beat, still not looking at you.
“you’re the one who keeps putting it on me,” you say.
he snorts. “don’t flatter yourself.”
but he doesn’t move. his tail twitches once under your hand, like it’s deciding whether to stay there or not, and then it settles.
you don’t know what this means yet, but whatever.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO SLEEPS IN YOUR BED WHEN HE FEELS TOO AGITATED TO BE ALONE . . .
you wake up to the feeling of movement.
the mattress dips at your side, slow but heavy, like something big just settled beside you. groggy, you blink against the darkness, eyes adjusting to the low sliver of moonlight slipping in through the blinds.
at first, you think you’re dreaming. there’s no reason for someone to be here—no reason for him to be here.
but then you roll over, and yeah. it’s him.
broad shoulders hunched slightly like he’s still on edge, messy hair flattened on one side, his jaw clenched tight. his eyes catch the light just enough for you to see the sharp glint in them. not exactly angry. just unreadable.
“…toji?”
he doesn’t look at you.
“shut up,” he says.
you blink, brain still stuck somewhere between sleep and confusion. “...okay.”
he doesn’t offer an explanation. doesn’t shift to face you. just lays there stiffly on his back, one hand resting flat on his chest, the other shoved under the pillow like he needs something to anchor himself.
his ears are out. not tucked or hidden like usual. and they twitch once, sharp and reactive. his tail flicks behind him—once, twice, agitated—and then goes still.
you lie there in silence for a moment, staring up at the ceiling like it’ll give you an answer. but nothing comes.
you don’t ask what’s wrong. you don’t ask if something happened, or if someone triggered him, or if he’s trying not to lose control of something he doesn’t understand.
instead, you reach out and press your hand lightly against his bicep.
his muscles twitch under your touch—tense, coiled, like instinct told him to react before he remembered it was you. but he doesn’t pull away. he doesn’t snap at you either.
so you leave your hand there. just for a while.
his breathing slows, bit by bit, until it’s steady again.
and even after your arm goes numb from the position, you don’t move. because he’s still there. not saying anything. not offering comfort. but staying.
he stays there the whole night.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO STANDS CLOSER THAN NECESSARY IN PUBLIC . . .
you want ice cream.
at 11:48 p.m., your stomach decides to declare war on your self-control and your freezer is criminally empty. you’re already halfway into a hoodie, shoes half-laced, when you look over and say, “you coming?”
toji, who’s stretched out across the floor like a goddamn housecat in front of the fan, opens one eye.
“why the hell would i—”
“you can get something too,” you cut in, grabbing your keys. “or you can just follow me and complain the whole way. i don’t care.”
he does complain, for the record. muttering the entire walk to the convenience store like it’s a personal offense that you dragged him outside past midnight.
“not your damn dog,” he grumbles, hands shoved in the pockets of his black jacket.
but he still follows. always two steps behind. never more.
the store’s mostly empty. one cashier half-asleep behind the counter, a college guy loitering by the snacks, and the faint buzz of overhead lights. you make a beeline for the refrigerated section, scanning rows of drinks and ice cream cups with all the intense concentration of a man about to make a critical life decision.
you feel him before you hear him.
a quiet shift of air. fabric brushing fabric. the subtle weight of someone stepping into your space—just close enough to press into your personal bubble, but not close enough to be inappropriate. like a shadow at your back.
you glance to the side. his shoulder nearly touches yours.
“you’re crowding,” you say, nudging him lightly with your elbow.
he doesn’t move. doesn’t even blink.
“don’t like the way that guy looked at you,” he mutters.
you blink, confused. “…what guy?”
toji doesn’t answer. his tail flicks once, slow and irritable. his ears are peaking out of his beanie, slightly tilted, like he’s still listening for something. his gaze stays forward, blank like always, but his posture is... different.
more tense. more aware.
he shifts a little closer, enough that his jacket brushes against your back when you reach for your drink.
you don’t say anything after that. just grab your ice cream, pay, and walk out into the night like nothing’s changed.
except from that night on, he never lets you walk ahead of him anymore.
when you’re out together, he’s always right there—beside you or just behind, angled like he’s ready to intercept anyone who steps too close. he stands between you and strangers in crowded places. presses a hand to your lower back when someone gets too near. doesn’t speak on it, doesn’t explain, but never wavers either.
he stands close. always too close to be just a roommate.
and you let him.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO ACTS WEIRDLY POSSESSIVE AS HIS RUT APPROACHES . . .
you’re sitting on the couch, finishing up your assignments with your laptop perched on your thighs. you’re mid-sentence, talking about some guy in your elective who made you laugh during a group activity, when toji sets his drink down a little too hard. the can slams against the table, a sharp metal clack that makes you flinch.
you look up.
he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t even look sorry. just mutters, “he sounds annoying.”
you blink. “he wasn’t. it was just funny.”
he doesn’t respond. just sits there with his arms crossed, his leg bouncing like he’s burning off something he doesn’t want to say out loud.
the next day, he’s waiting by the front gate when you get back from class.
you spot him easily. gray hoodie, sleeves pushed up, headphones around his neck. his cap is pulled low over his face, but even then, people glance at him as they pass. he ignores them, arms folded as he leans against the fence.
“what are you doing here?” you ask, trying not to sound surprised.
he shrugs. “finished early.”
“you never wait for me.”
he doesn’t explain. just falls into step beside you as you start walking back to the dorms. his tail flicks occasionally behind him. his hands stay buried in his hoodie pocket, but his body is tense—like he’s on edge.
“you didn’t answer my texts earlier,” he says, voice casual, but not really.
“i was in the middle of class.”
“hm.”
you glance at him. “is something wrong?”
“no,” he says. “just didn’t want you walking back alone.”
“i’ve done it a hundred times.”
“doesn’t mean i like it.”
later that night, you’re in the kitchen getting a glass of water when there’s a knock on your door.
you open it to find one of your floormates standing there, asking if you’re still free to help with that project. you nod and tell him you’ll come by in a bit. it’s a short conversation. harmless.
but when you shut the door, toji’s standing at the end of the hallway, watching.
you frown. “what?”
he doesn’t answer right away. just moves closer, slow and quiet, like he’s thinking too hard about something he doesn’t like admitting. “he could’ve just texted,” toji says finally.
you blink. “what?”
“your little group project. why’d he come to the door?”
“he was just asking.”
he clicks his tongue and walks past you. “bullshit.”
you stare after him. “what’s your deal lately?”
he pauses, not turning around. then he says, “people like to use excuses to get close to you.”
you scoff. “he’s not trying to get close to me. it’s literally schoolwork.”
toji’s tail flicks behind him, agitated. he doesn't respond, but you can hear the edge in his voice when he mutters, “doesn’t matter. don’t like it.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO IS SUDDENLY ALL UP IN YOUR SPACE . . .
you’re standing by the stove, spatula in one hand, watching your eggs sizzle when you feel the heat of him behind you. you think he’s just passing through at first—maybe heading for the fridge, or the sink—but he stops short, close enough that the curve of his chest almost grazes your back. his breath brushes the side of your neck.
when you glance over your shoulder, he’s just… standing there. arms loose at his sides, tail flicking low behind him, eyes on the pan like he’s waiting for you to offer him a bite.
“you need something?” you ask.
he grunts. “nah.”
he doesn’t move.
you bump him with your elbow and he finally takes a step back, only to trail a hand over the small of your back as he does. casual. practiced. like it’s something he’s done a hundred times before.
but he hasn’t.
the next time it happens, you’re sitting on the couch, scrolling through your phone, and a friend drops by to return a book he borrowed. it’s not a long conversation. you’re standing by the door, talking about schedules and weekend plans, nothing special.
but the whole time, you can feel toji’s presence behind you—barely two steps away. arms crossed, expression blank. his ears twitch like he’s tracking every word.
your friend glances at him once, and then twice. “your roommate always look that thrilled to see people?”
you give him a strained smile. “yeah. he’s a real people person.”
once the door closes, you turn around to find toji still standing there. closer than before. his tail curls lazily around your calf, just once, and lingers there like it belongs. like it’s claiming something.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO DOESN’T LIKE IT WHEN YOU SMELL DIFFERENT . . .
he’s leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting, one arm braced just high enough to block your path. the other hangs loose at his side, hand twitching once like he hadn’t decided what to do with it yet. his eyes catch yours, sharp and dark, and he looks at you like he’s sizing something up. or maybe trying not to do something.
you blink up at him. “uh. hey.”
he doesn’t answer. his gaze drags over your face, slow, then dips to your throat. you feel the weight of it. it’s not subtle.
“you been wearin’ new lotion?” he asks, voice low and too casual to be casual.
you pause. “yeah. it was on sale.”
he already knows that. he saw the bottle sitting on your nightstand this morning. you left it out on accident.
toji shifts a little closer. you feel the warmth of him first—how solid he is, how tall. then his head dips, and before you can say anything, his nose brushes against the side of your neck. it’s slow. unhurried. like he’s savoring the scent, like he’s trying to memorize it.
you swallow hard.
“don’t like it,” he mutters. his breath is warm against your skin. “you smell different.”
your pulse kicks up, but you don’t step back. not because you’re frozen, but because you don’t really want to. he’s close, closer than anyone has any business being, and you can feel the heat coming off him.
his tail flicks once and brushes your leg, lazy and thoughtless. there’s a tension in his voice that catches you off guard, like he’s trying not to let something slip.
his hand lifts. not fast. his fingers skim your waist, then curl there, just barely, like he’s testing what he can get away with. you don’t stop him.
“couldn’t smell you right all day,” he says. his tone doesn’t change, but there’s something in his eyes now—something a little sharper, like he’s losing patience with himself. “don’t like that either.”
you glance at his mouth. your throat’s dry.
“i’ll switch back,” you say, quietly.
his gaze flicks up to yours. “yeah?”
you nod.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO STARTS LOSING SLEEP . . .
you wake up to the faint creak of the floorboards and the low hum of the fan overhead. it’s past three. your room is dark, save for the sliver of moonlight coming through the blinds, striping the floor in cold silver. at first, you think maybe it was just the fan, or the pipes doing their usual haunted-house routine. but then you sit up, and you see him.
toji.
he’s sitting on the floor beside your bed, back against the frame, one knee bent and the other leg stretched out in front of him. shirtless. sweat-damp at the collarbones. breathing a little too hard for someone who’s supposedly been still. his head’s tilted back like it’s too heavy for his neck, jaw tense, like he’s biting back something he doesn’t want to name. moonlight cuts across his shoulders, glinting off the chain around his throat.
you rub your eyes and whisper, “what are you doing?”
he doesn’t look at you at first. just tilts his head a little, jaw tight. his fingers twitch where they’re draped over his knee, like he’s resisting the urge to reach for something.
“couldn’t sleep,” he says, voice low and rough. “what’s it look like?”
you glance toward the clock. 3:18. “you pacing again?”
toji doesn’t answer. just sniffs quietly and drags a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to cool himself down. like his own skin feels wrong.
you blink. he never complains. not about pain, not about stress, not about much of anything. hearing this much already feels like something's shifted.
he finally looks at you. eyes dark, heavy-lidded, like he's been wound too tight for too long. and then, without warning, he reaches for your wrist—not rough, not aggressive. just deliberate. his nose brushes your skin before you can even register what he’s doing, and he inhales deep, right against the inside of your wrist.
you tense for a second. not from discomfort. more from the way it feels—how natural it is. like he’s done it a hundred times before.
his voice is quieter when he speaks again, words pressed into your pulse. “this is better.”
you stare at him, unsure what to say.
he doesn’t ask you anything. doesn’t explain himself further. just keeps his face near your arm, breathing you in like it’s the only thing keeping him from snapping.
“you should go back to sleep,” he says finally, even though he doesn’t let go. “i’m not gonna do anything.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO FINALLY GOES INTO RUT . . .
you barely get the door open before it slams shut behind you.
your back hits the wood with a dull thud, your bag slipping off your shoulder and hitting the floor. you’re half a second from cursing when you look up—and freeze.
toji's standing in front of you, close enough that his chest brushes yours when he breathes. and he’s breathing hard. really hard. his pupils are blown out, eyes glowing faint gold in the low hallway light. his tail’s lashing behind him, restless, agitated. his hair’s a mess, sticking to his forehead like he hasn’t bothered to run a hand through it in hours.
“toji,” you say carefully, eyes narrowing, “what—”
“close the door.”
it’s already closed, but you don’t correct him. his voice sounds rough, more gravel than usual, like he’s been grinding his teeth all day.
“what’s going on with you?”
he doesn’t answer right away. his hands find your hips, firm and hot through your shirt. not pushing. not grabbing. just… holding. grounding himself, maybe. like he needs to make sure you’re really here.
“smelled you comin’ up the stairs,” he mutters, like it’s some kind of explanation. “told myself i’d wait.”
you swallow. “but you didn’t.”
toji leans in a little closer. not enough to kiss you. just enough for his nose to brush your cheek, your jaw. he inhales slowly like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your scent, and his exhale shudders out uneven.
“can’t think,” he admits, barely above a whisper. “everything’s too much.”
his fingers tighten slightly on your waist. not hurting. just anchoring. and for once, he doesn’t look like he’s got something sarcastic loaded on his tongue. no cocky grin. no smug little remark. just tension. heat. restraint.
you place a hand on his chest, feeling how hard he’s breathing. the heat coming off him is unreal.
he lowers his forehead to your shoulder. “you don’t have to. i’ll—fuck, i’ll figure it out.”
you pause. your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt.
“toji.”
he grunts in response, but doesn’t move.
“hey. look at me.”
his gaze lifts, slow and heavy. his eyes are sharp now—brighter than usual, but not out of control. not gone.
you meet his stare, steady. “you’re not gonna fuck this up.”
his jaw ticks, like he’s biting back something. not words—something worse. restraint, maybe.
your fingers tighten slightly on his shirt. “so stop acting like you might.”
he exhales harshly through his nose, and he closes the distance between you like something inside him finally snapped. there’s no warning, no careful buildup—just the violent crush of his mouth against yours, like the pressure of holding himself back all day finally reached a breaking point.
it’s rough and unrestrained. his teeth catch on yours, breath hot and uneven, and he kisses like he doesn’t care about finesse, only contact. his tongue pushes deep, every movement driven by something primal, and his jaw flexes like he’s fighting to keep himself contained.
your head tilts instinctively, letting him in deeper, and you kiss him back with just as much urgency. it’s messy and wet, your mouths slipping and dragging together in a rhythm that’s more hunger than coordination.
each time your lips meet again, he groans—sharp and guttural—like just having your mouth on his is enough to shake something loose in him.
your hands slide under his shirt, palms dragging up the flat of his stomach. his skin is burning up—tight muscle shifting under your fingers, tense like he’s ready to snap. when your nails rake over the line of hair below his navel, he grits his teeth, jaw flexing hard enough to crack. his shoulders twitch like he’s fighting the urge to move too fast.
his tail hauls you in, locking your bodies together, and you feel the weight of him right up against you. your crotch grinds into his zipper, heat pressing hard against heat. he rolls his hips once—slow, deliberate.
your breath stutters, mouth brushing his as you try to say his name. it comes out broken. “toji—nnnh—”
he exhales through his teeth, head tipping forward like that noise short-circuited something in him. his tail jerks, tensing around your leg.
his mouth doesn’t leave yours. he has one hand groping down your ass, the other sliding under your shirt, fingers splayed across your lower back like he needs skin. the heat coming off him is overwhelming—muscle flexing with every breath, jaw working like he’s grinding down what little patience he has left.
toji huffs a low sound—not a laugh exactly. just something rough in his throat. he drags his mouth down your jaw, breath hot, voice low and strained.
“should’ve come home sooner.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO FUCKS YOU FOR HOURS WITHOUT A BREAK . . .
it’s been hours. your body gave out a long time ago, but toji’s still fucking you like he hasn’t noticed. or maybe he has and just doesn’t care.
your chest is slick with sweat, breath dragging in slow, shuddering bursts. your arms aren’t holding you up anymore—they’re just there, trembling under the weight of it all, while your cheek presses flat to the mattress. you can feel him behind you, stretched over your back, cock driving in deep from behind, heavy and thick and relentless.
every thrust pushes your knees forward. every one lands hard. there’s nothing left of rhythm anymore—just the sound of his hips slapping into you, the hot rasp of his breath, the ragged groans tearing out of his chest like he’s losing patience with how long he’s not buried in you to the hilt.
his hand’s on the back of your neck, rough and steady, holding you in place. not hard. just firm. like a warning. like you’re not supposed to move until he says you can.
“hnnnh—f-fuck—” he mutters low, voice scraping deep in his throat, teeth grit. “still so fuckin’ tight—nghh—even after all this?”
your only answer is a wrecked little noise, half-sob, half-moan, high and breathless as your spine arches under him. he snorts under his breath, then grinds in harder, cock dragging against your insides like he’s trying to feel every ridge. just to hear you make that sound again.
“yeah,” he breathes, all grit and filth, lips dragging down your spine. “that’s what I fuckin’ thought. slutty little hole still squeezin’ me like you haven’t been stuffed full all fuckin’ night.”
his other hand claws at your waist, pulling you back into each thrust like you’re just something to grip. your skin’s raw where he’s held you. hips littered with smudged fingerprints, red welts, nail marks.
your back’s even worse—dotted in bruises and bite marks, old and new, places where his mouth stayed too long. you feel used. split open. ruined. and he’s still not finished.
