#they share the same promise kind of | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

stylesispunk · 3 months ago

Text

"I don't want to look at anything else but you"

post outbreak! Joel miller x f!reader

summary: You and Joel had found peace in the quiet life you had built together in Jackson. Despite him hurting from the growing distance between him and Ellie, he knows he has you and you have his back.

wc: 6,4k.

warnings: a bit of angst for joel but is mostly fluff. Age gap but not specified. Remember English is not my first language and i'm lazy when it comes to checking.

a/n: okay. I didn't write a lot of blind faith during this week and I'm giving you this other joel fic as a sorry and because i'm already grieving Joel. I hope you like it 💌

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Ever since you and Joel had settled into a normal, quiet life in Jackson. The dynamic between the two of you changed. The cold mornings spent outdoors turned into mornings wrapped in sheets. Just the two of you, your head on his chest and his arms around your waist, pulling you as close as possible. The first taste of normalcy Joel had experienced since the world had ended that September, back at more than twenty-three years ago.

It hadn't been the easiest path, not for you, nor for him. Years ago, when your paths connected, everything was just a form of ashes and violence; the QZ had been nothing more than a temporary shelter with concrete walls and a rot at its core. But somehow, in that rotten place disguised as the safe, you had found Joel. Or perhaps he had found you. Either way, you clung to each other ever since.

He was older than you, weathered by loss no human could even bear, hard edges above the walls he had built around himself, walls that didn’t crumble easily. And you, well, you were younger, yes, but you’d also seen enough to understand him without needing him to utter a word. You both learnt the secrecy of a language driven by gestures and glances. That's exactly what got him first. The way you looked at him, not with pity or fear, but with a kind of love that had grown as a rose after a long winter.

You were his constant, the thing he always saw beyond the horizon. The light at the end of the alley was where everything seemed to be driven by madness. He had never told you just how much that meant, how many nights he lost sleep, awake beside you in that worn-out mattress you both shared at QZ, eyes tracing the ceiling, wondering what he had done to deserve someone like you. Maybe he didn’t deserve it. But you stayed anyway. Even when the Fireflies spread lies about change. Even when the world outside called to you both with the promise of something more deserving of a life.

And then came Ellie. The girl who turned everything upside down. The moment Joel took her in, you followed without hesitation, without question. Because you never questioned, you followed your heart, and your heart was him. You were the only one who never questioned him. Not even when he made the choice that changed everything. You didn't utter the truth of your mind, but instead you just held his secret like your own, wore the burden of it in silence. And when the truth finally tore open the fragile thread between Joel and Ellie, you were the one caught in the middle, because you had learnt to love them both in different ways.

And what was love in days like these? A tool that could give you strength or weaken your strength. A tool, still, after all.

Ellie had barely spoken to Joel in months now, but you still caught her glancing toward your porch sometimes, like she missed him but couldn’t quite forgive what he did, what he had taken from her. You didn’t push. You gave her space, the same way you gave Joel comfort when he needed it. Even when he didn’t say it, you could feel the guilt radiating off him in waves crashing into his charade.

But he still came home to you. Always. His hands shook slightly when he poured whiskey into a glass at night, the ghosts of the past flickering behind his tired eyes. And you would press your fingers to the side of his face and whisper that he was not the man he used to be. That maybe, finally, after all this time, he deserved peace.

The quiet life he was used to before the world ended.

He didn’t say much in response. Joel wasn’t one for poetry or pretty words, but his love was there in the way he kissed your forehead in the mornings before you even opened your eyes. It was in the way he made sure the firewood was stacked high so you’d never get cold. It was in every silent glance across a crowded dining hall, in every soft murmur against your temple when the nightmares woke him.

Joel had built a warm home for you. A place where both of you would end up dying after cherishing all the love you had shared for each other. After a fulfilled life, a happy life.

He became a fundamental part of Jackson, a community that grew every year thanks to his efforts and help. A community where he had become loved, and not just by you. While Joel reviewed maps and extensions that could continue to be built, you were part of the group patrolling the outskirts of Jackson.

And when you rode out past the gates on patrol, he stood on that porch, arms crossed, waiting for your silhouette to disappear into the trees. He never said “be careful,” never asked you to stay. Because he knew you wouldn’t. But he always waited for you to come back home to him.

Because no matter how many years passed, no matter what came between him and the world, he knew one thing:

You were the one thing he had never wanted to live without. He would rather die before seeing life leave your body in a lifeless frame.

Joel had become a fundamental part of the heart of Jackson, a community that grew every year thanks to his efforts and help. A community where he had become loved, but not just by you.

And while Joel reviewed maps and extensions that could continue to be built, you were part of the group patrolling the outskirts of Jackson, bringing people in, making sure the community was at peace.

Today was one of those freezing days of winter when snow covered all paths. Winter had hit the streets, and each minute outside seemed to threaten to take one of your fingers away.