“tch—mmhhf—shit—” he groans again, slurring it into the crook of your shoulder. his breath is hot and shallow, tongue dragging lazy across a mark he left earlier, right before he sinks his teeth in again—sharp enough to make you jerk, and his hand tightens on your neck like he likes the way you flinch.
he yanks you back into another thrust, hard enough that your thighs tremble. his cock presses up deep—deep, thick, heavy, and swelling—and you feel the base start to stretch you for the second time that night. thick pressure blooming at your rim, making your hole flex involuntarily around him. you whine, throat caught on it—“nnhhh, f’fuck—s’big, toji—”—and his grip on your hips jerks tighter like instinct.
“yeah? you feel that?” he growls, voice going dark. “feel my fuckin’ knot pressin’ up in you again? uhhn— fuck—gonna split you open on it—keep you fuckin’ plugged, yeah?”
he leans in more, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, panting ragged against it, hips still driving forward with the single-minded force of a man possessed.
“nnnh—knot’s comin’ again,” he growls through his teeth, breath hot and shaking.
the bed shifts violently with every slam of his hips. he’s rutting into you, fucking up into the softest spots he’s already bruised inside you, cock twitching with every desperate grind.
the slap of his hips is wet, noisy—schlk, slrp, slap!—your ass glossy from sweat and slick and the mess that’s been leaking out of you all night, only for him to shove it back in every single time.
“hahhh—f-fuck,” you gasp, voice barely a rasp, eyes squeezed shut. “toji—s’too—t-too much—can’t—”
“nah.” his voice cuts in sharp, guttural, teeth bared behind every word.
“keep makin’ those pretty little whiny noises, baby—and i’m gonna knot you so deep you can’t even walk to class tomorrow—uhnnh—you’ll feel me in your guts all week.”
you whimper, pathetic—“tojiiiii—”—as your body clenches down again, as your cock twitches untouched beneath you, leaking helpless against the bed.
he bites right where your shoulder meets your neck, dragging his teeth slow as his hips stutter. you feel it. the knot swelling full—wider, tighter, locking in with a wet pop that stretches your hole around the bulge until it burns.
he groans, broken—“fffuck, f-fuck, thass’ it—fuuuck—”—and thrusts in one last time, buried to the hilt.
your eyes roll back. the pressure, the stretch, the way he grinds in deep with slow, pulsing jerks as his cock unloads again—thick, hot, endless—your belly goes tight, your body trembling as you moan loud and cracked through your throat.
“hnnh—fuck, baby,” he murmurs, voice ragged and already starting to haze over again. “don’t pass out on me yet.”
he kisses your neck as he continues with a manic grin, “still got hours t’go.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO STARTS CALLING YOU AN OMEGA . . .
you don’t even know how long it’s been. time stopped making sense somewhere between the fourth knot and the stretch of your hole around his cock going from unbearable to necessary. you’re not even on the bed anymore—can’t lie down, can’t crawl.
he’s got you pinned against the wall, your back slick against the paint, your legs hooked over his thick forearms as he fucks up into you like he’s trying to break the foundation.
his tail’s lashing behind him, wild and twitchy, muscles flexing with every brutal thrust like it’s sharing in the rhythm, like it’s got a mind of its own. it curls in close and flicks every time you cry out, curling tighter around his own thigh, coiling high and tense with every pulse of your wrecked hole around his cock.
his ears—dark, plush, twitching—flatten when he growls, stand upright when you moan, perk when you whimper and beg. they’re locked onto you, tuned to the mess you’re making, and when you hiccup a cracked little “f-fuck, toji—!” they twitch once and stay up, alert and fixated like prey just moved beneath his paw.
he’s carrying your whole weight like it’s nothing—slammed between his body and the cold wall, your arms dangling useless, your head lolling back with every thrust. your hole is stretched wide around him, gaping, red, ring twitching with every rut of his hips, like your body still doesn’t know what to do with the sheer size of him.
and still he keeps going.
shlk—schlp— the sound of it is slick and nasty, wet like your body’s just a sleeve made for him now. cum’s leaking out in thick, milky strings that drip down the back of your thighs and spatter onto the floor, but it doesn’t matter. none of it matters. he’s fucking it back in with every thrust, deeper, harder, like it pisses him off how much you’re losing.
your hole isn’t just raw. it’s used. ringed with spit, smeared with cum, loose enough that his cock drives in to the hilt with a nasty little slrrp and no resistance. no struggle. he’s got you wrecked, ruined, ruined good, and when your hips twitch, when your cock bounces soft and spent against your belly, all you can do is moan.
“t-toji—hahh—hahh, fffuck—i can’t—!”
your voice breaks, nearly a sob, but it doesn’t slow him.
“can’t what?” he snarls against your neck, hot breath thick against your skin. “can’t take it? mmnh—bullshit. you’re fuckin’ open for me, baby.”
his grip flexes under your thighs, fingers digging in until your skin dimples beneath them, lifting you just a little higher—enough to angle his cock deeper, until the base slams flush against your ass.
“gape’s sayin’ you love it,” he growls, biting the curve of your jaw. “little hole won’t fuckin’ close.”
his tail snaps against your leg when you twitch, a hard flick like warning, and his ears flatten when your head drops back, when your tongue spills from your lips in a broken moan.
he fucks into you harder, faster, thrusts bouncing you against the wall with each one, your back smacking it with soft little thuds as you moan through gritted teeth.
you’re drooling. you don’t even notice it until he licks it off your chin and laughs—low, raspy, breathless, one ear cocking at a smug tilt while the other stays up, twitching in time with your gasps.
“such a messy fuckin’ omega,” he hisses into your throat, tail winding tighter behind him, curling around your calf like it’s trying to bind you to him—keep you from even thinking about pulling away.
the word burns in your stomach. it shouldn’t. you’re not one. you’re just human. no scent, no heat, no biological bond. but toji’s rutting into you like you’re his, and when he says it—like that—something in your gut tightens and twists, hot and brutal and needy.
you moan like it hurts.
“nggh—f-fuck—toji—d-don’t—”
“don’t what?” he huffs, teeth catching your ear, ears now pinned low and back with heat, hips still driving up. “don’t call you what you are?”
you try to shake your head, but he growls—low, vibrating deep in his chest—and bites the side of your neck.
“baby, you feel like one.”
his thrusts go wild then. brutal. punishing. all weight and speed and raw hunger, his balls slapping wet against your ass as your hole clutches uselessly around him. you’re not even clenching anymore—just spasming, wide open, puffy and ruined and taking every inch.
his ears are flat again, head dipped low against your neck like he’s trying to bury himself inside you, chasing the feel of your hole spasming. his tail is thrashing wildly, curling, twitching, jerking tight every time your body shakes.
“this little cunt’s fuckin’ starving,” he grits out. “so wet—gaping like you need me, omega. fuck, I can see inside you when I pull out—uhhhhn, yeah, just like that—fuuuuck—”
he thrusts deep, then drags back slow, and you feel it—the way your hole stretches around him, how it barely tries to close before he’s slamming in again.
slrp-thmp. slrp-thmp.
“you hear that?” he pants, ears twitching. “you’re so fuckin’ sloppy for me—shit, could live inside this hole—fuck you open every night, knot you every goddamn morning—”
you’re babbling now. sobbing on every word. you don’t know what you’re saying. it’s just noise.
“ahhhnn—t-toji, it’s too—d-deep, too much—nghh—m’gonna—f’gonna—”
“cum,” he growls, voice ragged and desperate, ears up and locked forward. and when he slams in one last time, knot swelling thick and fast, you feel pressure locking in, sealing you up tight, heat spilling into your gut all over again.
your whole body shudders. your hole pulses and twitches around the base of his cock, stretched insanely wide, lips slick and raw and wet with the endless mess he’s pouring into you.
and he doesn’t let go. his tail winds around your thigh and his ears twitch with every little breath you sob out, just watching you tremble.
he just holds you there, up against the wall, pinned and leaking and knotted full, cock throbbing inside as he purrs into your throat.
“told you,” he pants, slow and smug. “my good little omega.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO GROOMS WHEN HIS RUT CLEARS MOMENTARILY . . .
toji’s eyes flick to the digital clock on your nightstand. 5:30 a.m.
he clicks his tongue, low and irritated. it felt like time’s mocking him, like the blinking red numbers have something to say about the fact that he’s still in your bed, half hard, drenched in sweat, and only now starting to feel like a human being again. or close to it.
your breathing’s the only sound in the room. light, shallow, a little uneven. you’re limp under him—dead asleep. face pressed into the pillow, mouth open, one arm stretched out like you tried to reach for him at some point before your body gave out.
toji exhales through his nose. the kind of breath that’s more of a sigh than he’ll ever admit to.
you’d passed out maybe fifteen minutes ago. slumped forward, shaking, legs done for, voice blown out. and he… didn’t stop right away. didn’t mean to keep going as long as he did, but it was like he couldn’t get his brain to come back online. not until now. not until the gnawing under his skin let up just enough to make room for something other than the need to fuck you full.
you reek of him.
sweat. spit. cum. the scent is thick in the air, and it drags something slow and satisfied through his chest. he did exactly what his body told him to—he claimed you, filled you, marked you until your body remembered his name even in sleep.
he shifts with a grunt, muscles complaining as he sits back. there’s a wet sound when he peels off your thigh, and he ignores it. he grabs a couple tissues from the box on your nightstand, wipes the worst of the mess off your lower back, your thighs, between your legs.
he’s not delicate about it. he’s not trying to be gentle. but he’s thorough. cleaning you down with the same rough, tired efficiency you’d use to wipe blood off a blade.
when he tosses the tissue into the wastebasket, he leans down again—nose brushing just behind your ear. you twitch in your sleep. not enough to wake. but enough for him to notice.
toji sniffs once. slow. then noses at your sweat-slick skin, his tongue dragging lazily up your throat, catching on salt and fading heat. it’s not sexual. not really. more like instinct. as if he’s checking, making sure you still smell like him underneath all the sweat and spit.
he licks again, lower this time. neck, shoulder, collarbone—wherever there’s skin he’s already bitten. he presses his tongue flat, slow and steady, like he’s cleaning you. it’s lazy, half-hearted. just a few tired swipes of tongue.
you’re covered in his marks anyway. hickeys blooming down your back, sharp little indents from his teeth littering your neck and chest. nothing that’ll scar, but you’ll feel them in the morning. you’ll know where he was.
his head drops against your shoulder for a second. he just stays there, breathing.
then, without saying a word, he crawls back into bed beside you. one arm hooks over your waist—heavy, anchoring. his other hand palms your ass once, almost absently, then drags the blanket up over both of you with a tired grunt.
his lips brush the back of your neck, pressing a soft kiss on the skin.
then he’s out just like that. still half hard, dehydrated, sore all over, but asleep in under a minute—his tail curled loosely around your thigh.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO TAKES CARE OF YOU THE MORNING AFTER . . .
you wake up slowly. everything aches.
your legs feel like they’ve been taken apart and reassembled wrong. your back’s sore, your neck’s stiff, and your throat’s dry. for a second you’re not even sure what time it is—just that the air’s warm, the light’s dim, and the bed you’re in isn’t cold.
then you hear it—soft clinking, a dull sizzle, the faint creak of a cheap cabinet door.
your eyes crack open.
toji’s at the kitchenette, back turned to you, wearing nothing but a loose pair of sweats and the same dark tank top he’d yanked halfway off sometime last night and didn’t bother finishing the job. his hair’s still messy. ears out, tail swaying slow and low behind him. there’s a pan on the stove. eggs. some kind of toast. you blink, confused.
your voice comes out rough. “...are you cooking?”
he doesn’t turn around. “what’s it look like?”
“you don’t even cook for yourself.”
“shut up.”
you’re pretty sure you hear him mutter “fucker can’t even stand straight today” under his breath as he flips something in the pan.
your head falls back against the pillow, eyes shutting with a groan. your entire lower body feels like it’s been run over and then thrown in the dryer. the soreness is the kind that comes from being thoroughly ruined and then left to steep overnight. and he’s acting like you’re the problem.
you manage to sit up a little. the blanket slips down your bare chest and you wince. “you didn’t have to, you know. i can—”
“no, you can’t,” he cuts in, flatly. “tried movin’ in your sleep and damn near whimpered.”
your face burns. “i did not whimper.”
he grunts. “sure.”
you hear the stove click off. a few seconds later, he’s standing next to you with a plate in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. he drops the water in your lap, then squats down in front of you, balancing the plate on his thigh as he holds a fork out to you like you’re five.
you glare at him. “i can feed myself.”
his gaze drops pointedly to your trembling thigh. “right.”
you open your mouth to argue again, but the smell hits you—eggs, rice, sausage, a little garlic. your stomach growls before you can stop it.
“…fine.”
he raises an eyebrow, like he knows, and then holds out a forkful of food. you take it, chewing slow. you swallow before mumbling, “you remembered i like garlic rice.”
he doesn’t respond at first. just shrugs one shoulder, gaze flicking to the side.
you keep chewing, quieter now. toji scoops another forkful for you without needing to ask. after a few bites, you finally ask, “didn’t you have class this morning?”
“emailed the prof.”
you blink. “...you emailed your professor?”
“yours too.” he nudges your leg with his knee when you keep staring. “don’t look so shocked. i know how to type.”
“you usually don’t care.”
he shrugs again. “felt like doin’ it.”
you don’t say thank you. not out loud. but you meet his eyes for a second too long, and he looks away before you can try and read the expression there. his ears flick like they’re irritated with him for letting you see too much.
after the last bite, he sets the plate aside and presses his palm to your forehead, checking your temperature like it’s casual, like he didn’t rail you into unconsciousness a few hours ago. you lean into the touch without meaning to.
you lie back down once the plate’s empty, stomach warm and limbs too heavy to argue with gravity. your body’s already trying to sink back into sleep, head turned toward the wall, eyes fluttering shut.
but toji’s not having it.
“don’t pass out yet.”
you groan into the pillow. “why.”
“you stink.”
“you stink,” you mutter, face buried.
he clicks his tongue. “shut up. you’re the one smellin’ like sweat and cum.”
you grumble something—probably an insult, though it comes out half-slurred. still, you don’t move. not until he yanks the blanket off your legs in one clean motion and the cold air hits your skin like a slap.
“fuck—”
“up.”
“toji.”
he’s already standing over you, arms crossed, ears twitching in clear irritation. “shower. now. or i’ll drag your sorry ass in there myself.”
you try giving him a withering glare, but you’re too tired for it to land. “i literally can’t walk.”
“yeah?” he shrugs. “not my problem.”
but it is his problem, apparently—because the next second, he’s bending down, one arm sliding under your knees, the other curling around your back like it’s nothing. you yelp as he lifts you, already halfway out the room.
“you could’ve just helped me walk, asshole—”
“you were gonna stall.”
he doesn’t bother with a warning as he nudges the bathroom door open with his foot and flips the light on. your head’s tucked under his chin, your arms looped around his shoulders by default, and he’s definitely not not smug about it.
the water runs hot by the time he sets you down on the closed toilet seat.
he yanks his own shirt off, tosses it somewhere out of sight, then starts the shower like he’s done this a hundred times. and maybe he has. not with you, but there’s something oddly practiced about it. efficient. like his hands know what they’re doing even if his brain’s halfway shut off.
he helps you up, steadies you with a hand low on your back. your body feels like rubber. your legs shake. still, he guides you in carefully, stepping in right after, tail flicking behind him as he moves.
his hands come next. shampoo, fingers massaging your scalp, dragging through your hair. not gentle, but not careless either. then soap across your chest, shoulders, arms—methodical, not shy. it’s not sexual. not right now. he’s just cleaning you up like you’re an extension of himself, like he doesn’t see the point in asking if you’re okay with it when you clearly need the help.
when he’s done, he shuts the water off, drapes a towel over your shoulders, and grabs another to scrub at your hair with. it’s rough. you wince.
“ow—”
“don’t be a baby.”
he dries you off quick, then wraps a clean towel around your waist before scooping you up again like a sack of potatoes. he heads straight for his bed this time, barely glancing at yours.
“hey,” you murmur, “that’s not my—”
“your bed’s a mess,” he grunts. “i’m not lettin’ you rot in that.”
you blink, too dazed to argue. “you gonna change my sheets?”
he scoffs. “what, you want me to leave you to do it?”
you sink into the fresh sheets like a stone, limp and clean and exhausted. toji covers you with a blanket, then disappears for a few minutes—probably to strip your bed and toss everything in the wash.
he climbs in next to you a minute later, arm slinging around your waist as he settles. his body’s still radiating heat, but calmer now. grounded. you feel the way his tail wraps loosely around your ankle under the covers. not tight. just there.
you’re already half-asleep when you mumble, “thanks.”
toji doesn’t answer. but you feel the way his fingers brush once, lightly, through your hair.
your voice is quiet as you ask, “have you… ever done this before?”
he doesn’t say anything right away.
you blink, eyes barely open. “i mean, taken care of someone like this.”
his scoff is immediate. sharp. defensive. “fuck no.”
you turn your head a little, enough to catch the way he keeps his gaze fixed ahead, jaw tight. his ears flick slightly, tail giving a lazy, agitated twitch. he’s not looking at you. not even trying to.
you watch him for a second. “really?”
he grumbles, “you think i go around washin’ other people’s hair and changin’ their sheets?”
there’s something about how he says it—low, annoyed, like he’s irritated with himself more than you. like he’s realizing it for the first time too. you smile to yourself, barely suppressing the warmth creeping up your face.
“mm,” you hum, soft as you close your eyes. “good.”
toji still doesn’t look at you. but his hand rests a little heavier on your waist. like he’s grounding himself there.
entanglement: dog hybrid!fushiguro toji x bottom male reader
surface-level reading: dorm assignments weren’t supposed to matter, but somehow you end up with fushiguro toji—untouchable, unreadable, and hiding more than anyone lets on. turns out he’s a hybrid, and when his rut hits, instinct takes over and it’s you he gravitates to.
contents of the charm: slowburn, plot with porn, college university alternate universe, aged down toji, reader doesn’t know toji’s a hybrid at first, rut cycles, marathon sex, unprotected anal penetration, anal gaping, fainting during sex, creampies, reader’s called omega even if he’s human, aftercare, possessive behavior, a lot of marking, manhandling, degradation & praise, 19.8k words wtf
scribbled in the margin: THIS TOOK LIKE THREE OR FOUR DAYS TO WRITE OH MY GOD. this genuinely wasnt supposed to be this long bro i got carried away w the plot 💔 i promise a separate fic that leans more on smut will be posted soon bc that was the original plan HELP,, ALSO THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE i love toji sm my dilf king ALSO NOT PROOFREAD
Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO ENDS UP AS YOUR ROOMMATE AND MAKES YOUR DORM FEEL LIKE ENEMY TERRITORY . . .
your life flashes before your eyes the moment you see the name on the roommate assignment sheet.
fushiguro toji.
the name is bolded at the top of the email, like it knows it’s about to ruin your entire year. at first, you think it might be a glitch—maybe the system crashed, maybe this is someone else’s result—but no. it’s definitely your name at the top, and fushiguro toji’s just underneath it. perfectly centered. stamped in fate.
you scroll through the rest of the email hoping for a way out. what you find is a cold, corporate statement at the bottom:
roommate assignments are final. changes may only be made if serious conflict is reported and verified by university housing.
so, basically, you’re screwed.
you wouldn’t care this much if toji was just some overly sociable senior who threw parties and blasted music all night. that kind of nightmare, you could handle. maybe you’d even end up bonding over a shared hatred of 8 a.m. lectures. but no—this is something worse.
toji is popular for one reason and one reason only: he’s terrifyingly hot. unfairly so. tall, athletic, all sharp features and a stare that could crack concrete. he’s the kind of guy who always has people whispering about him but never seems to speak more than a few words himself. and when he does, it's usually to tell someone to get lost.
you’ve seen him around campus—at the gym, outside class, walking back from practice with that same blank look on his face like he’s permanently bored with existence. once, a girl tried to flirt with him after a lecture, and he shut her down so fast she looked physically winded. another time, a group of guys tried to invite him to a party after a basketball game. he only clicked his tongue and looked at them in disgust before he walked off.
so, yeah. that guy is your new roommate.
you stand in front of your dorm room with your suitcase in one hand and your phone still pulled up in the other. the screen’s gone dim by now, but the name is seared into your memory. you stare at the door for a long second, then glance down the hallway, seriously wondering if sleeping on a bench outside might be more manageable.
you’re halfway through debating whether or not that counts as a “serious conflict” when the door suddenly swings open.
toji stands in the doorway, already looking irritated. he’s wearing a black hoodie with the sleeves shoved up his forearms and a pair of worn basketball shorts. his hair’s damp, probably from a recent shower, and his eyes drop down to your suitcase before settling on your face. you haven’t said a word, and yet he already looks done with you.
“you just gonna stand there all day?” he asks flatly. “or do i gotta drag you in?”
you freeze. “uh. no—i’m coming in.”
you shuffle past him, tugging your suitcase behind you and kicking your shoes off in the process. the room’s already been claimed, of course. his bed is made, desk half-organized, shelves lined with protein powder and gym gear. your side is completely untouched. as you move toward it, you hear the door click shut behind you, followed by the sound of fabric rustling as he flops back onto his bed like it’s been a long day.
you hesitate for a second, awkwardly standing in the middle of the room, unsure what to say. you glance back at him.
“how’d you know i was out there?” you ask.
toji doesn’t even look up. he’s opened a protein bar and takes a bite before answering. “heard you breathin’.”
you blink. “you heard me breathing?”
he shrugs like it’s not weird at all. “thin door.”
right. sure.
you don’t press him on it. instead, you start unpacking your things, quietly arranging your side of the room while trying not to feel weirdly self-conscious about… existing. he doesn’t say another word, and you don’t push your luck. you’re just grateful he hasn’t kicked you out yet.
but the silence is heavy. like he’s listening to everything.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO ONLY EVER SHOWS UP TO THE DORM LATE AT NIGHT WHEN HE THINKS YOU’RE ASLEEP . . .
you’ve been staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours. the tiny red numbers on your digital clock have been crawling toward 2 a.m., but sleep still hasn’t even attempted to visit. the dorm’s too quiet. the mattress is too stiff. the shadows in the corners of the room don’t quite feel like they belong to you yet.
it’s been almost two weeks since you moved in, and your body still refuses to get comfortable here. every creak of the walls, every shift of the pipes makes your brain go full alert. you’ve tried everything—music, a hoodie over your face, pretending the ceiling is one of those cheesy mobile night skies from when you were a kid—but nothing helps.
except, maybe, the weird new ritual of waiting for toji to come back.
because the thing is he always shows up late.
like clockwork, somewhere between 1 and 2 a.m., the door opens. and it’s not like he’s out partying—you know that for a fact. he’s never smelled like smoke or alcohol, never drags himself in like someone who’s been drinking. and it’s not like he has friends. you’ve never heard him on a call, never seen him with anyone outside of class. he barely talks to you, and you live with him.
so, yeah. it’s unsettling.
your eyes shift toward the door now, like instinct. as if on cue, the lock gives a soft click, and the handle turns with that smooth, controlled motion that tells you he’s done this hundreds of times before.
you close your eyes.
it’s stupid, probably, but it’s become routine at this point. pretending to be asleep makes it easier. easier to avoid the awkwardness, easier to ignore the weird twist in your stomach when you think too hard about how secretive he is. easier to avoid the fact that sometimes you hear him pause by your bed, like he’s checking something.
you keep your breathing even and let your hands go limp at your sides.
he steps in. shoes come off at the door with barely a sound. there’s the soft rustle of fabric, the dull thud of a bag being dropped, and then the creak of the bathroom door as it opens and clicks shut again behind him.
you wait. one minute. two. three.
the room is silent. you start to shift a little, letting your eyes peek open just a sliver—just enough to glance at the clock again, maybe reposition your arm under the pillow—
and freeze.
toji is standing right next to your bed.
he’s just there, looming like a sleep paralysis demon with his hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. his expression is unreadable at first, something bored and neutral—until his mouth quirks up slightly in that almost-smirk you’ve only seen once or twice.
“caught you,” he says, voice low and amused.
you jolt upright like someone just pulled the fire alarm.
“jesus christ—! what the fuck—”
he tilts his head. “you always fake sleep when i come back?”
“what? no,” you lie immediately. “i was sleeping. i was—i’m a light sleeper.”
toji hums, clearly not buying it. he stays where he is, relaxed and unbothered, like he’s used to making people squirm. “nah. you breathe different when you’re actually asleep.”
you blink. “…what?”
“your breathin’ pattern. it’s off.” he says casually. “when you’re asleep, it slows down after a while. your shoulders don’t tense like that either.”
you stare at him, deeply unsettled. “why do you know that?”
he shrugs, unhelpful as always. “i notice things.”
“okay, but that sounds like something a serial killer would say.”
he raises an eyebrow at you. “you sayin’ i’m a serial killer?”
“i’m saying you act like one.”
there’s a pause. then, to your shock, he actually lets out a short laugh—quiet and raspy and short-lived, but a laugh nonetheless. you don’t know whether to feel accomplished or concerned.
“maybe i just don’t like being watched while i come in,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.
you frown. “i’m not watching you. i’m—i’m just awake.”
“every night?”
“…coincidence?”
toji gives you a look that says he doesn’t believe you for a second, then turns away and heads back toward the bathroom like the conversation’s over. just like that.
you fall back into your pillow, heart still racing.
you don’t know what he’s doing out there this late. you don’t know why he watches your breathing. you don’t know why he seems so familiar with your sleep patterns after just two weeks.
you also don’t know why none of that is enough to make you ask him to stop.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO ACTS LIKE YOU PISSED ON HIS TERRITORY WHEN YOU SIT ON HIS BED FOR THE FIRST TIME . . .
you’re already swaying before you even make it through the door.
the hallway spins a little when you try to kick your shoes off, but you manage—barely—until one of them gets stuck halfway and you just kind of… give up. your brain’s too fried to deal with it. your bag slumps to the floor next to them with a heavy thud, the zipper halfway unspooled from how fast you yanked it open earlier in class.
your phone buzzes somewhere in your pocket, but you ignore it. everything feels too loud. your clothes are clinging to your skin, your shoulder’s sore from carrying that bag all day, and you swear whoever came up with a 9 a.m. to 8 p.m. class schedule deserves jail time.
you shuffle into the room, squinting at the dull lighting, and drop yourself onto the first soft surface you can find. it’s a bed. whatever. it’s close enough to the floor that you don’t have to fight gravity. you don’t even think about it. you just sit—on the edge, hunched forward, head hanging low like your neck gave up holding itself up. you let out a sharp breath and close your eyes.
you don’t hear the bathroom door open. you do, however, feel it when the air in the room changes.
“...that’s not your bed.”
his voice isn’t loud. it doesn’t need to be.
you crack one eye open, head still tilted down, and find toji standing a few feet away. his hair’s shoved under a backwards cap that makes him look ten years younger—until you see his expression. the slow-burn scowl twisting up his face is not youthful in the slightest.
he’s dressed in yet another hoodie clinging to his frame, hands shoved in the pockets like he’s trying not to do anything impulsive with them. but the look in his eyes? sharp. warning-level sharp.
“shit,” you mumble, throat dry. “sorry. didn’t even notice.”
you make a weak attempt to stand, one hand bracing your knee, but your legs buckle halfway and you end up slumping back down with a quiet groan.
toji doesn’t move. he just stares at you like you’ve violated some ancient blood pact.
“yours is literally two steps away,” he mutters.
“i know, i just—” you gesture vaguely, too tired to explain. “long day. can’t feel my spine. let me sit for, like… thirty seconds.”
he exhales, slow and sharp through his nose, and you can tell he’s debating whether or not you’re worth the argument. most days, he probably wouldn’t care—he’d just drag you by the collar or say something mean enough to get you off his shit. but today, you must look pathetic enough that even he’s hesitating.
he takes a step forward, then stops.
“you smell like campus.”
you squint at him. “...what does that even mean?”
he doesn’t answer. just grimaces a little, like the scent of other people on you bothers him more than he expected.
you blink slowly, head tipping forward again, this time resting fully in your hands. “toji, i will get off your bed in a minute. if you push me right now, i’ll die. you’ll have to clean up a corpse.”
“don’t tempt me.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO ALWAYS WEARS HOODIES AND STUFF ON HIS HEAD, NO MATTER THE WEATHER . . .
toji’s been lying on his bed for the past thirty minutes, doing absolutely nothing but scrolling on his phone and occasionally sighing like you ruined his day. you don’t know what he’s reading. probably death threats. maybe recipes. who knows. he’s weird.
the room’s dim, just your desk lamp casting a soft yellow glow over your laptop. the air conditioner’s barely keeping up with the weather, and there’s a faint hum of someone’s bluetooth speaker from a few doors down. it’s summer, people are loud, and everything feels sticky.
you wipe your forehead with your sleeve and keep typing, barely registering the sweat clinging to the back of your neck until it drips down your spine.
“jesus,” you mutter under your breath. “how are you not melting.”
you don’t even mean to say it out loud. but then you glance over, and see toji lying flat on his back with his hood up and sleeves down. he hasn’t taken off that damn hoodie all day.
“what?” he says without looking up.
you spin a little in your chair, elbow propped on the armrest, cheek squished in your palm. “you’re not hot?” you ask, a little louder this time.
toji’s thumb stills on the screen. “no.”
you blink at him. “you’re wearing a whole-ass hoodie.”
“and?”
“it’s september.”
he shrugs one shoulder. doesn’t bother to elaborate.
you stare at him for a beat. then two. then—“are you bald.”
toji looks up this time.
“…what?”
“like, under the hood,” you say, gesturing vaguely at his head. “you got, like, a cue ball situation going on? or… a monk thing? is it a religious vow?”
toji squints at you like you just accused him of arson. which, to be fair, feels like the same level of offense in his book.
“what the fuck are you talkin’ about.”
“i’m just saying,” you continue, utterly unfazed, “no one’s ever seen your head. i’ve known you for months and i don’t even know what your hairline looks like. you don’t take your hood off. you wore a beanie for three weeks straight. someone saw you at the gym with sleeves down. at the gym, toji.”
he blinks at you. expression unreadable.
“so,” you say slowly, “i’m just wondering… is it, like, a wig? do you glue it down?”
a silence settles between you. toji sets his phone down on his chest, his eyes still fixed on yours.
“you wanna die that bad?”
you snort. “that wasn’t a no.”
“you think i’d wear a wig?”
“well,” you gesture, “i don’t know what’s going on under there. maybe you got, like… patchy scalp. or mange. or a giant birthmark in the shape of a penis.”
he stares at you. not even mad. just… silent. eerie.
“i’m gonna bury you in this hoodie,” he says eventually.
“joke’s on you,” you mutter, turning back to your laptop. “you’re gonna have to take it off to do that.”
there’s a creak of movement behind you. your skin prickles. you pause mid-sentence and glance over your shoulder just as toji sits up, slow and fluid, elbows resting on his knees.
hood still on, naturally. he reaches up.
you freeze.
his fingers brush the edge of the hood—just barely tugging it back.
you catch the briefest flash of something dark at his hairline, the shadow of ink-black strands—real, not a wig, thick and messy like it’s been pushed back hastily—and then he yanks the hood right back on like he changed his mind halfway through.
“there,” he says, voice flat. “you happy?”
you blink. “…you still might be bald.”
toji grabs the nearest pillow and hurls it at your head. you duck, barely, cackling under your breath as it thuds off your chair.
“you’re actually insane,” he mutters, lying back down with the most violent sigh you’ve ever heard.
“what, i’m just curious.”
“you ask questions like you’re trying to get shot.”
you grin and spin your chair slowly back around, resuming your typing like nothing happened. still, you can’t stop thinking about the glimpse you saw—just enough to tell that there’s nothing weird under there. no scars. no tattoos. no signs of trauma.
you don’t say anything else after that, but the image sticks with you. the quiet look in his eyes. the flash of hair, thick and real. the way his hand twitched when your eyes lingered too long.
it wasn’t embarrassment. it was… something else, like instinct. like hiding.
like he didn’t want you to see too much.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO GETS TWITCHY WHEN YOU COME BACK SMELLING LIKE SOMEONE ELSE . . .
you barely finish locking the door behind you when toji’s voice cuts across the room.
“the fuck is that smell?”
you freeze mid-step, one shoe half off. “huh?”
he’s sitting on the couch, legs spread, arms folded, looking at you like you just dragged roadkill into the apartment. the tv’s on, something muted and boring, but his eyes are glued to you—sharp, irritated.
you sniff your shoulder. “i... don’t smell anything?”
“you don’t,” he mutters, eyes narrowing. “but i do.”
you straighten up, confused. “i came from the library. i was with—”
“yeah,” he cuts in flatly. “i know.”
there’s a pause. just long enough to make your stomach twist.
“you gonna shower or what?” he asks.
you blink. “right now?”
“yeah. now.” he leans forward, elbows on his knees, tone low and firm. “you’re trackin’ three other people’s scent all over my dorm. it’s disgusting.”
“jesus, okay—sorry i have a social life.”
he doesn’t respond. just stares. the kind of stare that makes your skin prickle, like you’re too close to something that might bite.
you toe off your shoes. “it’s not that serious, man. give me five minutes to eat and—”
“no,” he snaps.
you look up, startled.
“you’re not puttin’ your shit on the couch. not touchin’ anything. not even the floor. you reek.”
his voice is calm, but there’s a weight behind it—cold and heavy, pressing down the back of your neck. you’ve seen toji irritated before—usually over traffic or a chipped mug—but this is different. his whole body’s coiled like a tripwire, and it’s all directed at you.
“alright, fuck, i get it,” you mutter, raising your hands in mock surrender. “i’ll shower.”
he doesn’t reply. just watches as you backtrack toward the bathroom like he’s making sure you actually go through with it.
you shut the door a little harder than necessary and lean against it, heart thudding. the hell was that? he’s never been this intense before. sure, he’s blunt and weirdly strict sometimes, but this was something else entirely.
you glance at your reflection and wrinkle your nose. do you really smell that bad?
as soon as the water starts running, some of the tension bleeds off—barely. you try not to overthink it while stripping down, stepping under the stream. but the image of his face—jaw tight, eyes cold—sticks in your head. it wasn’t just annoyance.
it was something closer to disgust. territorial.
you scrub harder than usual.
when you come out ten minutes later, towel around your neck and hair still dripping, he’s right where you left him. still on the couch, but now leaning back with one arm slung over the backrest, watching you with unreadable eyes.
“…better?” you ask dryly.
“yeah.”
you hesitate for a second, then head toward your bed, still towel-clad. he doesn’t say anything else, but you can feel his eyes on your back as you walk.
it makes your skin crawl.
but not in a bad way.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO GROWLS IN HIS SLEEP . . .
you’re not sure what’s more exhausting—your presentation due tomorrow or the fact that you’re still working on it while half-asleep and slightly cross-eyed. the glow of your laptop screen is starting to burn into your retinas, but the moment you shift to close the damn thing, your brain remembers a slide you forgot to fix.
so you grit your teeth and keep going, back pressed against the headboard, blanket half-draped over your legs, and a half-empty water bottle rolling dangerously close to your ankle.
it’s one of those rare nights when toji knocked out before you did. not that you’re keeping track or anything—but it’s so uncommon that it almost feels like witnessing a shooting star. he’s curled up under his blanket across the room, a pillow covering his entire head like he’s trying to suffocate himself on purpose.
you're not even sure if it's comfortable, but he hasn't moved in the past twenty minutes, so maybe he's dead. or just incredibly asleep.
you're halfway through rephrasing a sentence when you hear it.
a low, guttural noise. deep. primal. angry.
you freeze. like actually freeze—fingers hovering over your keyboard, heart doing this little hiccup in your chest. you glance toward toji’s bed, thinking maybe he's awake, maybe he's watching something on his phone with the volume down low and bass on max. but his screen is off. and he hasn't moved.
then it happens again.
grrrrrrrrrr...
you nearly jump out of your skin. it sounds like a fucking animal. like something you'd hear behind you in a horror game just before you get mauled.
and then you realize.
it's coming from toji.