You'd been riding with Rick for nearly two hours in silence, save for the sound of snow crunching under your horses’ hooves and the occasional radio crackle from the patrol team. The morning was cold, but sunlight still broke through the trees in patches, casting gold across the frostbitten forest. You were glad for the silence. Patrols were always easier when you didn’t have to think too hard or talk too much.

But Rick was fidgeting, and that was making you nervous.

You noticed it as you dismounted to check the broken fence line on the north perimeter. He stayed unusually close behind you, clearing his throat every few seconds like he was about to say something and then thinking better of it.

You finally turned to him with a raised brow, snowflakes sticking to your lashes.

“Spit it out, Rick. You’re twitchier than those clickers.”

He looked at you, flushed already from the cold but turning visibly redder. “Okay, so, I wasn’t gonna say anything. Like… ever. But if I don’t, I think I’m gonna explode."

You leaned on the fence and blinked. “That sounds pretty dramatic.”

“It is. I’m being dramatic,” he admitted, letting out a nervous laugh. “Look, I know you’re with Joel. Everybody knows you’re with Joel. Joel definitely knows you’re with Joel. And he could probably kill me with, like, just with a stare. But… I....I kinda like you. I have for a while.”

You stared at him, not sure if you’d misheard him or if he’d actually just said that. “Rick.”

“I know! I know. It’s not cool. It’s kind of stupid. But I figured maybe if I just said it out loud just once, I could move on and stop acting like a dumbass teeneager every time you’re around.” He ran a hand over his face, half laughing, half mortified. “Jesus, you’re gonna tell Joel and he’s gonna bury me under the tomato garden, huh?”

You couldn’t help it; you laughed. Hard. Rick blinked at you like he wasn’t sure whether he’d just been spared or sentenced.

“I’m not gonna tell Joel,” You said, still chuckling as you shook your head. “Unless I need an excuse to make him do the dishes.”

Rick exhaled loudly, shoulders slumping in relief. “God, please don’t do that.”

“Hey, I might. That’s great blackmail material,” you teased, giving him a playful nudge with your elbow before getting back to work on the fence. “Look, I appreciate the honesty. I really do. It’s weird, but kinda sweet, in a ‘high school crush’ kind of way.”

He gave you a sheepish smile. “I’ll take it.”

“But Rick,” you added, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, your voice gentler now, “Joel’s it for me. I love him. He is my husband, law or no law. You know that, right?”

“I do,” he said quietly. “Hell, everyone does. Just needed to clear my chest.”

“Well, chest cleared,” you said, patting him once on the shoulder. “Now let’s go back to our work or something. You’re not gonna make me do all the work just because you embarrassed yourself, are you?”

He laughed, finally relaxing. “Nah, I’ll take point. You just hang back.”

“Perfect,” you muttered, smirking as you mounted your horse.

As the two of you rode off, the moment settled behind you like footprints in snow. Something a little strange, a little uncomfortable, but harmless in a weirdly comforting sense. You knew Rick wouldn’t cross any lines. He wasn’t that kind of guy. And besides, by the time the sun dipped low and Jackson came into view again, your thoughts were already back at home.

To the porch where Joel would be waiting, arms crossed, pretending he was there spending time instead of waiting for you.

The way his jaw would twitch the moment he saw you, trying and failing to hide the relief in his eyes. To the warmth of his hand on the small of your back when he pulled you close and muttered a “Took you long enough.”

Because no matter what happened outside those walls, you always came back to him. You always would. Until the end of your life.

The sun had dipped behind the trees by the time you and Rick made it back to Jackson. The patrol had been uneventful after the confession, thank God, and Rick had thankfully returned to his usual self, cracking a dumb joke or two to break the tension. You left him at the stables with a casual wave, brushing the snow off your coat as you handed off the reins.

As you stepped out into the chilly late afternoon, your breath puffed white in the air. The lanterns strung along Jackson's paths were starting to flicker on, casting a golden hue over the snow-covered streets. You shoved your gloved hands into your pockets and turned toward home.

And then you saw Joel walking your way, just down the path near the greenhouse, shoulders relaxed in that slow way of his, with the glasses still perched low on his nose that made you pause and smile like a fool. He rarely kept them outside. Said they made him look too damn old. But there they were, catching the glow of the lanterns as he walked, reviewing something in a worn notebook.

He looked up as if sensing you before he even saw you.

The second his eyes found yours, his entire face shifted, like watching ice melt under a flame. His mouth tugged into a lopsided smile, soft and real and just for you. And God, it still got you. After all this time. After all the hell, the healing, the hurt, he still looked at you like that.

“You’re late,” he said, voice low and warm as he closed the notebook and tucked it under his arm.

“You’re wearing your glasses,” you replied, unable to keep the grin off your face.