“what the fuck,” you whisper to yourself, staring at the pillow-covered lump across the room. “are you growling right now?”
there's no response, obviously. just another rumble, this one more of a snort, like he’s annoyed even in his sleep. you don't know whether to laugh or leave the dorm completely. who the hell snores like that? no—this isn't even snoring.
you’re half-convinced if you yank that pillow off his face, you’ll find a second mouth under there or something equally cursed.
you glance back at your laptop, then at him, then back at the laptop again.
“…i’m gonna pretend i didn’t hear that,” you mutter, dragging your blanket higher and doing your best to ignore the occasional low growl still rumbling from his bed like distant thunder. "whatever eldritch shit you're dreaming about, that’s between you and god."
still, you don’t go back to your slide right away. you just sit there listening, vaguely unsettled.
he sounds like he’s guarding something...?
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO KEEPS DOING THINGS THAT ARE BORDERLINE AFFECTIONATE . . .
you don’t expect him to be home.
technically, he’s not supposed to be. you remember him saying something earlier—something about going to train off-campus, something vague and grunted in that gravelly voice of his while you were half-asleep and facedown in a bowl of cereal. it didn’t sound like he’d be back anytime soon.
which is why it doesn’t make sense that the lights are on when you get back to the dorm.
you blink at the door, then double-check the hallway. no one around. it’s not late, but it’s quiet—just the hum of old pipes and the faint buzz of a vending machine down the hall. you unlock the door slowly, warily, like the inside might look different somehow.
and it does.
not by much, but still. there’s a plastic bag sitting on the kitchen counter, and when you peek inside, there’s a neatly packed to-go container. your stomach turns on instinct—recognizes the smell before your brain does. the grilled meat rice bowl from that place you keep swearing you’re gonna quit ordering from because it’s overpriced and always sold out by the time you get off campus.
except they didn’t sell out today. because it’s right here.
you stare at it for a moment. then glance toward the hallway. the bathroom door’s shut. faint sound of running water.
he is home.
you don’t even get a chance to call out before the door opens and he steps out, rubbing a towel over his head. his hair’s damp, skin still flushed from the shower, and he freezes the second he sees you holding the bag.
you lift it slightly. “this yours?”
he doesn’t answer right away. just shrugs the towel off his head and tosses it toward the laundry bin with a lazy flick of his wrist. “got two. figured you’d be hungry.”
“you went out of your way to get this,” you say slowly, watching him. “that place is like fifteen minutes from the gym.”
“so?” he mutters, brushing past you toward the fridge. “it’s not that far.”
“you hate crowds.”
“it wasn’t crowded.”
“it’s always crowded.”
he opens the fridge. stares inside like it’s got the answers to life’s greatest mysteries. then shuts it again and turns around, his face unreadable.
“are you seriously gonna bitch about gettin’ free food?” he asks.
you narrow your eyes. “no. i’m just confused.”
“you want the food or not?”
“…i want the food.”
he responds flatly, “then stop talkin’.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO ACTS WEIRD WHEN A FULL MOON IS APPROACHING . . .
“oh, hey. full moon this weekend,” you say absentmindedly, tossing your phone face-down onto the table after seeing a random post about it on twitter.
you don’t even glance at him. you’re too focused on finding the tv remote between the couch cushions. maybe that’s why you miss the way he freezes. he doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t make a sound. his posture stiffens like something just locked up in his spine, and his hand—resting on the armrest—curls just slightly into a fist.
when you finally glance over, he’s already looking away. his jaw is tight, visibly clenched, and his fingers flex like he’s trying to shake tension out of them. the muscles in his neck twitch once before going still again.
you blink and squint at him, confused for a second. “…what?”
he doesn’t answer directly. after a beat of silence, he mutters something low under his breath about having stuff to do that weekend. the words come out flat and quiet enough that you barely catch them. he doesn’t elaborate.
you frown a little, but let it go. you don’t think anything of it—until the disappearances start.
at first you assume he’s just being his usual asshole self again. toji’s not exactly known for consistency. ever since you started rooming together, he’s mostly been lazy, half-asleep, or lounging on the couch with no sense of schedule. he’d gotten too used to your presence. now, suddenly, he’s gone at 2 a.m. with no warning or reason?
the first night it happens, you wake up because you heard the faint sound of footsteps, quiet but quick, and the soft click of the front door locking behind toji. when you peek into the hallway, it’s empty. the living room too. his shoes are gone. his jacket isn’t on the rack.
you check the clock: 2:47 a.m.
you frown and crawl back to bed, telling yourself not to be weird about it. maybe he just went for a walk. maybe he was hungry. maybe it’s not your business.
but then it happens again the next night. and again after that.
every single time, he comes back around dawn—sometimes a little after 6 a.m., other times just as the sky is starting to lighten. his hoodie is usually smudged with dirt, and you notice his jeans have grass stains near the knees. sometimes his hands are scraped up. other times, there’s something off about the way he moves, like he’s sore in places he doesn’t want to talk about.
he never says where he’s been. he just walks in, heads straight for the shower, and crashes in bed without another word.
you’d ask if he was getting laid somewhere, but honestly, he looks too pissed off and exhausted for that. more than once, you hear him groan like his body’s giving out.
huh.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO GETS DEFENSIVE THE MOMENT YOU ASK HIM WHAT HE’S HIDING . . .
after the fourth day, you stop pretending you’re not noticing.
“what’s going on with you?”
toji doesn’t look up from the fridge. he’s rifling through it with one hand, the other braced on the counter for balance. his hair is still damp from another early morning shower, and there’s a faint bruise forming under his jaw that you’re sure wasn’t there yesterday. his hoodie is unzipped halfway, revealing a flash of his collarbone and the line of muscle that disappears into his sweatpants.
“you gonna get to the point or just keep starin’?” he grunts, not even bothering to turn around.
you ignore the sarcasm. “you’ve been disappearing every night this week.”
he snorts and reaches for a water bottle. “what’s it to you?”
you fold your arms and keep your voice level. “seriously, toji. where the hell are you going?”
he shuts the fridge harder than necessary. the bottles inside rattle against each other, and the sound echoes in the quiet kitchen. “none of your business,” he replies without looking at you.
you follow him to the table, watching the way he drops into the chair like his whole body aches. “it kind of is, man,” you argue. “you’re not going to classes, you look like shit, and you come back covered in dirt like you fought your way out of a fucking grave. if you’re in trouble—”
“i said drop it.”
his voice is sharp, cutting clean through your words. it isn’t loud—he doesn’t need to raise it—but the edge in it is enough to shut you up. he doesn’t yell, doesn’t glare, but the tone is enough to make your pulse skip for half a second.
toji unscrews the cap of the water bottle and downs half of it like he’s been in a desert for days. his fingers tap against the label once, slow and controlled.
“i don’t owe you a play-by-play,” he says eventually, eyes still fixed on the bottle. “we’re not datin’.”
you try not to let the frustration creep into your voice. “i didn’t say we were.”
“then stop acting like you’re my fuckin’ wife,” he mutters, standing abruptly. he walks off without giving you another glance, the sound of the front door shutting behind him louder than it should be.
you stare at the hallway, arms still crossed. your jaw clenches, but more than that, you feel unsettled.
this isn’t normal for him. toji’s secretive, yeah. you’ve gotten used to that. he’s not a guy who talks just to fill silence. but this isn’t privacy—this is avoidance. and whatever he’s avoiding, it’s starting to look less like a bad mood and more like something he can’t control.
you think about the moon again. think about how he froze when you mentioned it.
and you wonder what the hell it is you’re not seeing.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO FINALLY GETS CAUGHT . . .
you honestly thought you'd get a few hours of peace today. toji had a required lecture he couldn’t skip unless he wanted to repeat the whole semester, so you figured the dorm would be empty.
you’d even planned it out: find your charger, eat something that wasn’t instant noodles, and maybe breathe without walking on eggshells for once. ever since the tension between the two of you started, you’d been giving him space. or at least trying to.
you unlock the door with your head down, muttering under your breath, “where the hell did i put that charger—”
your words die in your throat as you step inside and look up.
toji’s in the room. and he is definitely not at his lecture.
he’s also shirtless, standing with one arm halfway shoved through the sleeve of a black t-shirt. his chest rises slightly as if he was startled mid-movement, but that’s not what has you frozen.
the ears are what make your brain short-circuit.
short, pointed, and covered in black hair, they sit at the top of his head like they’ve always belonged there—twitching subtly like they’re tracking you. for a second you honestly think you might be hallucinating, except you blink, and they’re still there.
your eyes drift lower. he's ripped, obviously—you knew that—but now there’s the added complication of the thick black tail hanging behind him. it curves slightly at the end, curling over the waistband of his sweatpants like it’s completely normal. like it isn’t the most insane thing you’ve ever walked in on.
toji stares at you. you stare back. neither of you move.
“uh,” you say after a long, painful silence. “is this why you’ve been disappearing at night? because... you’re a furry?”
toji’s expression immediately sinks into one of pure disdain. he exhales loudly, dragging a hand down his face as the shirt falls forgotten to the floor. his ears twitch sharply in irritation, which only makes it worse because now you’re staring at them in real time.
“jesus,” he mutters. “i knew you were a fuckin’ idiot.”
you blink. “i mean, i didn’t know the tech for those ears got this advanced—”
“shut up,” he snaps, cutting you off like he doesn’t even want to humor whatever’s happening in your brain. “just shut up and close the damn door.”
you’re still frozen in place, heart hammering, but your hand moves automatically to shut the door behind you with a soft click. the air is thick with something unspoken, something raw and charged, and you can’t tell if you should be afraid or impressed or deeply, deeply confused.
your brain is still trying to catch up to what you just walked in on, but you push through the mental static and do your best to sound... normal. supportive, even.
“look, man,” you begin, carefully, hands raised halfway in a peace gesture. “i just want you to know that if—if this is your thing or whatever, i’m not judging. like, at all. live your truth. some people knit, some people join cosplay clubs, some people—i don’t know—put on ears and tails. who am i to say anything? we’re all just trying to get by.”
toji doesn’t even look at you as he pulls his shirt over his head. it’s one of those tight black ones that clings to every inch of muscle on his torso, and it takes real effort not to stare too long at the way it stretches across his chest and arms.
especially when his tail flicks once behind him in irritation, drawing attention to itself like it knows you’re trying not to look. great.
“you’re not helpin’,” toji mutters, voice flat as he smooths the hem of the shirt down over his abs. “and i already told you to shut the hell up.”
“right. right,” you nod quickly, still standing awkwardly near the door. “just thought i’d let you know i’m chill about it, is all. you don’t have to feel weird around me. you know, if this is a lifestyle thing—”
he turns to you sharply, ears twitching again. “what part of ‘shut up’ did you not understand?”
you clamp your mouth shut.
he sighs, long and heavy, and stalks toward you with the kind of slow, predatory energy that immediately sets your nerves on fire. before you can take a step back, his hand curls into the front of your shirt and he drags you—effortlessly—across the room.
you stumble into the couch behind you as he shoves you down into it, still standing over you with that same deadpan expression. his tail twitches behind him, and it takes everything in you not to say something about how real it looks.
he leans down slightly, resting a hand on the couch back as his eyes bore into yours.
“if you say another word,” he says calmly, “i will bite your fuckin’ head off.”
your eyes flick to his mouth, where his lips are pulled back just enough to show off a gleam of teeth. not normal teeth. sharper. animal-like. they catch the light and make your stomach drop in a way that’s equal parts awe and concern.
“got it,” you whisper, pressing your lips tightly together.
the silence that follows is thick. you sit there frozen, unsure whether you’re allowed to blink. toji stares at you for a second longer, then lets out another sigh and straightens up. he turns away from you, scratching at the back of his neck like this whole thing is more annoying than anything else.
but the silence keeps growing. and your mouth, unfortunately, has never learned how to stay shut for long.
“so... you are gonna explain this, right?”
he turns his head just enough to shoot you a glare. “disobedient little shit.”
you flinch a little, but don’t look away. your hands are clenched in your lap now, and your voice comes out a bit smaller than before. “i mean, i think i’m owed at least some context here.”
toji huffs. his ears twitch again, betraying the irritation he tries to keep off his face. after a beat of silence, he finally mutters under his breath.
“fine.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO LOSES HIS SANITY TRYING TO EXPLAIN WHAT HE IS . . .
toji starts pacing.
he doesn't even bother trying to act casual about it—his movements are sharp, almost agitated, like he’s trying to burn through a fuse before it catches. your eyes track him automatically, more out of instinct than curiosity, but you can’t help noticing how his tail flicks wildly behind him, like it's just as tense as he is.
his ears are twitching nonstop too, swiveling every time you so much as breathe. the worst part is how normal it all looks on him. like they belong there.
he finally stops mid-stride and whips around to face you. “stop lookin’ at me like i’m one of those freaks,” he snaps.
you blink, caught off guard. “freaks?”
“yeah, the freaks,” toji repeats, like it’s obvious. “the ones who buy glue-on tails and make weird sounds at each other in public. fuckin’ wannabes.” he sounds personally offended. “they’re pretendin’. i’m not. don’t lump me in with them.”
your eyebrows slowly start to rise as your brain catches up to what he’s implying. and once it does, your concern skyrockets.
“wait,” you say carefully, “do you... do you think you’re, like... different? like biologically? are you mad because you think the furries are stealing your... i don’t know. culture?”
toji’s face twists into something murderous. “don’t finish that sentence,” he growls.
you shut up instantly.
for a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of him breathing through his nose, sharp and irritated. then, like a switch flipping, he exhales in a long, frustrated sigh and runs a hand down his face.
“i’m just trying to understand,” you say weakly, shrinking into the couch. “this is a lot.”
he turns his head slowly to glare at you over his shoulder. “stop thinkin’ so loud.”
“i—what?”
“i can hear your stupid thoughts. you’re spiralin’.”
you avert your eyes, guilt prickling at your spine. “sorry,” you mumble.
toji mutters something under his breath and drags a hand down the back of his neck again. for the first time, he seems reluctant. not because he’s shy, obviously, but explaining this seems to physically pain him.
“look,” he says flatly, “whatever you’re imaginin’, it’s not that. i’m not delusional. my ears are real. so is the tail. they’ve always been. i don’t know what kind of advanced psycho bullshit you’re tryin’ to diagnose me with, but this isn’t that.”
you stare at him in silence for a long second, brain slowly melting. he sounds serious. dead serious. which would be fine if this wasn’t the most unserious shit you’ve ever heard in your life.
“so you’re not roleplaying,” you say dumbly.
toji throws you a look like he’s two seconds from strangling you.
“okay, okay,” you raise your hands quickly, “just clarifying.”
he rolls his eyes and starts pacing again, grumbling something that sounds like another insult to furries. your gaze drifts back to his tail as it sways behind him, less agitated now but still clearly alive.
your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “what if it’s just really good prosthetics?” you say to yourself.
“what the fuck did i just say about your thoughts?” toji snaps.
you ignore him. curiosity gets the better of you.
the moment he passes by the couch again, you reach out on instinct. your fingers close around the thick base of his tail and you tug, expecting something light or fake to give way.
what you get instead is a sharp, very real jolt of resistance—and a very real reaction.
“fuck—!” toji snarls, whirling around with wide eyes and a tick forming near his brow. his hand flies back to swat yours away, and his tail immediately coils like it’s guarding itself. his ears pin flat against his head, and for the first time all evening, he looks genuinely pissed.
“what the hell is wrong with you?” he demands, practically vibrating with rage. “do i look like a fuckin’ toy to you?!”
you’re frozen, staring up at him with your mouth slightly open. “it’s real,” you whisper, horrified.
he throws his hands in the air. “yeah, no shit! that’s what i’ve been sayin’ this entire fucking time!”
“i thought maybe it was a delusion!” you yelp, genuinely panicked now. “like, you believed it was real, but it wasn’t actually, you know? like a... tail placebo!”
“a what?”
you try to explain, but words are failing you. mostly because your entire worldview just took a nosedive into the uncanny valley. toji glares at you like he’s actively fighting the urge to murder you on the spot.
“pull that shit again,” he says lowly, “and you’re gonna lose a fuckin’ finger.”
you nod mutely. the silence stretches thick between you, broken only by the angry flick of his tail and your own stunned breathing.
finally, toji turns away again and mutters, “you’re the actual psychotic one.”
you decide not to argue. instead, you sit very still for a moment, reeling. not because he threatened to bite your finger off, though that part was admittedly a little terrifying, but because now there’s a lot more you have to wrap your head around.
namely: why the hell is fushiguro toji—your very human-looking, emotionally constipated roommate—suddenly the poster boy for something out of a dystopian anime?
“okay,” you say slowly. “then... what are you?”
he tenses again. not as violently as before, but it’s enough to notice. his back is to you, shoulders squared, head tilted like he’s deciding if you’re worth answering at all.
“i’m not some fairy tale,” he grumbles.