He huffed. “Didn’t mean to. Just got caught up in the numbers. Didn’t wanna strain my eyes again.”

You stepped closer, heart easing in your chest the way it always did when he was near. “You look good.”

Joel gave you a look, tilting his head. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No,” you said, wrapping your arms around his middle. “I mean it. There’s something kind of... sexy librarian about you.”

He let out a dry laugh, hand coming up to tug the glasses off and hook them into the collar of his shirt. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know, but you love it, though.”

“I do,” he said without hesitation, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Then his gaze shifted a little more serious, a little softer. “Everything went alright out there?”

You nodded, leaning your shoulder into his chest. “Yeah. Nothing we couldn’t handle. Rick confessed his love for me, though.”

Joel stopped mid-step. “He what?”

You burst out laughing at his expression. “It was harmless. Kind of awkward. I think he mostly just needed to say it to get it off his chest.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, but there wasn’t an ounce of jealousy in his face, just amused disbelief. “Poor boy.”

“Right?” you said, still grinning. “He looked like he was about to faint. Said you’d probably bury him under the tomato garden.”

Joel gave a thoughtful nod. “Not a bad idea.”

You swatted his arm as he slipped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close against him. His body was warm, solid, familiar.

“You know I only love one grumpy man in this town,” you murmured, tucking your hand into the space between his coat and flannel.

He looked down at you, something tender and unspoken in his eyes. “I know.”

Your steps slowed, gravel crunching gently beneath your boots as the space between the two of you closed even more. You turned to face him, chin tilted up, your hands sliding into the open edges of his coat to rest against his chest.

Joel's brows lifted just a bit, eyes flickering between yours and your mouth. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. You leaned up and kissed him softly, just enough to make him pause and breathe you in. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek in that way that always made you feel like you were something rare. Something precious under his stare.

The kiss lingered, unhurried because you had all the time in your hands now.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his. “Tell me about your day,” you whispered.

Joel hummed low in his chest, his nose brushing against yours. “Not as exciting as yours, apparently,” he muttered, and you could hear the faint smirk in his voice.

You grinned. “Still wanna hear about it.”

He sighed, but it was soft. Content. “Well, I argued with Tommy about expanding the southeast fence. Again. He’s still convinced we need to pull it in tighter. I told him he’s just scared of dealing with the extra patrols.”

You chuckled. “He is scared of extra patrols.”

“Damn right,” Joel muttered, clearly pleased you agreed. “Helped Maria sort through some of the winter inventory. Got roped into fixing a leaky pipe in the clinic because somebody thought I was the only one with ‘good hands.’”

You looked up at him with a grin. “Well… they’re not wrong.”

That made him laugh again, the sound low and rough and good. “Are you flirting with me, darling?”

“Maybe.”

“After all these years?”

“Especially after all these years.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering for a beat. “You keep that up and I’m gonna have to warm you up properly once we get inside.”

You raised a brow. “Promise?”

Joel groaned and gave a playful shake of his head. “You’re trouble.”

“You love it,” you said again, smiling as you slipped your hand into his and started walking toward home, where the hearth was probably still warm and the bed even warmer.

And God, you really did love this life. This normal, beautiful, quiet life with him.

As you reached your home, Joel’s hand squeezed yours gently before slipping away. He paused on the porch, his eyes drawn toward the garage across the yard. A faint flicker of light glowed from the crack beneath the door, soft, irregular, probably from that old lamp Ellie refused to replace. You followed his gaze, the air suddenly still around the two of you.

“She’s in there,” Joel murmured, his voice lower now. Not tense, exactly, but something sad, almost wary. You knew that tone. He’d been using it a lot when it came to her lately.

You nodded, shrugging off your coat. “Yeah, she seems to spend a lot of time in there.”

Joel lingered, eyes fixed on the garage like he could see right through the wall and into her thoughts. “Do you know if she’s going to the New Year’s thing tonight?”

You turned to look at him, reaching out to take his gloves from him as he pulled them off. “She didn’t say a lot to me this morning.”

Joel nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. He looked older when he worried, shoulders heavier, jaw tighter. “I wouldn’t blame her if she doesn´t.”

“Things are different now,” you said softly, brushing a bit of snow off his shoulder. “She’s still figuring out how to be... okay with everything. With you, okay. With both of us.”

“I don’t blame her,” he said after a moment. “I just… I hate not knowing how to make it better.”

You stepped closer, resting a hand against his chest. “Maybe it’s not the right time. You’re still here, waiting, still being there for her.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He looked at the garage one more time, eyes soft with regret and longing, something like hope, but worn thin.

Then he turned back to you, lips brushing your forehead as he let out a long breath. “Come on," he said quietly. “Let’s get inside before you freeze that smart mouth off.”

You smiled and nudged the door open. “Too bad. I had plans to use it tonight.”

Joel laughed under his breath as he followed you inside, letting the door close gently behind you.

The world felt warm and still when you opened your eyes.

That fuzzy kind of stillness where the light was soft and golden through the curtains, and your limbs were heavy in the best way, boneless and relaxed under the weight of a thick blanket. You blinked slowly, adjusting to the calm, to the scent of pine still lingering from the firewood and Joel’s flannel shirt close by.

Your head was resting on his lap. Joel sat slouched back against the couch cushions, legs stretched out, a book open in one hand, his glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t noticed you waking yet. Or maybe he had, and just didn’t say anything.

The fingers of his free hand combed lazily through your hair, tracing slow, thoughtful paths over your scalp and down to the nape of your neck. Over and over again, like it was as natural to him now as breathing. That kind of tenderness that wasn’t loud or showy, just there, anchoring and steady.

You smiled, sleep still in your voice. “You’re gonna put me right back to sleep doing that.”

Joel’s eyes flicked down from the page to meet yours, and a slow smile spread across his face. “And that's a bad thing?”

“No,” you murmured, shifting just slightly to curl closer into his thigh. “It’s a really, really good thing.”

He hummed, the sound vibrating through his chest, low and warm. His thumb brushed along your temple in a soft arc. “Didn’t mean to wake you. You were out cold.”

“Blame your lap. It’s cozy for this kind of weather.”

He chuckled, eyes returning briefly to his book. “Didn’t think you’d fall asleep halfway through telling me about how Rick nearly dropped his gun while trying to impress you.”

“He did!” you laughed, eyes closing again. “It slipped right outta the holster when he tried to be all cool and stretch like nothing hurt. I nearly fell off the damn horse.”

Joel shook his head, the quiet amusement clear in his face. “That man is a disaster.”

“Mmm, but at least a harmless one,” you yawned.

Another beat passed, quiet except for the sound of pages turning and the fireplace crackling low in the background. His fingers never stopped moving in your hair.

“Do you ever miss it?” you asked softly, not even sure where the question had come from. “Before here. All the chaos we used to live in. The constant movement. The adrenaline. Sleeping on the dirt, perhaps?"

Joel’s hand slowed, just slightly. You felt the pause. Then the steady rhythm picked up again, gentler.

“Sometimes,” he admitted after a moment. “Not the danger, but the feeling of having to keep going. No room to think too hard. Now Ellie doesn’t talk to me.

You nodded, eyes still closed. “That will be temporary, you know.”

“Yeah.” His voice lowered, more thoughtful. “But I’d trade a hundred years of running for one of these. You and I like this.

That made you laugh again, and his hand cradled the back of your head as you shifted to look up at him.

“You’re getting soft in at your old age, Miller.”

He looked down at you over the rim of his glasses, brow raised. “Say that again and see if I let you keep using my lap as a pillow.”

You smirked. “You’d miss me.”

“I would,” he said quietly, and just like that, the teasing faded into something real.

You smiled at him, “I should start getting ready for the party tonight.”

“You look perfect just like this.”

“How romantic, Joel Miller, but I probably smell bad.”

Joel snorted softly, eyes crinkling at the corners as he closed the book and set it aside. “Darling, we’ve both smelled worse. Remember when we reached Bill’s house?”

You groaned dramatically, burying your face into his thigh. “Don’t remind me. That was not my best moment.”

“I didn’t mind it then either,” he said, his fingers grazing down your jaw, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You could be covered in mud and I’d still think you’re the prettiest girl in the room.”

You looked up at him, caught off guard by how easily he could say something like that now. It hadn’t always been like this. It used to come out in actions, his silence, his worry, the way he stood between you and anything that even looked like a threat. But now he let himself say it. He let himself mean it.

And you never took that lightly.

“I’ll take the compliment,” you murmured, sitting up slowly and stretching under the blanket. Joel helped you out of it without a word, and you lingered just a second longer to brush your lips over his before standing.

He watched you, content and quiet, as you moved toward the bedroom. “Do you want me to wear that sweater you like?” you asked over your shoulder.

Joel raised an eyebrow. “The one with the buttons?”

You nodded, already pulling your hair back into a messy bun.

“Hell yeah,” he said, voice a little rougher now. “That one drives me crazy.”

You laughed as you disappeared around the corner, the sound making Joel lean his head back against the couch with a quiet, contented sigh. His hand drifted absentmindedly to the spot where your head had been resting only moments ago, like some part of him still needed to hold on.

From the window, he noticed the light in the garage had gone dark. Maybe Ellie was getting ready too. Maybe tonight would be a little bit closer to feeling whole again.

You stepped out of the bedroom a few minutes later, brushing the last bit of lint off the front of your sweater, the one with the buttons Joel never shut up about. It was a little snug at the waist, hugged you just enough to make you stand out. Paired with the jeans he said made your legs look dangerously good, you were banking on at least a solid double-take.