“i know,” you say quickly. “i’m just trying to understand. i’ve never seen anything like this before, and i’ve definitely never heard of—whatever this is, hybrids?—being real.”
toji exhales hard through his nose and turns slightly to glance out the window, as if pretending he’s somewhere else will make this conversation end faster. you don’t miss the way his fingers flex again at his sides, as if he’s fighting some invisible impulse. his voice is low and tight when he finally responds.
“don’t call it ‘whatever this is.’ and stop sayin’ that hybrid crap.”
you blink. “okay. then what is it?”
he turns around fully this time and meets your gaze, his expression unreadable. there’s no more twitching ears or angry tail flicking. he just looks... tired.
“synthetica,” he says. “that’s the real term. ‘synths’ for short.”
you stare at him blankly. “that sounds made up.”
toji snorts. “it is. someone in a lab probably got bored and slapped a cool-soundin’ name on us so they’d feel less like criminals.”
you’re not sure what to say to that, so you don’t.
he goes quiet for a moment, jaw working. begrudgingly, he adds, “we’re not common. there’s only a handful of us out there. most people don’t even know we exist.”
“but... why?” you ask, voice soft. “how?”
toji shrugs, eyes flicking to the floor. “top secret international experiment. bunch of countries workin’ together on god knows what. japan is one of them. they’re tryin’ to engineer living weapons or somethin’ close to it. human bases, animal enhancements. better senses, faster reflexes, that kinda shit.”
your brows furrow. “you were made in a lab?”
he gives you a sharp look. “don’t say it like that.”
“i didn’t mean—i’m not trying to be an asshole, i just—god,” you exhale. “that’s a lot.”
toji lets out a humorless laugh. “you think it’s a lot hearin’ about it? try bein’ it.”
you swallow thickly. “how many of you are there?”
“not many,” he says. “low success rate. most don’t survive the process, and even the ones that do usually break down early. mentally, physically. too many issues. the ones that make it—” he gestures vaguely at himself, “—they monitor for years. and if you’re stable enough, they sell you.”
the words hit you like a brick to the chest. “they sell you?”
“yeah. to the rich. the government. collectors. freaks with too much money and not enough morals.”
you feel sick.
he glances at you again and, for a second—something softer flickers in his eyes, almost self-deprecating.
“i got lucky,” he mutters. “guy who bought me... he treated me like a person. raised me like a normal kid. not a pet, not a fucktoy. just a kid.”
toji’s expression hardens. “most aren’t that lucky.”
he doesn’t elaborate. he doesn’t really have to.
you let the silence stretch for a minute. the room feels colder than it did before. outside the window, the campus lights glow dimly under the night sky, but in here, it’s like the entire world narrowed down to just him.
fushiguro toji, who has ears and a tail and a past stitched together by governments and greed.
he shifts his weight like he’s ready to be done with this conversation, and honestly, you don’t blame him. “you satisfied?” he mutters. “or you gonna keep grillin’ me like some nosy fuck?”
you shake your head quickly. “no, i’m—i’m good. i mean, not good, but... i get it. kind of.”
you let the weight of his words settle in your chest. the silence between you stretches again, long and taut like a held breath. you don’t really know what to say, but you know what not to say. no wide-eyed sympathy, no pitying bullshit, no “you’re still you” garbage that he would probably spit back at you with disgust.
instead, you meet his eyes—still sharp and waiting—and say, “i’m not gonna tell anyone.”
he doesn’t respond immediately. he just stares at you like he’s assessing whether or not you’re lying. then, with a small scoff and an exaggerated roll of his eyes, he leans back against the window frame and mutters, “i know.”
you raise a brow. “you know?”
“if i thought you were the kind of idiot who’d go runnin’ your mouth, i would’ve broken your jaw ten minutes ago.” his voice is casual, like he’s talking about the weather. “my old man has enough money to erase people. wouldn’t be hard.”
“great. comforting.”
he shrugs, unfazed. “wasn’t meant to be.”
still, the threat lingers in the air—a reminder that you’re not dealing with a regular guy. there’s something sharper beneath the surface. something more dangerous. even if he’s choosing not to aim it at you.
you swallow hard and draw your knees to your chest, propping your feet on the couch and resting your chin on top. your voice is quieter now when you ask, “does anyone else know?”
toji scoffs, as if that question alone was insulting. “of course not.”
you nod, feeling a little stupid for asking. “right. yeah. didn’t think so.”
he doesn’t say anything to that, but you notice the way his body has eased slightly. not relaxed, exactly, but the tension in his shoulders seems to have drained just a bit. like something inside him uncoiled the moment you said you weren’t going to tell.
he stays standing for a few more seconds, watching you. his gaze isn’t hostile anymore—it’s just unreadable. and then he pushes off the wall and heads toward the kitchen like the conversation never happened.
you stay where you are, trying to make sense of everything. trying to piece together the version of toji you thought you knew with the one who just admitted to being engineered like a weapon.
from the kitchen, you hear the fridge door open and then shut again.
“you want anythin’?” his voice is gruff, casual, like he’s asking about a beer run and not pretending you didn’t just shatter a government secret between you.
you blink at the back of his head and answer, “no, i’m good.”
he grunts something noncommittal and disappears behind the fridge door again.
and somehow, despite everything, you find yourself exhaling. not because things are normal—they aren’t. but because, for whatever reason, he told you the truth. and that has to count for something.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO DOESN’T TALK ABOUT IT BUT DOESN’T HIDE IT EITHER . . .
things have been going… smoother, somehow. or at least, as smooth as things could be when your roommate was a genetically engineered hybrid with a tail that twitched every time you said something stupid. you don’t talk about the night you found out. he never brings it up, and you don’t push him to.
but the atmosphere between you has shifted, like something’s settled.
it’s a thursday afternoon when you catch him lounging on the couch. he’s got some rerun playing on the tv, barely paying attention, scrolling through his phone with one hand. he’s still got a jacket on—black, zipped halfway—but for once, the hood is down. and his tail is out, relaxed and lazily draped over the side of the cushions. it twitches slightly when you walk past.
you don’t mean to stare. really, you don’t. but you do.
toji catches you almost immediately. doesn’t even look up from his phone as he grunts, “if you’re gonna gawk, at least grab me a drink or somethin’.”
“you want anything specific, your majesty?”
he finally looks over then, eyes dragging up lazily to meet yours. “cold. fizzy. preferably not your cheap ass soda.”
you huff a laugh and make your way to the fridge, grabbing a can and tossing it to him. he catches it with one hand like it’s nothing, then cracks it open with a satisfied sigh. his tail curls slightly, almost subconsciously.
you’re still watching him. not as obviously this time, but he notices anyway.
“what now,” he mutters, side-eyeing you.
you hesitate, then ask, “can you, like… retract them?”
“what the fuck.”
“your ears and tail. can you make them disappear? like in anime.”
he lets out a groan that sounds half like a growl. “stop comparin’ me to that fictional bullshit.”
“it’s a valid question,” you mutter.
“no, dumbass. i can’t retract them. this isn’t some magical girl shit.” he takes another sip of his drink, then adds, more begrudgingly, “old man said the lab’s working on some suppressant or whatever. chemical compound shit. supposed to help us blend in easier.”
“like a serum?”
“somethin’ like that.”
you raise an eyebrow. “and… you’re not using it because…?”
toji shrugs. “probably costs a fuckton. not like he can’t afford it, but i’d rather deal with annoyin’ stares than inject myself with some new experimental crap.”
you hum under your breath, thoughtful. it’s easy to forget sometimes—how advanced science had gotten. and how most people were probably walking past synths without even knowing. the fact that someone like toji was one? someone who kept to himself, skipped parties, threatened to bite your head off for sitting on his bed? it felt unreal.
and yet here you were. watching his ears twitch every time the soda fizzed too loud. watching his tail flick with annoyance when you took too long to respond. watching him, quietly, and thinking maybe it wasn’t all that strange anymore.
“you done starin’?” he asks, voice low.
“nope.”
“i’ll fucking deck you.”
you smile. “you say that every time.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO STARTS LEAVING HIS HOODIE OFF WHEN HE’S HOME . . .
the first time it happens, he comes out of the shower wearing nothing but a fitted black tank top and sweatpants, towel slung around his neck. no hoodie. no cap. his hair is damp, clinging to the sides of his face, ears twitching every so slightly as he walks past you like nothing’s changed.
he doesn’t say a word. just heads straight to his desk, opens his laptop, and starts clicking through whatever work he’s got lined up. you catch the faint flick of his tail, lazy and relaxed, swaying near the floor.
your footsteps creak a little on the floorboards as you cross the room, and his ears twitch again—subtle, but you notice. like they’re still getting used to being out in the open. but he doesn’t tense, doesn’t glare at you, doesn’t even tell you to fuck off.
you throw yourself on your bed with a soft thump and bury your face into your pillow, biting down a smile. you don’t say anything, don’t point it out. you just… let him be. and he lets you be. which, in a weird way, feels like a win.
the next time, he gets back from the gym late, the front door creaking open as you sit by the fridge, lazily picking at the grapes you’d stuffed into a bowl earlier. you look up just in time to see him tug his hoodie over his head and fling it onto the nearest chair, cap following suit as he runs a hand through his messy, sweat-damp hair.
he’s shirtless. again. glistening slightly from the workout. you tell yourself not to look. then you promptly look.
you clear your throat and pretend to cover your nose. “jesus, you stink. that gym must be cursed.”
he doesn’t miss a beat, twisting open a water bottle and chugging half of it before glancing down at you with a faint scowl. “funny. you smell worse every time i walk through the door.”
you snort, almost choking on a grape. “rude.”
he smirks faintly, the curve of it just barely there before he turns and leans on the counter beside you, tail flicking once near your leg. you try not to stare again.
but it’s hard not to admire the way his shoulders flex when he lifts the bottle to his lips again.
you lose the teasing edge in your voice as your gaze softens, eyes flicking to his ears—twitching once, but no longer tense. “i’m glad you’re not hiding anymore.”
he pauses. not long. just enough for you to catch the faint shift in his expression.
he scoffs, rolling his eyes as he pushes off the counter and mutters, “don’t get used to it.”
but you both know he doesn’t mean it. his tail brushes lightly against your shin before he walks away.
he’s still the same pain in the ass. but little by little, the armor’s peeling back.
you watch him as he flops onto the couch, tail draped lazily over the side, scrolling on his phone like he didn’t just take a step forward. like this is normal now.
and maybe, for him, it’s starting to be.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO STARTS ACTING LIKE HE ACTUALLY CARES ABOUT YOU . . .
it’s subtle. toji never makes anything obvious—like you’re supposed to piece him together on your own, without a manual, without instructions, just a mess of sharp edges and muscle memory.
you're half-asleep on the couch after a long ass day, your laptop still open beside you with a half-written paragraph glowing on the screen. the dorm’s quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the soft pat of footsteps across the floor. you don’t even lift your head until there’s a soft thump on the table next to you.
a glass of water. cold. no ice, because you never like ice.
you blink at it, then slowly glance up toji, who’s standing a few feet away, already looking at his phone like he didn’t just do something weirdly considerate. you open your mouth to say something—anything—but he cuts you off before the words come out.
“you looked like you were dyin’,” he mutters. “hydrate or whatever.”
you stare a second longer. "...you feeling alright?"
“shut up.”
your charger breaks, and without a word, he leaves his on your desk before he heads out for the day.
he starts ordering extra food. not a lot. just enough for you to notice that he keeps dropping a second serving of dumplings on the counter. he never says it’s for you, but he never eats it either.
you come home late one night, tired, brain-fried from a group project that went nowhere. the dorm is dark except for the glow from toji’s side of the room. he’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, hoodie off for once, tail curled lazily around his hip. his ears twitch when you enter, but he doesn’t say anything. just glances up briefly before going back to the old paperback in his hands.
you throw your bag down and flop into your bed with a groan, muttering into your pillow, “kill me. please.”
toji’s voice is quiet. “what happened.”
you blink. roll over. “what?”
he doesn’t look up. “the group thin’. whatever.”
you stare. “…you actually listen to me?”
“unfortunately.”
and maybe it's nothing. maybe it's just these little things, these offhand gestures and quiet reactions. but when you glance over at him later that night, you find his tail slowly tapping against the mattress in a steady rhythm.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO LETS HIS GUARD DOWN AROUND YOU . . .
somehow, toji ends up sleeping in the most random ass places these days.
like the couch. or the floor near the closet. you caught him passed out in the weird little nook by the window once, with a blanket half-draped over his chest and his tail lazily curled around a throw pillow.
he doesn’t even bother hiding anymore. no more burying his face under pillows like he’s allergic to being perceived. instead, he just knocks out cold wherever he feels like it. sprawled across the mattress like a corpse, one arm over his eyes, mouth slightly open, and snoring like a hellbeast.
no, really. it’s not cute. you thought the growling thing he did in his sleep was rare—some weird fluke that happened when he was having a bad dream or something—but no. apparently, that’s just his baseline.
there’s one night he falls asleep on the couch and you actually pause your movie because you think something’s growling behind you. turns out it’s just toji, chest rumbling, ears twitching, looking way too peaceful for someone snoring like a monster truck.
you try not to think about how comfortable he’s gotten. or how normal it feels now to see a tail flick lazily over the back of your shared couch. or the way his ears move when he hears you unlock the door, even if his body doesn’t.
and then there’s the food thing.
you come home one day and the dorm smells like grilled meat. actual grilled meat. not the instant crap you usually microwave. you turn the corner into the kitchen and there he is—shirtless, obviously, because why would he cook with clothes on—leaned over the counter with three full plates of steak and chicken and god-knows-what-else.
you deadpan, “did you eat someone?”
toji doesn’t look up. he rips into a piece of meat like it insulted his family. “don’t fuckin’ talk to me while i’m eatin’.”
“yes, sir. my bad.”
somewhere between the fourth and fifth steak, he looks up and notices you still staring.
“…you want some or what?”
you decline, because you’re not sure your digestive system could survive whatever prehistoric protein he’s inhaling.
but it’s weirdly domestic, watching him eat like this—no posturing, just unapologetically wolfing food down like this is his house and you’re the guest.
that night, you’re both in bed—your beds, respectively, because boundaries—and you’re scrolling through your phone while he lies there with his arm over his eyes, tail twitching every now and then like he’s already halfway to sleep.
you speak before thinking. “hey.”
he groans. “what.”
“…what breed are you?”
you swear you hear him physically grind his teeth together.
“cane corso,” he mutters, like it physically pains him to say it. “now shut up and go to sleep.”
you blink up at the ceiling. “huh. yeah. no, that makes a lot of sense actually.”
“sleep,” he growls again, but there’s no bite in it. just exhaustion.
you smile to yourself, just a little.
cane corso. yeah. big, territorial, kind of scary, probably could rip your face off if he wanted.
but he hasn’t. and he won’t.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO BEGRUDGINGLY LETS YOU TOUCH HIS EARS . . .
you’re both slouched on the couch, some true crime documentary droning on in the background. the narrator’s going on about a decades-old cold case, but you haven’t absorbed anything since the last commercial break. your focus has… shifted.
specifically, toji’s ears.
they twitch sometimes. subtle little movements, like a cat’s. one flicks toward the TV when the sound gets sharp. the other flicks back toward the hallway when something thuds faintly in the dorms. it’s not like he’s doing it on purpose either—he looks completely checked out, arms crossed, legs folded underneath him, blank expression fixed on the screen.
you glance at him from the corner of your eye, then look away.
and then you do it again.
and again.
by the seventh time, he lets out a heavy, annoyed huff through his nose. doesn’t look at you, just mutters, “what the fuck are you lookin’ at?”
you freeze for a second. then purse your lips, squinting forward like you’re pretending to focus on the documentary again. “nothing.”
his gaze sharpens. “bullshit.”
you sigh, giving up the act. you turn your head fully this time, resting your cheek against the back of the couch as you stare at him openly. “can i touch your ears?”
he blinks. once. slow and unamused.
“…what the fuck did you just say to me?”
you sit up straighter. “your ears. i just—i’m curious, okay? do they feel like real dog ears or not?”
his eyes narrow, jaw clenching slightly like you just insulted his bloodline. “the hell kinda dumbass question is that?”
you shrug. “a valid one?”
“do i look like a fuckin’ golden retriever to you?”
“no, you look like a pissed off cane corso, which is worse,” you mutter under your breath, not quietly enough.
he gives you a long, exhausted look.
but you’re already leaning forward with your hands clasped together. “c’mon, just for a second. please. i’ll stop if it’s weird. i swear.”
he stares at you. you can practically see the gears turning in his head—probably weighing the annoyance of saying yes against the bigger annoyance of saying no and having to listen to you whine about it.
eventually, he exhales through his nose. short. sharp. “fine. one second.”
you grin, victorious, and scoot closer. “hell yeah.”
you reach up carefully, fingers brushing the edge of one of his ears before you press in gently. it’s soft. like really soft. surprisingly warm too, and there’s a slight twitch under your touch like he’s trying not to flinch.
“huh,” you murmur, dragging your thumb along the velvety surface. “that’s crazy.”
he doesn’t say anything. just sits there with his arms still crossed, legs pulled up into a lazy cross-legged position, looking like a statue carved entirely out of apathy. his eye twitches every few seconds. you pretend not to notice.
you keep petting, half-entranced by the texture, the subtle responses—his ears flicking slightly, one tilting toward your fingers.
then, after a minute or so, his ears suddenly flatten back against his head and he swats your hand away. not hard, not with the kind of force you know he’s capable of—just a low-effort thwap, like he’s shooing a fly.
“that’s enough.”
you draw your hand back with a small pout. “damn. you’re no fun.”
“they get sensitive if you keep messing with ‘em,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s already regretting all his life choices.
you lean back again, arms crossed now. “kind of a good thing you don’t take the serum to hide them. they’re soft as hell.”
toji groans and tilts his head back against the couch like he wants to melt into it and die. “are you a fuckin’ moron?”
you blink. “rude.”
“it doesn’t remove anything,” he grits out. “the serum just lets me retract ‘em when i feel like it. doesn’t make ‘em disappear forever.”
you raise an eyebrow. “so you could pop them back out on command if you wanted me to pet you again?”
he clicks his tongue and says nothing. which is… kind of an answer in itself.
you grin. “noted.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO RESPONDS TO YOUR TOUCH WITHOUT THINKING . . .
the walk back from the convenience store is quiet.
the sky is dark but not black, the kind of shade that clings to the edges of streetlights and turns the air soft and heavy. you’re carrying a couple of plastic bags full of snacks and canned coffee, the handles cutting into your fingers with each step. toji walks beside you, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, his head tipped just slightly forward like he’s too lazy to hold it up.
you glance at him out of the corner of your eye.
his ears are tucked flat, and his tail—though mostly hidden under his hoodie—is low, swaying just enough that you can tell he’s not irritated. not entirely.
you shift the bags in your hand, then reach over and press your knuckles lightly against his arm, bumping him once.
he doesn’t say anything, but he leans slightly into the pressure. barely. like he’s pretending it didn’t happen.
you do it again, knuckles tapping against his jacket. “you’re always so damn quiet when we go out. people probably think i kidnapped you.”
“you did,” he mutters.
“right. because i dragged a six-foot-two musclehead out of the house at gunpoint for banana milk.”
“wasn’t banana milk,” he says, eyes still on the sidewalk.
you bump into him again, a little more deliberately this time. “don’t change the subject.”
his tail twitches, just once.
you cut through a back alley to avoid traffic, feet crunching over loose gravel and wet leaves. there’s a vending machine humming against the wall, its light flickering faintly. you stop there, mostly out of habit.
toji stands just behind you as you bend down to press the button for canned tea.
you glance back at him. “you want one?”
he shrugs. “don’t care.”
you get two anyway.
when you hand him his, your fingers brush his. he flinches—not a big, obvious jolt, but a tight flick of his fingers before he pulls them back like the can’s too cold.
you pretend not to notice. “burn your delicate hands?”
“shut up,” he says flatly, but he doesn’t let go of the can.
you walk a few more minutes like that, trading quiet sips from your drinks, his shoulder brushing yours occasionally. it’s casual, incidental. it should be. but every time your sleeve touches his, he stiffens just slightly. not like he’s uncomfortable—more like he doesn’t know how to relax into it.
you try something.
you let your pinky drift, just enough to graze his hand. his fingers twitch again. then… stay still.
you stop at the low brick ledge outside a closed café, dropping your bags at your feet and sitting with a sigh. “my legs are gonna fall off.”
toji stays standing for a beat before finally sitting beside you. there’s space on the ledge, but he sits close—close enough that your knees knock together when he adjusts his weight.
you don’t pull away.
neither does he.
the silence stretches again, thick but not awkward. just full. you lean back, elbows propped on the edge behind you, head tilted up toward the sky. no stars tonight, just gray clouds moving slow and heavy.
you glance over at him.
he’s watching the street across from you, his face unreadable, mouth set in that neutral line he wears like armor. but when your knee nudges his again, gentle and intentional this time, his eyes flick to you for half a second.
you do it again—press your knee to his and leave it there.
toji doesn’t move.
you slide your hand down between you, let your fingers settle lightly on the edge of his thigh. you don’t grip, don’t squeeze. just let your touch rest there, warm and barely-there through the fabric of his sweats.
he goes still. completely still. but he doesn’t pull away.
his tail flicks behind him once, slow and uncertain, like he’s thinking about what to do. then he shifts just slightly—almost imperceptibly—into your touch. like his body is moving before he can second-guess it.
you both don’t say anything as your fingers stay right where they are.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO LETS YOU SLEEP ON HIS SHOULDER . . .
you’re both slouched on the couch with a textbook cracked open between your knees and your notes scattered across the coffee table. it’s past midnight, the room dim except for the soft glow of the floor lamp in the corner. you’ve been trying to understand the same formula for the past twenty minutes, and your brain feels like it’s turning to paste.
you rub your eyes and groan, voice muffled behind your palm. “toji. i’m actually gonna die.”
toji sighs like he’s regretting every life choice that brought him here. “you’ve said that five times.”
“because it’s true.”
you slump sideways, cheek pressed against the back cushion. toji doesn’t look at you—he’s too busy scribbling numbers down in your notebook with that impatient grip of his, handwriting rough and fast but somehow still legible.
“this isn’t even your major,” you mumble.
“nope.”
“why do you know this?”
“i’m not stupid,” he says flatly.
you make a halfhearted noise of agreement. his tone is sharp, sure, but his tail’s swaying lazily over the side of the couch and his ears are relaxed, twitching now and then at the sound of the pages flipping.
he finally taps the corner of the book with his pen. “look. you’re messin’ up your order of operations. it’s not that complicated. you just keep rushin’ through the setup.”
you lift your head enough to squint at the equation. “okay, but explain it to me like i’m a dumbass.”
he grunts, but obliges.
the next ten minutes are him walking you through the problem step by step, voice low and even, surprisingly clear for someone who always sounds vaguely annoyed by everything. you nod along, jot down a few things, and try your best to follow, but your focus keeps drifting. the warmth of the room, the steady cadence of his voice, and the weight of the day all start to pile on.
he keeps talking. something about rearranging terms, then canceling them out—
but you don’t respond.
“hey,” he says eventually, glancing over. “you listenin’?”
he turns his head just in time to feel a sudden weight against his shoulder.
your head. you’ve knocked out completely, slumped sideways into him with your lips parted and breath slow.
toji goes very still.
his hand hovers midair for a moment, pen still between his fingers. your temple is tucked neatly against the edge of his collarbone, and he can feel the warmth of you, the slight drag of your breath brushing through the fabric of his shirt.
he exhales through his nose, low and tired. “...seriously?”
his voice is quiet, but there’s no bite to it.
your notebook is still open on your lap, pencil caught between the pages. your fingers twitch slightly in your sleep like you're still trying to write something down, and toji watches you for a second, then mutters something under his breath and closes the book for you.
he lets you lean there longer than he should.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO STARTS TOUCHING YOU WITH HIS TAIL . . .
the first time it happens, you honestly think it’s an accident.
you’re leaning against the kitchen counter, half-awake and waiting for the kettle to boil, when something soft brushes the back of your hand. it’s fleeting, just a light flick of movement, but distinct enough to make you freeze.
you glance over, and sure enough, toji’s crouched in front of the fridge with the door wide open, tail lazily swaying behind him. it’s the only thing about him that ever seems relaxed—long and dark, fur thick and well-kept, curving through the air like it has its own moods.
your eyes drop to your hand, still resting on the counter’s edge, and then shift back to him. he doesn’t turn around right away. just grabs a container of something, straightens up, and finally glances over his shoulder like he already knows what you’re thinking.
“move your damn hand,” he says, tone flat.
but there's something off about his mouth—a flicker of amusement curling at the corner. blink and you’d miss it.
you do as he says, not because you’re scared (maybe a little), but you’re trying to figure him out.
he’s unpredictable, the type who doesn’t like people close unless he has a reason to keep them there. so you assume it’s a one-time thing, a coincidence born out of bad spacing.
except it keeps happening. not every day. not even predictably. but often enough that you start to notice.
like when the two of you are sitting at the table—he’s reading something, and you’re mindlessly scrolling through your phone—and his tail shifts under the surface, brushes your ankle once, then again, light and purposeful.
or when he walks past you in the hall and it flicks against your knee, just enough to make you feel it.
at first, you think he’s messing with you. so you say something one night, voice low and careful, like you’re testing the water. “your tail’s got a mind of its own, huh.”
he doesn’t even look up from the couch. “you got a problem with it?”
you blink. “no. just saying.”
he hums—neutral, unimpressed. but there’s a twitch of his ear that betrays him.
he’s doing it on purpose.
you start to notice how casual the touches are. they’re always brief, just enough to draw your attention without drawing anyone else’s. never lingering too long. never paired with words.
it’s like some unspoken agreement. he gets to reach out in his own way, and you don’t ask questions.
one night, it’s just the two of you again—late, quiet, the kind of atmosphere where time feels heavier than usual.
you’re both on the couch like you always are when you both have free time. the tv’s on, but neither of you are really watching. he’s stretched out on one end, socked feet propped up on the coffee table, while you’re sitting near the opposite corner, elbow resting against the armrest.
his tail shifts once. then twice. it curls slowly toward you, brushes against the back of your hand like a test.
you don’t move away. instead, you curl your fingers slightly and let them graze along the fur—barely a touch. the texture surprises you. it’s softer than it looks.
he doesn’t say anything, but his tail stills for a second. not pulling away. not twitching in warning. just still, like he’s registering it.
your eyes flick to him.
he’s looking at the screen, jaw slack, head tilted slightly like he’s more focused on the sound than the visuals. he hasn’t acknowledged what just happened, but his ears have angled faintly back—toward you.
so you trace a little more of it, fingertips dragging lightly along the curve of it.
“you’re gonna make it shed,” he mutters after a beat, still not looking at you.
“you’re the one who keeps putting it on me,” you say.
he snorts. “don’t flatter yourself.”
but he doesn’t move. his tail twitches once under your hand, like it’s deciding whether to stay there or not, and then it settles.
you don’t know what this means yet, but whatever.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO SLEEPS IN YOUR BED WHEN HE FEELS TOO AGITATED TO BE ALONE . . .
you wake up to the feeling of movement.
the mattress dips at your side, slow but heavy, like something big just settled beside you. groggy, you blink against the darkness, eyes adjusting to the low sliver of moonlight slipping in through the blinds.
at first, you think you’re dreaming. there’s no reason for someone to be here—no reason for him to be here.
but then you roll over, and yeah. it’s him.
broad shoulders hunched slightly like he’s still on edge, messy hair flattened on one side, his jaw clenched tight. his eyes catch the light just enough for you to see the sharp glint in them. not exactly angry. just unreadable.
“…toji?”
he doesn’t look at you. “shut up,” he says.
you blink, brain still stuck somewhere between sleep and confusion. “...okay.”
he doesn’t offer an explanation. doesn’t shift to face you. just lays there stiffly on his back, one hand resting flat on his chest, the other shoved under the pillow like he needs something to anchor himself.
his ears are out. not tucked or hidden like usual. and they twitch once, sharp and reactive. his tail flicks behind him—once, twice, agitated—and then goes still.
you lie there in silence for a moment, staring up at the ceiling like it’ll give you an answer. but nothing comes.
you don’t ask what’s wrong. you don’t ask if something happened, or if someone triggered him, or if he’s trying not to lose control of something he doesn’t understand.
instead, you reach out and press your hand lightly against his bicep.
his muscles twitch under your touch—tense, coiled, like instinct told him to react before he remembered it was you. but he doesn’t pull away. he doesn’t snap at you either.
so you leave your hand there. just for a while.
his breathing slows, bit by bit, until it’s steady again.
and even after your arm goes numb from the position, you don’t move. because he’s still there. not saying anything. not offering comfort. but staying.
he stays there the whole night.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO STANDS CLOSER THAN NECESSARY IN PUBLIC . . .
you want ice cream.
at 11:48 p.m., your stomach decides to declare war on your self-control and your freezer is criminally empty. you’re already halfway into a hoodie, shoes half-laced, when you look over and say, “you coming?”
toji, who’s stretched out across the floor like a goddamn housecat in front of the fan, opens one eye.
“why the hell would i—”
“you can get something too,” you cut in, grabbing your keys. “or you can just follow me and complain the whole way. i don’t care.”
he does complain, for the record. muttering the entire walk to the convenience store like it’s a personal offense that you dragged him outside past midnight.
“not your damn dog,” he grumbles, hands shoved in the pockets of his black jacket.
but he still follows. always two steps behind. never more.
the store’s mostly empty. one cashier half-asleep behind the counter, a college guy loitering by the snacks, and the faint buzz of overhead lights. you make a beeline for the refrigerated section, scanning rows of drinks and ice cream cups with all the intense concentration of a man about to make a critical life decision.
you feel him before you hear him.
a quiet shift of air. fabric brushing fabric. the subtle weight of someone stepping into your space—just close enough to press into your personal bubble, but not close enough to be inappropriate. like a shadow at your back.
you glance to the side. his shoulder nearly touches yours.
“you’re crowding,” you say, nudging him lightly with your elbow.
he doesn’t move. doesn’t even blink. “don’t like the way that guy looked at you,” he mutters.
you blink, confused. “…what guy?”
toji doesn’t answer. his tail flicks once, slow and irritable. his ears are peaking out of his beanie, slightly tilted, like he’s still listening for movement. his gaze stays forward, blank like always, but his posture is different.
more tense. more aware.
he shifts a little closer, enough that his jacket brushes against your back when you reach for your drink.
you don’t say anything after that. just grab your ice cream, pay, and walk out into the night like nothing’s changed.
except from that night on, he never lets you walk ahead of him anymore.
when you’re out together, he’s always right there—beside you or just behind, angled like he’s ready to intercept anyone who steps too close. he stands between you and strangers in crowded places. presses a hand to your lower back when someone gets too near. doesn’t speak on it, doesn’t explain, but never wavers either.
he stands close. always too close to be just a roommate.
and you let him.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO ACTS WEIRDLY POSSESSIVE AS HIS RUT APPROACHES . . .
you’re sitting on the couch, finishing up your assignments with your laptop perched on your thighs. you’re mid-sentence, talking about some guy in your elective who made you laugh during a group activity, when toji sets his drink down a little too hard. the can slams against the table, a sharp metal clack that makes you flinch.
you look up. he doesn’t even look sorry as he mutters, “he sounds annoyin’.”
you blink. “he wasn’t. it was just funny.”
he doesn’t respond. just sits there with his arms crossed, his leg bouncing like he’s burning off something he doesn’t want to say out loud.
the next day, he’s waiting by the front gate when you get back from class.
you spot him easily. gray hoodie, sleeves pushed up, headphones around his neck. his cap is pulled low over his face, but even then, people glance at him as they pass. he ignores them, arms folded as he leans against the fence.
“what are you doing here?” you ask, trying not to sound surprised.
he shrugs. “finished early.”
“you never wait for me.”
he doesn’t explain. just falls into step beside you as you start walking back to the dorms. his tail flicks occasionally behind him. his hands stay buried in his hoodie pocket, but his body is tense—like he’s on edge.
“you didn’t answer my texts earlier,” he says, voice casual, but not really.
“i was in the middle of class.”
“hm.”
you glance at him. “is something wrong?”
“no,” he says. “just didn’t want you walkin’ back alone.”
“i’ve done it a hundred times.”
“doesn’t mean i like it.”
later that night, you’re in the kitchen getting a glass of water when there’s a knock on your door.
you open it to find one of your floormates standing there, asking if you’re still free to help with that project. you nod and tell him you’ll come by in a bit. it’s a short conversation. harmless.
but when you shut the door, toji’s standing at the end of the hallway, watching.
you frown. “what?”
he doesn’t answer right away. just moves closer, slow and quiet, like he’s thinking too hard about something he doesn’t like admitting. “he could’ve just texted,” toji says finally.
you blink. “what?”
“your little group project. why’d he come to the door?”
“he was just asking.”
he clicks his tongue and walks past you. “bullshit.”
you stare after him. “what’s your deal lately?”
he pauses, not turning around. then he says, “people like to use excuses to get close to you.”
you scoff. “he’s not trying to get close to me. it’s literally schoolwork.”
toji’s tail flicks behind him, agitated. he doesn't respond, but you can hear the edge in his voice when he mutters, “doesn’t matter. don’t like it.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO IS SUDDENLY ALL UP IN YOUR SPACE . . .
you’re standing by the stove, spatula in one hand, watching your eggs sizzle when you feel the heat of him behind you. you think he’s just passing through at first—maybe heading for the fridge, or the sink—but he stops short, close enough that the curve of his chest almost grazes your back. his breath brushes the side of your neck.
when you glance over your shoulder, he’s just… standing there. arms loose at his sides, tail flicking low behind him, eyes on the pan like he’s waiting for you to offer him a bite.
“you need something?” you ask.
he grunts. “nah.”
he doesn’t move.
you bump him with your elbow and he finally takes a step back, only to trail a hand over the small of your back as he does. casual. like it’s something he’s done a hundred times before.
but he hasn’t.
the next time it happens, you’re sitting on the couch, scrolling through your phone, and a friend drops by to return a book he borrowed. it’s not a long conversation. you’re standing by the door, talking about schedules and weekend plans, nothing special.
but the whole time, you can feel toji’s presence behind you—barely two steps away. arms crossed, expression blank. his ears twitch like he’s tracking every word.
your friend glances at him once, and then twice. “your roommate always look that thrilled to see people?”
you give him a strained smile. “yeah. he’s a real people person.”
once the door closes, you turn around to find toji still standing there. closer than before. his tail curls lazily around your calf and lingers there like it belongs.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO DOESN’T LIKE IT WHEN YOU SMELL DIFFERENT . . .
he’s leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting, one arm braced just high enough to block your path. the other hangs loose at his side, hand twitching once like he hadn’t decided what to do with it yet. his eyes catch yours, sharp and dark, and he looks at you like he’s sizing you up. or maybe trying not to do something.
you blink up at him. “uh. hey.”
he doesn’t answer. his gaze drags over your face, slow, then dips to your throat. you feel the weight of it. it’s not subtle.