Joel looked up from the couch, still lazily sprawled across the cushions, glasses sliding down his nose.

And damn if you didn’t get more than a double-take.

His hand went straight to his chest like he’d been physically struck. His mouth opened, then closed again like he forgot how to breathe.

“Jesus,” he muttered, sitting up straighter, eyes trailing slowly from your boots to your eyes. “Are you trying to kill me?”

You grinned, one hand resting on your hip as you posed, just a little. “What, this old thing?”

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “You look…” He trailed off, searching for the word. “I don’t even get a word for it. Beautiful doesn’t do it justice.”

“You’re such a liar,” you teased gently, though your cheeks were already warm.

“I’m not,” he said, still staring. “You walk into that party looking like that, I’m gonna have to fight half the town.”

You walked over and stood between his knees, his hands naturally coming to rest at your waist, thumbs sliding along the hem of your sweater.

“Don’t worry,” you said, brushing a hand through his hair with deliberate slowness. “I’m only going with one man tonight.”

His eyes met yours, serious under all the teasing now. “You’re mine,” he said lowly, not like a warning, but like a vow you would say at a wedding.

“I always have been,” you whispered back.

And for a second, it didn’t matter where you were going or who’d be at the party. There was only this, his hands steady on you, your breath soft against his, and the quiet thrum of a life you’d built together piece by piece.

“Come on, Miller,” you said, pulling back with a smile. “Get dressed. Can’t show up to a New Year’s party looking like you just came in from the stables.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully. “I was gonna wear the flannel you like, but now I’m reconsidering.”

You leaned down and kissed him slowly, “Wear the flannel. Then you lose it later.”

Joel groaned into your mouth. “You’re evil.”

You smirked. “You love it.”

He planted a kiss on your lips before standing up from the couch.

.......

The lights in the main hall of Jackson’s community center glowed warm and low, casting golden halos over strings of mismatched decorations, handmade banners, old Christmas lights, paper stars that crinkled every time the door opened and let in the wind. Music played softly from an old radio in the corner, laughter and voices mingling with the hum of people pouring in, already loosening up with drinks and stories.

You stood near the back wall, a glass of something vaguely sweet in your free hand, the other laced tightly with Joel’s. His thumb brushed slow circles over your knuckles as you chatted with Maria, who was animatedly retelling something Tommy had done earlier that day involving a runaway chicken and a very confused patrol dog.

You were half-listening, smiling and nodding along, but you felt it more than saw it, that Joel wasn’t really paying attention. His body was here, steady beside you, but his focus had shifted.

You followed the subtle line of his gaze, and there she was, Ellie.

She was standing on the edge of a table, watching Dina dance in the middle of the place. Her hair was surprisingly neat. She wore one of the jackets Joel had patched for her last winter, and she looked better. Not completely at ease, but not avoiding people either. Laughing at how Dina enjoyed herself, her face lit up in that rare, open way that used to be more common. That Joel hadn’t seen in too long.

Your fingers squeezed around his, gently tugging his attention back to you. He blinked, then looked down, sheepish.

“She showed up,” you said quietly, so only he could hear.

Joel nodded, but didn’t speak at first. His jaw worked slightly, like there was something caught there that he couldn’t quite get out. “Didn’t think she would,” he murmured eventually.

You leaned your head into his shoulder, your hand still holding his like it anchored you both. “She’s trying,” you said softly. “Just like you are.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched Ellie for another long moment. His face unreadable, but you could feel the storm behind it, the guilt and the love and the endless what ifs he carried like extra weight on his worn-out back.

“She still wears that jacket,” he said finally, voice a little rough.

“She still loves you,” you said, just as sure.

Joel looked down at you then, the depth in his eyes something that stole your breath a little. “Do you think it’ll ever go back to how it was?”

You turned slightly to face him, brushing your thumb along the inside of his wrist. “No,” you said honestly. “But maybe it’ll become something new eventually.”

He nodded slowly, like he was trying to believe it. Maybe tonight helped.

The minutes had stretched into hours, in a few ones. A new year would come into your lives and you were enjoying the hope that brought to all people in the community. Yes, you were enjoying the party, until something completely shifted the ambiance.

When Ellie’s voice came.

Loud. Angry. Hurt.

“I don’t need your fucking help, Joel!”

You froze. The room quieted, just a little. Just enough for you to react to it.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. You watched his face, how it closed off, his expression almost neutral except for the way his jaw clenched. There was something like shame in his eyes. Like he’d overstepped. Like he knew this was coming after him.

He turned. Not fast. Just quietly stepped back, like every inch he put between himself and Ellie was one he’d deserved. He didn’t look at you. Just walked toward the door of the hall, shoulders tight, hands in his pockets, and disappeared outside.

You turned slowly, your gaze falling on Ellie.