“you been wearin’ new lotion?” he asks, voice low and too casual to be casual.
you pause. “yeah. it was on sale.”
he already knows that. he saw the bottle sitting on your nightstand this morning. you left it out on accident.
toji shifts a little closer. you feel the warmth of him first—how solid he is, how tall. then his head dips, and before you can say anything, his nose brushes against the side of your neck. it’s slow. unhurried. like he’s savoring the scent, like he’s trying to memorize it.
you swallow hard.
“don’t like it,” he mutters. his breath is warm against your skin. “you smell different.”
your pulse kicks up, but you don’t step back. you don’t really want to. he’s close, closer than anyone has any business being, and you can feel the heat coming off him.
his tail flicks once and brushes your leg, lazy and thoughtless. there’s a tension in his voice that catches you off guard, like he’s trying not to let himself slip.
his hand lifts. his fingers skim your waist, then curl there, just barely, like he’s testing what he can get away with. you don’t stop him.
“couldn’t smell you right all day,” he says. his tone doesn’t change, but there’s a look in his eyes—like he’s losing patience with himself. “don’t like that either.”
you glance at his mouth. your throat’s dry. “i’ll switch back,” you say, quietly.
his gaze flicks up to yours. “yeah?”
you nod.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO STARTS LOSING SLEEP . . .
you wake up to the faint creak of the floorboards and the low hum of the fan overhead. it’s past three. your room is dark, save for the sliver of moonlight coming through the blinds, striping the floor in cold silver. at first, you think maybe it was just the fan, or the pipes doing their usual haunted-house routine. but then you sit up, and you see him.
toji.
he’s sitting on the floor beside your bed, back against the frame, one knee bent and the other leg stretched out in front of him. shirtless. sweat-damp at the collarbones. breathing a little too hard for someone who’s supposedly been still. his head’s tilted back like it’s too heavy for his neck, jaw tense, like he’s biting back something he doesn’t want to name. moonlight cuts across his shoulders, glinting off the chain around his throat.
you rub your eyes and whisper, “what are you doing?”
he doesn’t look at you at first. just tilts his head a little, jaw tight. his fingers twitch where they’re draped over his knee, like he’s resisting the urge to reach for something.
“couldn’t sleep,” he says, voice low and rough. “what’s it look like?”
you glance toward the clock. 3:18. “you pacing again?”
toji doesn’t answer. just sniffs quietly and drags a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to cool himself down. like his own skin feels wrong.
you blink. he never complains. not about pain, not about stress, not about much of anything. hearing this much already feels like something's shifted.
he finally looks at you. eyes dark, heavy-lidded, like he's been wound too tight for too long. and then, without warning, he reaches for your wrist—not rough, not aggressive. just deliberate. his nose brushes your skin before you can even register what he’s doing, and he inhales deep, right against the inside of your wrist.
you tense for a second. not from discomfort. more from the way it feels—how natural it is. his voice is quieter when he speaks again, words pressed into your pulse. “this is better.”
you stare at him, unsure what to say.
he doesn’t ask you anything. doesn’t explain himself further. just keeps his face near your arm, breathing you in like it’s the only thing keeping him from snapping.
“go back to sleep,” he says finally, even though he doesn’t let go. “i’m not gonna do anythin’.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO FINALLY GOES INTO RUT . . .
you barely get the door open before it slams shut behind you.
your back hits the wood with a dull thud, your bag slipping off your shoulder and hitting the floor. you’re half a second from cursing when you look up—and freeze.
toji's standing in front of you, close enough that his chest brushes yours when he breathes. and he’s breathing hard. really hard. his pupils are blown out, eyes glowing faint gold in the low hallway light. his tail’s lashing behind him, restless, agitated. his hair’s a mess, sticking to his forehead.
“toji,” you say carefully, eyes narrowing, “what—”
“close the door.”
it’s already closed, but you don’t correct him. his voice sounds rough, more gravel than usual, like he’s been grinding his teeth all day.
“what’s going on with you?”
he doesn’t answer right away. his hands find your hips, firm and hot through your shirt. “smelled you comin’ up the stairs,” he mutters, like it’s some kind of explanation. “told myself i’d wait.”
you swallow. “but you didn’t.”
toji leans in a little closer. not enough to kiss you. just enough for his nose to brush your cheek, your jaw. he inhales slowly like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your scent, and his exhale shudders out uneven.
“can’t think,” he admits, barely above a whisper. “everythin’s too much.”
his fingers tighten slightly on your waist. and for once, he doesn’t look like he’s got something sarcastic loaded on his tongue. no cocky grin, no smug little remark. just tension, heat, and restraint.
you place a hand on his chest, feeling how hard he’s breathing. the heat coming off him is unreal.
he lowers his forehead to your shoulder. “you don’t have to. i’ll—fuck, i’ll figure it out.”
you pause. your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt.
“toji.”
he grunts in response, but doesn’t move.
“hey. look at me.”
his gaze lifts, slow and heavy. his eyes are sharp now—brighter than usual, but not out of control. you meet his stare, steady. “you’re not gonna fuck this up.”
his jaw ticks, like he’s biting back something. not words—restraint, maybe.
your fingers tighten slightly on his shirt. “so stop acting like you might.”
he exhales harshly through his nose, and he closes the distance between you like something inside him finally snapped. there’s no warning, no careful buildup—just the violent crush of his mouth against yours, like the pressure of holding himself back all day finally reached a breaking point.
it’s rough and unrestrained. his teeth catch on yours, breath hot and uneven, and he kisses like he doesn’t care about finesse, only contact. his tongue pushes deep, every movement driven by something primal, and his jaw flexes like he’s fighting to keep himself contained.
your head tilts instinctively, letting him in deeper, and you kiss him back with just as much urgency. it’s messy and wet, your mouths slipping and dragging together in a rhythm that’s more hunger than coordination.
each time your lips meet again, he groans—sharp and guttural—like just having your mouth on his is enough to shake something loose in him.
your hands slide under his shirt, palms dragging up the flat of his stomach. his skin is burning up—tight muscle shifting under your fingers, tense like he’s ready to snap. when your nails rake over the line of hair below his navel, he grits his teeth, jaw flexing hard enough to crack. his shoulders twitch like he’s fighting the urge to move too fast.
his tail hauls you in, locking your bodies together, and you feel the weight of him right up against you. your crotch grinds into his zipper, heat pressing hard against heat. he rolls his hips once—slow, deliberate.
your breath stutters, mouth brushing his as you try to say his name. it comes out broken. “toji—nnnh—”
he exhales through his teeth, head tipping forward like that noise short-circuited something in him. his tail jerks, tensing around your leg.
his mouth doesn’t leave yours. he has one hand groping down your ass, the other sliding under your shirt, fingers splayed across your lower back like he needs skin. the heat coming off him is overwhelming—muscle flexing with every breath, jaw working like he’s grinding down what little patience he has left.
toji huffs a low sound—not a laugh exactly. just something rough in his throat. he drags his mouth down your jaw, breath hot, voice low and strained.
“should’ve come home sooner.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO FUCKS YOU FOR HOURS WITHOUT A BREAK . . .
it’s been hours. your body gave out a long time ago, but toji’s still fucking you like he hasn’t noticed. or maybe he has and just doesn’t care.
your chest is slick with sweat, breath dragging in slow, shuddering bursts. your arms aren’t holding you up anymore—they’re just there, trembling under the weight of it all, while your cheek presses flat to the mattress. you can feel him behind you, stretched over your back, cock driving in deep from behind, heavy and thick and relentless.
every thrust pushes your knees forward. every one lands hard. there’s nothing left of rhythm anymore—just the sound of his hips slapping into you, the hot rasp of his breath, the ragged groans tearing out of his chest like he’s losing patience with how long he’s not buried in you to the hilt.
his hand’s on the back of your neck, rough and steady, holding you in place. not hard. just firm. like a warning. like you’re not supposed to move until he says you can.
“hnnnh—f-fuck—” he mutters low, voice scraping deep in his throat, teeth grit. “still so fuckin’ tight—nghh—even after all this?”
your only answer is a wrecked little noise, half-sob, half-moan, high and breathless as your spine arches under him. he snorts under his breath, then grinds in harder, cock dragging against your insides like he’s trying to feel every ridge. just to hear you make that sound again.
“yeah,” he breathes, all grit and filth, lips dragging down your spine. “that’s what I fuckin’ thought. slutty little hole still squeezin’ me like you haven’t been stuffed full all fuckin’ night.”
his other hand claws at your waist, pulling you back into each thrust like you’re just something to grip. your skin’s raw where he’s held you. hips littered with smudged fingerprints, red welts, nail marks.
your back’s even worse—dotted in bruises and bite marks, old and new, places where his mouth stayed too long. you feel used. split open. ruined. and he’s still not finished.
“tch—mmhhf—shit—” he groans again, slurring it into the crook of your shoulder. his breath is hot and shallow, tongue dragging lazy across a mark he left earlier, right before he sinks his teeth in again—sharp enough to make you jerk, and his hand tightens on your neck like he likes the way you flinch.
he yanks you back into another thrust, hard enough that your thighs tremble. his cock presses up deep—deep, thick, heavy, and swelling—and you feel the base start to stretch you for the second time that night. thick pressure blooming at your rim, making your hole flex involuntarily around him. you whine, throat caught on it—“nnhhh, f-fuck—s’big, toji—”—and his grip on your hips jerks tighter like instinct.
“yeah? you feel that?” he growls, voice going dark. “feel my fuckin’ knot pressin’ up in you again? uhhn— fuck—gonna split you open on it—keep you fuckin’ plugged, yeah?”
he leans in more, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, panting ragged against it, hips still driving forward with the single-minded force of a man possessed.
“nnnh—knot’s comin’ again,” he growls through his teeth, breath hot and shaking.
the bed shifts violently with every slam of his hips. he’s rutting into you, fucking up into the softest spots he’s already bruised inside you, cock twitching with every desperate grind.
the slap of his hips is wet, noisy—schlk, slrp, slap!—your ass glossy from sweat and slick and the mess that’s been leaking out of you all night, only for him to shove it back in every single time.
“hahhh—f-fuck,” you gasp, voice barely a rasp, eyes squeezed shut. “toji—s’too—t-too much—can’t—”
“nah.” his voice cuts in sharp, guttural, teeth bared behind every word.
“keep makin’ those pretty little whiny noises, baby—and i’m gonna knot you so deep you can’t even walk to class tomorrow—uhnnh—you’ll feel me in your guts all week.”
you whimper, pathetic—“tojiiiii—”—as your body clenches down again, as your cock twitches untouched beneath you, leaking helpless against the bed.
he bites right where your shoulder meets your neck, dragging his teeth slow as his hips stutter. you feel it. the knot swelling full—wider, tighter, locking in with a wet pop that stretches your hole around the bulge until it burns.
he groans, broken—“fffuck, f-fuck, thass’ it—fuuuck—”—and thrusts in one last time, buried to the hilt.
your eyes roll back. the pressure, the stretch, the way he grinds in deep with slow, pulsing jerks as his cock unloads again—thick, hot, endless—your belly goes tight, your body trembling as you moan loud and cracked through your throat.
“hnnh—fuck, baby,” he murmurs, voice ragged and already starting to haze over again. “don’t pass out on me yet.”
he kisses your neck as he continues with a manic grin, “still got hours t’go.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO STARTS CALLING YOU AN OMEGA . . .
you don’t even know how long it’s been. time stopped making sense somewhere between the fourth knot and the stretch of your hole around his cock going from unbearable to necessary. you’re not even on the bed anymore—can’t lie down, can’t crawl.
he’s got you pinned against the wall, your back slick against the paint, your legs hooked over his thick forearms as he fucks up into you like he’s trying to break the foundation.
his tail’s lashing behind him, wild and twitchy, muscles flexing with every brutal thrust like it’s sharing in the rhythm, like it’s got a mind of its own. it curls in close and flicks every time you cry out, curling tighter around his own thigh, coiling high and tense with every pulse of your wrecked hole around his cock.
his ears—dark, plush, twitching—flatten when he growls, stand upright when you moan, perk when you whimper and beg. they’re locked onto you, tuned to the mess you’re making, and when you hiccup a cracked little “f-fuck, toji—!” they twitch once and stay up, alert and fixated like prey just moved beneath his paw.
he’s carrying your whole weight like it’s nothing—slammed between his body and the cold wall, your arms dangling useless, your head lolling back with every thrust. your hole is stretched wide around him, gaping, red, ring twitching with every rut of his hips, like your body still doesn’t know what to do with the sheer size of him.
and still he keeps going.
shlk—schlp— the sound of it is slick and nasty, wet like your body’s just a sleeve made for him now. cum’s leaking out in thick, milky strings that drip down the back of your thighs and spatter onto the floor, but it doesn’t matter. none of it matters. he’s fucking it back in with every thrust, deeper, harder, like it pisses him off how much you’re losing.
your hole isn’t just raw. it’s used. ringed with spit, smeared with cum, loose enough that his cock drives in to the hilt with a nasty little slrrp and no resistance. no struggle. he’s got you wrecked, ruined, ruined good, and when your hips twitch, when your cock bounces soft and spent against your belly, all you can do is moan.
“t-toji—hahh—hahh, fffuck—i can’t—!”
your voice breaks, nearly a sob, but it doesn’t slow him.
“can’t what?” he snarls against your neck, hot breath thick against your skin. “can’t take it? mmnh—bullshit. you’re fuckin’ open for me, baby.”
his grip flexes under your thighs, fingers digging in until your skin dimples beneath them, lifting you just a little higher—enough to angle his cock deeper, until the base slams flush against your ass.
“gape’s sayin’ you love it,” he growls, biting the curve of your jaw. “little hole won’t fuckin’ close.”
his tail snaps against your leg when you twitch, a hard flick like warning, and his ears flatten when your head drops back, when your tongue spills from your lips in a broken moan.
he fucks into you harder, faster, thrusts bouncing you against the wall with each one, your back smacking it with soft little thuds as you moan through gritted teeth.
you’re drooling. you don’t even notice it until he licks it off your chin and laughs—low, raspy, breathless, one ear cocking at a smug tilt while the other stays up, twitching in time with your gasps.
“such a messy fuckin’ omega,” he hisses into your throat, tail winding tighter behind him, curling around your calf like it’s trying to bind you to him—keep you from even thinking about pulling away.
the word burns in your stomach. it shouldn’t. you’re not one. you’re just human. no scent, no heat, no biological bond. but toji’s rutting into you like you’re his, and when he says it—like that—something in your gut tightens and twists, hot and brutal and needy.
you moan like it hurts.
“nggh—f-fuck—toji—d-don’t—”
“don’t what?” he huffs, teeth catching your ear, ears now pinned low and back with heat, hips still driving up. “don’t call you what you are?”
you try to shake your head, but he growls—low, vibrating deep in his chest—and bites the side of your neck.
“baby, you feel like one.”
his thrusts go wild then. brutal. punishing. all weight and speed and raw hunger, his balls slapping wet against your ass as your hole clutches uselessly around him. you’re not even clenching anymore—just spasming, wide open, puffy and ruined and taking every inch.
his ears are flat again, head dipped low against your neck like he’s trying to bury himself inside you, chasing the feel of your hole spasming. his tail is thrashing wildly, curling, twitching, jerking tight every time your body shakes.
“this little cunt’s fuckin’ starving,” he grits out. “so wet—gaping like you need me, omega. fuck, I can see inside you when I pull out—uhhhhn, yeah, just like that—fuuuuck—”
he thrusts deep, then drags back slow, and you feel it—the way your hole stretches around him, how it barely tries to close before he’s slamming in again.
slrp-thmp. slrp-thmp.
“you hear that?” he pants, ears twitching. “you’re so fuckin’ sloppy for me—shit, could live inside this hole—fuck you open every night, knot you every goddamn morning—”
you’re babbling now. sobbing on every word. you don’t know what you’re saying. it’s just noise.
“ahhhnn—t-toji, it’s too—d-deep, too much—nghh—m’gonna—f’gonna—”
“cum,” he growls, voice ragged and desperate, ears up and locked forward. and when he slams in one last time, knot swelling thick and fast, you feel pressure locking in, sealing you up tight, heat spilling into your gut all over again.
your whole body shudders. your hole pulses and twitches around the base of his cock, stretched insanely wide, lips slick and raw and wet with the endless mess he’s pouring into you.
and he doesn’t let go. his tail winds around your thigh and his ears twitch with every little breath you sob out, just watching you tremble.
he just holds you there, up against the wall, pinned and leaking and knotted full, cock throbbing inside as he purrs into your throat.
“told you,” he pants, slow and smug. “my good little omega.”