She was still standing there. Chest rising and falling like she'd just finished running. Dina was beside her, wide-eyed, unsure whether to step in or stay back. The room had started to move again around them, but you stayed where you were, heart sinking.

Ellie looked at you. And you didn’t say anything. Didn’t frown or shake your head. Just stare at her.

There was disappointment in your eyes—yes. A flicker of sadness too, not just for Joel, but for her. For the pain stitched between them. For the ways she still didn’t understand that Joel didn’t defend her to take control, or because he thought she was weak, but because he loved her.

Because she was still his. And whether she was ready to admit it or not, he would always be hers.

Ellie looked away first. Back to her shoes. Her jaw tensed like she was biting back words. But she didn’t say anything else.

You waited another beat, then gently set your glass down, excused yourself from the people at your table with a small nod, and went after Joel.

The cold had settled deep by the time you made it back home.

The porch light cast a soft glow across the wooden steps, and there he was sitting in the chair like he had nowhere else to be, guitar in his lap, hands quiet on the strings. He wasn’t playing. Just holding it, his fingers curled around the neck like they used to when he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

His glasses were off, resting on the side table next to him. The soft creak of the porch boards under your steps made his head lift, and his eyes met yours.

You smiled gently. “Hey, cowboy.”

Joel didn’t say anything right away, just gave you the ghost of a smile before looking down at the guitar again.

You crossed the porch and crouched in front of him, resting your hand on his knee. “She didn’t mean it.”

He let out a breath, slow and tight. “Yeah, she did. Maybe not in the way she thinks. But she did.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you just leaned your head against his leg, wrapping your arms around his knee. “Come inside,” you murmured. “It’s freezing.”

“I like the cold,” he said quietly.

“You’re getting old,” you teased, tilting your face up toward him with a smile. “Your bones can’t handle it anymore.”

That pulled the faintest smirk from him. “You keep talking like that, and you’re getting a snowball to the face next time it drops.”

“Promises, promises.”

You stood up and reached out a hand to him. He hesitated for a moment before placing the guitar gently against the wall. His hand slid into yours, warm and rough and steady, and you led him inside.

The house welcomed you with its familiar warmth, soft light spilling from the kitchen lamp. You tugged him into the living room and stopped, turning to face him, fingers still wrapped around his.

“You remember how to dance, Joel?”

He raised a brow. “Now?”

You nodded. “Now. Just us.”

There was no music, just the sound of the wind outside and the hum of life still buzzing faintly in town. But you stepped closer, placing your other hand on his chest as he found your waist, and you started to sway slowly, like there was a song only the two of you could hear.

You looked up at him, voice soft. “You know there’s no life for me after you, right?”

His eyes flicked to yours, searching. Quiet.

You swallowed. “Not just no one else… No life. I’m not made for this world without you in it.”

His jaw tensed, his hand tightening slightly on your hip.

“I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. More than I even thought I could love anyone."

Joel's voice was rough when he finally spoke. “You shouldn’t say that.”

“But it’s true.”

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, and you saw the fight in him, the weight of it all, the doubt, the guilt. But you also saw the way his heart ached for you. How much he wanted to believe he deserved it.

“You’re all I have,” he said finally. “You and her. And I keep messing it up.”

You shook your head and pulled him closer, pressing your forehead to his. “You didn’t mess anything up tonight. You stood up for her. That’s what love looks like, even if she doesn’t know how to take it right now.”

Joel let out a shaky breath. You leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered. “Always.”

And with his arms wrapped around you in the middle of that quiet living room, Joel let himself hold on.

You kept swaying with him, barely moving, your arms snug around his broad frame like you were afraid he might drift away if you let go.

The firelight from the hearth flickered softly across his face, casting shadows that danced along the lines etched into his skin. You lifted your gaze, taking him in, really taking him in.

His hair was more silver than brown now, especially at the temples, and his beard had followed suit, peppered with white that hadn’t been there when you first met him back in the QZ. The creases around his eyes were deeper, more permanent, carved by years of worry, loss, and that rare, secretive laughter you’d always tried to pull from him like a prize you needed to win. His hands, still strong, still steady, were rougher too, scarred by more than just time. And his eyes, God, those eyes. Still the same deep brown, still full of everything he never said out loud, but they were heavier now, more tired.

But even in all of it, in every reminder that time had passed, that the world had taken its toll on him, he had never looked more beautiful to you than this.

This was the man who had survived when others hadn’t. The man who had chosen you when he could’ve kept his walls up forever. The man who still held you like you were the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

Your fingers slid up his chest, fingertips brushing over the soft fabric of his flannel before curling lightly at the collar. You rose up on your toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek, slow and lingering there. Then another, along the edge of his jaw. One at his temple. His brow.

Joel's hand tightened on your hip, the other cradling the back of your head now, and his breath caught when your lips found the corner of his mouth.