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO GROOMS YOU WHEN HIS RUT CLEARS MOMENTARILY . . .
toji’s eyes flick to the digital clock on your nightstand. 5:30 a.m.
he clicks his tongue, low and irritated. it felt like time’s mocking him, like the blinking red numbers have something to say about the fact that he’s still in your bed, half hard, drenched in sweat, and only now starting to feel like a human being again. or close to it.
your breathing’s the only sound in the room. light, shallow, a little uneven. you’re limp under him—dead asleep. face pressed into the pillow, mouth open, one arm stretched out like you tried to reach for him at some point before your body gave out.
toji exhales through his nose. the kind of breath that’s more of a sigh than he’ll ever admit to.
you’d passed out maybe fifteen minutes ago. slumped forward, shaking, legs done for, voice blown out. and he… didn’t stop right away. didn’t mean to keep going as long as he did, but it was like he couldn’t get his brain to come back online. not until now. not until the gnawing under his skin let up just enough to make room for something other than the need to fuck you full.
you reek of him.
sweat. spit. cum. the scent is thick in the air, and it drags something slow and satisfied through his chest. he did exactly what his body told him to—he claimed you, filled you, marked you until your body remembered his name even in sleep.
he shifts with a grunt, muscles complaining as he sits back. there’s a wet sound when he peels off your thigh, and he ignores it. he grabs a couple tissues from the box on your nightstand, wipes the worst of the mess off your lower back, your thighs, between your legs.
he’s not delicate about it. he’s not trying to be gentle. but he’s thorough. cleaning you down with the same rough, tired efficiency you’d use to wipe blood off a blade.
when he tosses the tissue into the wastebasket, he leans down again—nose brushing just behind your ear. you twitch in your sleep. not enough to wake. but enough for him to notice.
toji sniffs once. slow. then noses at your sweat-slick skin, his tongue dragging lazily up your throat, catching on salt and fading heat. it’s not sexual. not really. more like instinct. as if he’s checking, making sure you still smell like him underneath all the sweat and spit.
he licks again, lower this time. neck, shoulder, collarbone—wherever there’s skin he’s already bitten. he presses his tongue flat, slow and steady, like he’s cleaning you. it’s lazy, half-hearted. just a few tired swipes of tongue.
you’re covered in his marks anyway. hickeys blooming down your back, sharp little indents from his teeth littering your neck and chest. nothing that’ll scar, but you’ll feel them in the morning. you’ll know where he was.
his head drops against your shoulder for a second. he just stays there, breathing.
then, without saying a word, he crawls back into bed beside you. one arm hooks over your waist—heavy, anchoring. his other hand palms your ass once, almost absently, then drags the blanket up over both of you with a tired grunt.
his lips brush the back of your neck, pressing a soft kiss on the skin.
then he’s out just like that. still half hard, dehydrated, sore all over, but asleep in under a minute—his tail curled loosely around your thigh.
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Ი︵𐑼ㅤDOG HYBRID!TOJIㅤWHO TAKES CARE OF YOU THE MORNING AFTER . . .
you wake up slowly. everything aches.
your legs feel like they’ve been taken apart and reassembled wrong. your back’s sore, your neck’s stiff, and your throat’s dry. for a second you’re not even sure what time it is—just that the air’s warm, the light’s dim, and the bed you’re in isn’t cold.
then you hear it—soft clinking, a dull sizzle, the faint creak of a cheap cabinet door.
your eyes crack open.
toji’s at the kitchenette, back turned to you, wearing nothing but a loose pair of sweats and the same dark tank top he’d yanked halfway off sometime last night and didn’t bother finishing the job. his hair’s still messy. ears out, tail swaying slow and low behind him. there’s a pan on the stove. eggs. some kind of toast. you blink, confused.
your voice comes out rough. “...are you cooking?”
he doesn’t turn around. “what’s it look like?”
“you don’t even cook for yourself.”
“shut up.”
you’re pretty sure you hear him mutter “fucker can’t even stand straight today” under his breath as he flips something in the pan.
your head falls back against the pillow, eyes shutting with a groan. your entire lower body feels like it’s been run over and then thrown in the dryer. the soreness is the kind that comes from being thoroughly ruined and then left to steep overnight. and he’s acting like you’re the problem.
you manage to sit up a little. the blanket slips down your bare chest and you wince. “you didn’t have to, you know. i can—”
“no, you can’t,” he cuts in, flatly. “tried movin’ in your sleep and damn near whimpered.”
your face burns. “i did not whimper.”
he grunts. “sure.”
you hear the stove click off. a few seconds later, he’s standing next to you with a plate in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. he drops the water in your lap, then squats down in front of you, balancing the plate on his thigh as he holds a fork out to you like you’re five.
you glare at him. “i can feed myself.”
his gaze drops pointedly to your trembling thigh. “right.”
you open your mouth to argue again, but the smell hits you—eggs, rice, sausage, a little garlic. your stomach growls before you can stop it.
“…fine.”
he raises an eyebrow, like he knows, and then holds out a forkful of food. you take it, chewing slow. you swallow before mumbling, “you remembered i like garlic rice.”
he doesn’t respond at first. just shrugs one shoulder, gaze flicking to the side.
you keep chewing, quieter now. toji scoops another forkful for you without needing to ask. after a few bites, you finally ask, “didn’t you have class this morning?”
“emailed the prof.”
you blink. “...you emailed your professor?”
“yours too.” he nudges your leg with his knee when you keep staring. “don’t look so shocked. i know how to type.”
“you usually don’t care.”
he shrugs again. “felt like doin’ it.”
you don’t say thank you. not out loud. but you meet his eyes for a second too long, and he looks away before you can try and read the expression there. his ears flick like they’re irritated with him for letting you see too much.
after the last bite, he sets the plate aside and presses his palm to your forehead, checking your temperature like it’s casual, like he didn’t rail you into unconsciousness a few hours ago. you lean into the touch without meaning to.
you lie back down once the plate’s empty, stomach warm and limbs too heavy to argue with gravity. your body’s already trying to sink back into sleep, head turned toward the wall, eyes fluttering shut.
but toji’s not having it.
“don’t pass out yet.”
you groan into the pillow. “why.”
“you stink.”
“you stink,” you mutter, face buried.
he clicks his tongue. “shut up. you’re the one smellin’ like sweat and cum.”
you grumble something—probably an insult, though it comes out half-slurred. still, you don’t move. not until he yanks the blanket off your legs in one clean motion and the cold air hits your skin like a slap.
“fuck—”
“up.”
“toji.”
he’s already standing over you, arms crossed, ears twitching in clear irritation. “shower. now. or i’ll drag your sorry ass in there myself.”
you try giving him a withering glare, but you’re too tired for it to land. “i literally can’t walk.”
“yeah?” he shrugs. “not my problem.”
but it is his problem, apparently—because the next second, he’s bending down, one arm sliding under your knees, the other curling around your back like it’s nothing. you yelp as he lifts you, already halfway out the room.
“you could’ve just helped me walk, asshole—”
“you were gonna stall.”
he doesn’t bother with a warning as he nudges the bathroom door open with his foot and flips the light on. your head’s tucked under his chin, your arms looped around his shoulders by default, and he’s definitely not not smug about it.
the water runs hot by the time he sets you down on the closed toilet seat.
he yanks his own shirt off, tosses it somewhere out of sight, then starts the shower like he’s done this a hundred times. and maybe he has. not with you, but there’s something oddly practiced about it. efficient. like his hands know what they’re doing even if his brain’s halfway shut off.
he helps you up, steadies you with a hand low on your back. your body feels like rubber. your legs shake. still, he guides you in carefully, stepping in right after, tail flicking behind him as he moves.
his hands come next. shampoo, fingers massaging your scalp, dragging through your hair. not gentle, but not careless either. then soap across your chest, shoulders, arms—methodical, not shy. it’s not sexual. not right now. he’s just cleaning you up like you’re an extension of himself, like he doesn’t see the point in asking if you’re okay with it when you clearly need the help.
when he’s done, he shuts the water off, drapes a towel over your shoulders, and grabs another to scrub at your hair with. it’s rough. you wince.
“ow—”
“don’t be a baby.”
he dries you off quick, then wraps a clean towel around your waist before scooping you up again like a sack of potatoes. he heads straight for his bed this time, barely glancing at yours.
“hey,” you murmur, “that’s not my—”
“your bed’s a mess,” he grunts. “i’m not lettin’ you rot in that.”
you blink, too dazed to argue. “you gonna change my sheets?”
he scoffs. “what, you want me to leave you to do it?”
you sink into the fresh sheets like a stone, limp and clean and exhausted. toji covers you with a blanket, then disappears for a few minutes—probably to strip your bed and toss everything in the wash.
he climbs in next to you a minute later, arm slinging around your waist as he settles. his body’s still radiating heat, but calmer now. grounded. you feel the way his tail wraps loosely around your ankle under the covers. not tight. just there.
you’re already half-asleep when you mumble, “thanks.”
toji doesn’t answer. but you feel the way his fingers brush once, lightly, through your hair.
your voice is quiet as you ask, “have you… ever done this before?”
he doesn’t say anything right away.
you blink, eyes barely open. “i mean, taken care of someone like this.”
his scoff is immediate. sharp. defensive. “fuck no.”
you turn your head a little, enough to catch the way he keeps his gaze fixed ahead, jaw tight. his ears flick slightly, tail giving a lazy, agitated twitch. he’s not looking at you. not even trying to.
you watch him for a second. “really?”
he grumbles, “you think i go around washin’ other people’s hair and changin’ their sheets?”
there’s something about how he says it—low, annoyed, like he’s irritated with himself more than you. like he’s realizing it for the first time too. you smile to yourself, barely suppressing the warmth creeping up your face.
“mm,” you hum, soft as you close your eyes. “good.”
toji still doesn’t look at you. but his hand rests a little heavier on your waist.
Hi! I'm Izzy or Modx previously, I'm a newish writer to Monster/Fantasy, I have written for a few different fandoms during my adult life (I was the person behind Modx-reborn) and am pretty excited to share my monster and hybrid ideas here.
I write for most POV's it just depends on the idea, I will obviously tag if it's a purely male or purely female POV but will do my best to post neutral POV as well so that there is a little something for everyone.
Reading list/Fanfic Masterlist Yandere!Batfamily X Reader
NONE OF THESE FANFICS BELONG TO ME, this is more of a personal reading list of fanfics I follow and such, all the links lead you to the creators' direct blogs.
Almost all the fanfics in the 'platonic' section are with Neglected!Reader, I'm addicted to that trope.
More than one link will lead you to the authors' master list instead of a masterlist for the series. This is because they don't have a dedicated list for the series, and it was easier for me to keep them this way. (There are also links to the first chapter, in this case, the author probably left the other chapters there, in addition to imagines, headcanons, and drabbles on their own.)
I thought about adding a short description below the links to explain what the fanfic is about… maybe I'll do it later or just leave it as it is.
Not - series
Again and. Again - series
Bruce hears Reader call someone else "dad." - drabble
Reader who only recognizes Alfred - drabble
[UN] Fair - series
Adorned in pearls (although Bruce here is not platonic…) - one shot
Batfamily with a Shallow Reader - imagine
Reader in Squid Games - imagine
Crack Baby - series
Smalltown Meta!Reader - series
Forget me not - series
No more Chances - series
Inmorta! Reader - series
Undoing Fate - series (it's not yandere but it has my favorite cliche so…)
Tip toes - series
Meet The Waynes - series
Bring back the dead - series
Obsessive reader in the shadows - imagine
There are two fanfictions here, the first fic doesn't have a name and I don't know what to name it. - series
Who said money can´t buy hapinness (considering the # I assume that the batfam is platonic….but I'm not sure) - series
Between life and death, death is tempting - series
Ain´t no sushine - series
Beyond the Bat - series
Crow choir - series
Waterbone - drabble
Marine!Reader - one shot? drabble?
Saboteur - series/imagine
Unwanted embrace - series
I'm almost sure this was one of the pioneering stories in this trope. - one shot
Little Demon - one shot
Goodbye World - one shot
Batsis wakes up in a fanfic - imagine? drabble?
Batfam playing with Reader - I think it's a drabble…I don't know
Pity Party - series
Yandere Al Ghuls! - series
How would they spend time with you after the kidnapping? -drabble
You´re a fucking weird hacker - one shot
Lucid Dreams - series
Ghost of the Past - series
Soulamate Soul Animal - series
Good Look(includes more DC yanderes characters) - series
Web Bound (It is NOT yandere, but it does have obsessive characters) - Series
Bug like Angel - series
The other family - one shot
Batman! Damian Wayne x Robin! Reader - one shot?
Children!Reader who loves Tim more than Dick - headcanon
Yandere!Batfam Headcanons - headcanon xd
Advantages and disadvantages of Neglected! Reader - Headcanon(?)
When your family only cherish you after your death - series
Yandere Batfam x Neglected!Elle Woods!Reader - series
My pathetic family - series(?)
The ballad of a bygone blight - series
Batmon and his baby -drabble/ Scenery (bruce is romantic)
Reader happy to be ignored - drabble/Scenery
What We Want - series
The sinfull Allure (the story is not yandere, but it has the batboys, and I love this reverse harem) - series
Seven Days a Week - Hit me Hard and sort - two series
First married to Bruce - one shot
As Yanderes´ Universe - one shot series?
Polyamory with Aged Up! Damian Wayne and John Kent - imagine
Sisters!Reader x Batboys - Headcanon? (according to the hashtags)
Greetings - drabble?
How Dick and Damian would handle learnig reader is dating somebody? - Drabble?
Addictive - Series
Do You Think We´ll Be In Love Forever? (includes more DC characters) - various drabbles
Perfect Life - one shot
Batboys and reader who knows - headcanon set?
Checkmate - one shot
Tim Drake x nursing student!Reader - one shot
Remedial Lesson (18+) - One shot
Dommy Mommy!Reader - headcanon
Reader hosted by Tim Drake - one shot
Yandere self-aware Dick Grayson - headcanon set
Moon Prism Power! - imagine
What types of yanderes would the Batboys be? - headcanon
Yandere Platonic Batfamily x Neglected Coraline Reader
You're the newest member of the Batfam, yet you feel like an outsider. They don't treat you like family, leaving you neglected. The feelings of isolation get worse with the absence of your best friend from school. One day, you stumble upon a peculiar doll, which unexpectedly opens the door to a whole other world. You find a version of your family that actually acknowledges you and likes you.
However, your original family has taken notice of the small doll, and they're more than a little concerned.
Warning: Yandere themes (stalking, obsession, & other similar things), kids get hurt (it's Coraline, you know the story)
Chapter 1 - The Doll
Chapter 2 -The Tunnel
Chapter 3 - The Scanner
Chapter 4 - The House
Chapter 5 - The Meal
Chapter 6 - The Show
HOLD ON TO REASON (or fall for the Illusion) ─── masterlist.
╰───➤ yandere!batfam x neglected!healer!reader
❝I want it to stop! I want to close my eyes and hear no more screams! Nor feel any more hot blood on my hands.❞
── y/n, to masashi during the war.
WARNINGS. neglect, abuse, victim blaming, stockholm syndrome, self-deception, war, body descriptions, death, minor character death, emotional manipulation, gaslighting, suicide, kidnapping, dissociation, depersonalization, medical trauma, panic attacks, isolation, post-traumatic stress disorder, extreme low self-esteem, flashbacks, nightmares, marginalization, dehumanization, emotional censorship, depression, delusions.
💉────────── premise.
when you discovered your powers, you didn’t know how to feel. healing, mending, bringing life back… it sounded like a gift— but in your hands, was it really? you had no purpose, no reason to exist.
you were always different. too aware. too broken. you felt like the world had no place for you, like your presence was a mistake.
until he appeared.
masashi gave you direction. he made you feel useful, needed. he taught you that saving lives was the one thing you could do without failing, without breaking anything else. you became addicted to the power you once doubted you deserved.
too bad your family showed up too late to help you see the truth.
or maybe… you didn’t want to see it anymore.
💉────────── chapters.
┆ ✐; OO : doctor i can’t tell if i’m not me.
┆ ✐; O1 : oh doctor, that’s too honest! then pretend you don’t hear me.
┆ ✐; O2 : doctor, i'm chasin' a ghost, do I look like him?
┆ ✐; O3 : did you get enough love, my little dove, why do you cry?
┆ ✐; O4 : doctor, i feel like no one wants me, and i hate the way i’m perceived.
┆ ✐; O5 : doctor, close your eyes and you’ll leave this dream.
┆ ✐; O6 : a good dog for him, never forgets their leash.
┆ ✐; O7 : what it means to be a good brother.
┆ ✐; O8 : nothing yet.
┆ ✐; O9 : nothing yet.
💉────────── asks & extras.
┆ ✐; OO . does the doctor use healer!reader as a weapon? / the doctor's manipulation of healer!reader through her need to heal
┆ ✐; O1 . why did the batfam ignore healer!reader, and how does that lead them to become yanderes?
┆ ✐; O2 . what happens when the batfam realizes they can’t heal the one who always healed them? / can anyone heal the healer?
┆ ✐; O3 . what makes healer!reader’s healing so different, and why damian can’t replicate it / healer!reader’s methods in gotham
┆ ✐; O4 . how does healer!reader feel about duke being accepted as a meta?
┆ ✐; O5 . does healer!reader secretly go out at night to heal people in gotham?
┆ ✐; O6 . is masashi based on mori?
┆ ✐; O7 . will there be a version of fukuzawa and ranpo?
┆ ✐; O8 . about charlotte as elise
┆ ✐; O9 . will there be an armed detective agency?
┆ ✐; 1O . does Dazai appear in the story + other bsd characters?
┆ ✐; 11 . why does healer!reader see duke as someone unreachable?
┆ ✐; 12 . how did masashi fake healer!reader’s foster care background? + was healer!reader ever really in foster care?
┆ ✐; 13 . what does healer!reader think about the fake records in her past? + is healer!reader aware that masashi invented her foster care history?
┆ ✐; 14 . what do cass and healer!reader have in common?
┆ ✐; 15 . why doesn’t barbara notice something’s wrong with healer!reader?
┆ ✐; 16 . who is the best option for healer!reader to stay with?
┆ ✐; 17 . what kind of relationship do healer!reader and charlotte have?
┆ ✐; 18 . does healer!reader talk in her sleep?
┆ ✐; 19 . how does healer!reader’s healing ability actually work?
┆ ✐; 20 . would healer!reader use anesthesia if she had access to it?
┆ ✐; 21 . could a patient’s heart give out during healer!reader’s treatment? / can healer!reader’s power truly stop death every time?
made this collection for myself and to keep track of everything I've read so far. some are crossposted on tumblr and ao3 so I'll try to add both links (though i might miss some so let me know).
Status: Unedited & No symbols; will make second list soon
germansingergirl
annaxmalina
ellievsbear
2087
theartofmadeline
yousharknotpass