You pulled back just an inch and whispered, “I love all of it. All of you. Then. Now. Always.”

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize your face.

And then you kissed him, soft, deep, like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. His lips moved against yours with that familiar tenderness, that unspoken hunger that had never gone away, no matter how many years passed. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate. It was slowly marked by the safety that glued you together.

When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, breath warm on your lips.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

You shook your head gently. “That’s not your decision to make.”

Joel let out a quiet, broken laugh and kissed you again, softer this time, like a thank you.

You leaned in again, drawn to him like the tide to the moon. Your lips brushed over his once more, slower this time, tender and unrushed. A kiss that said everything without needing words. His hand slid up your back, fingers splayed gently between your shoulder blades, holding you to him like he never wanted to let go.

When you finally pulled away, your noses still touching, you smiled against his mouth. “Happy New Year, Joel.”

He exhaled softly, his breath warm as his eyes opened to meet yours. “Yeah?”

You nodded, heart full. “This is to us,” you whispered, “to spend more years like this. Together.”

Something flickered in his gaze, quiet, reverent, a little disbelieving, like the weight of your love still knocked the air out of him every time. His thumb stroked along your jaw, rough and careful all at once.

“Until the end, darling,” he said hoarsely, his voice thick with emotion.

You wrapped your arms tighter around him, resting your head against his chest, right over the steady thrum of his heart. And there, in the soft quiet of your living room, with the muffled echo of tiny fireworks somewhere in the distance and his arms holding you like a vow, you knew there was no one else you’d ever need.

Joel held you there for a long, quiet beat—his hand resting at the small of your back, the other curled at your nape, cradling you gently like the world might crumble if he let go.

Then he tilted his head slightly, eyes finding yours again under the soft glow of the fire. There was something raw in them now, unguarded, soft in that way only you ever got to see properly.

“Happy New Year, baby,” he said, voice low, gravelly, full of something deep and real. “To more years. However, we’re lucky enough to get.”

You felt your throat tighten, the words catching in your chest. But then he said it, firm, steady, like it had lived in him for years.

“I love you,” you said at the same time, putting a smile on both of your faces.

Your hand slid to his cheek, thumb brushing over the slight stubble there. His eyes closed at your touch, leaning into the warmth.

This was your beginning. Again, and again. Every year. Every moment. Joel was your home. You were his. As long as the world allows you.

#fic: I don't want to look at anything else but you #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal character fanfiction #joel miller angst #pedro pascal

3K notes · View notes

omicchii · 6 days ago

Text

WISHBOUND LOG [ENTRY 005]ㅤRUT MADE FLESH!

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.

ㅤ

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.

ㅤ

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.”

ㅤ

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.

ㅤ

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.

ㅤ

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...?

ㅤ

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’.”

ㅤ

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.

ㅤ

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.

ㅤ

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.”

ㅤ

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.

ㅤ

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.”

ㅤ

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.

ㅤ

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.

ㅤ

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.

ㅤ

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.”

ㅤ

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.

ㅤ

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.

ㅤ

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.

ㅤ

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.

ㅤ

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.

ㅤ

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.”

ㅤ

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.

ㅤ

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.

ㅤ

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.

“everythin’s fuckin’ loud lately,” he mutters. “everythin’ smells wrong. can’t think straight.”

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’.”

ㅤ

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.”

ㅤ

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.”

ㅤ

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.”

ㅤ

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.

ㅤ

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.

#wishes granted by omi .ᐟ #bottom male reader #male reader smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #toji fushiguro #jujutsu kaisen #anime smut #jjk #toji x reader #jjk smut #male reader #anime #mlm #x male reader #mlm smut #jjk toji #toji fushiguro smut #fushiguro toji #toji zenin

1K notes · View notes

capricornlevi · 9 months ago

Text

nanami x reader - w.c 3k, marraige of convenience, mentions of societal pressure but everything is consensual!, nsfw, mdni!

without even meeting him, you agreed to marry nanami kento without any expectations of future love, romantic or otherwise.

the pairing is advantageous for the both of you; you get access to the impressive nanami family fortune that has grown substantially now that kento is managing it, while he gets to enjoy a close association with your prestigious family and the subsequent educational opportunities that your children will benefit from. it's sensible and by far the best option you'd been presented with.

you've exchanged letters with him, polite and concise. you can read between the lines and see that he shares a disillusioned view of jujutsu society, but is more than willing to step up for the good of his family.

you weren't coerced by anyone. far from it -- your mother and father had sat you down and asked if you were sure, that they would understand if you wanted to take more time or to choose a different path for yourself altogether.

but you know the rest of society would not be so kind or understanding. marriage between two sorcerers, as antiquated as it seems, is how you survive amongst all of these competitive, power-hungry families.

from what you've read and heard about him, nanami will provide stability. he's progressive in his thinking, and so wont expect anything from you that he wouldn't be willing to do as well. you've learned that he's a teacher at tokyo tech, and has received glowing reviews; he'll be a good father.

and so on this misty thursday morning, you lay eyes on your fiancé for the first time as he slips a ring on your finger and promises to stay by your side forever.

the ceremony is as bare-bones as your reputation will allow. the guest list doesn't hit the triple digits, a huge departure from society norms, but representatives from the major houses sit in floral-clad wooden chairs to watch you repeat the words that the officiant speaks in your direction.

nanami takes your hands in his. they're warm, which is nice. this dress isn't designed for November weather, but it's an heirloom -- and truthfully, you're glad to be wearing it. you'd never given much thought to a wedding, but it makes your mother and grandmother very happy.

you'd be lying if you said you weren't relieved to discover how handsome nanami is. you were previously shown a few polaroids of him -- staff pictures, mostly, but some with the rest of his family -- and had known he wasn't bad-looking, but the pictures weren't clear enough to give you a proper understanding of his looks.

his blond hair is styled neatly, not a hair out of place. he has nice features, strong jawline and cheekbones, and soft eyes, a good combination. you know his gaze can be piercing when he wants it to be, but now, he looks at you gently.

you know you made the right decision.

more vows, a kiss, and you're married.

___

the reception goes mercifully smoothly. the mix of guests -- powerful sorcerer family heads, rich businesspeople, and just a few of your personal friends -- didn't appear to gel too well on paper, but they mostly stick to their own factions. you greet them all until your vocal cords grow tired.

a meal is served on plates so ornate it makes you feel awkward eating off them. you nurse a glass of wine for most of the evening and nanami does the same, politely waving off the servers who approach to refill his glass.

a promising sign that he doesn't feel the need to drown his sorrows. this is a marriage of convenience, yes, but you'd like to be able to get along reasonably well with your spouse.

and, to his credit, he's been making light conversation with you all evening. he doesn't dip into deep or uncomfortable topics like your marriage or future plans, figuring that's best saved for later, but he asks you questions about yourself. by the end of the evening, you feel safe enough to allude to your desire for a future somewhat outside society's norms -- "I've always wanted to travel, honestly. maybe ... spend a few years abroad" -- and, to your pleasant surprise, he doesn't rebuff them. if anything, he seems somewhat pleased.

you have another glass of wine and before you know it, it's the early hours of the morning. you're nowhere near tipsy but feel ready for bed, ready to wipe off this makeup and slip into something more comfortable; thankfully, guests have started to slip out one by one, with only immediate family remaining.

your unpleasant and friendless older cousin makes a joke about you needing to say your goodbyes to 'go please your husband', and nanami's face sours for the first time all evening. your cousin notices and sheepishly takes a drink, mumbling something about it being his time to leave too.

with some final hugs to your respective families, it's time to leave with ...

... with your husband.

in his last letter before the wedding, nanami agreed that your city-centre apartment would be the best place to live in the first few weeks of your marriage, until you find somewhere more permanent that suits you both, and so that's where you go.

you show him around each room, including some storage space where his luggage had been delivered this morning. interspersed with some more small talk, you explain that although it's small, it's well placed for both of you to get to work. he smiles and nods, thanking you with a warmth that doesn't feel forced.

you offer him some tea or whiskey; he says he's fine.

you yawn. he loosens his tie, clearly exhausted himself.

the last room you show him is your bedroom, and it becomes harder and harder not to address the elephant in the room. there's very clearly no second bed, no room for him to stay that wouldn't necessitate a lot of closeness between the two of you.

the silence hangs heavy and loaded, both of you waiting for the other to speak.

well. this is one issue you hadn't covered before the ceremony.

you have no issue with a sexual relationship -- in fact, you're somewhat looking forward to it, having spent the evening admiring the way nanami's shirt hugs his strong arms and chest. but you're not sure if tonight, the first night you've ever met, is the best night to start.

sure, the concept of the wedding night speaks for itself, but it's not as black-and-white in your situation. he might want to spend some time settling in, first. he might not even be that interested in you.

"want me to take the couch?" he asks quietly, with no hint of resentment or offence in his voice. he makes the offer with a sincerity you haven't heard from a man in a long time.

you don't break your silence, but not because you're uncomfortable or anything of the sort -- you're just assessing your options.

"there's nothing i expect from you, just so you know," he continues, and you turn your head to face him, seeing his eyes scan your face for any sign of unease. "the last thing i want is for you to do ... this ... out of obligation or pressure. we have a lifetime to get to know each other, to reach that point -- i want you to be comfortable around me."

your upbringing has made you a sceptic, a pessimist at times, but for some reason, you believe him. maybe it's the look in his eyes, or the fact that he's taken your hand in his own, interlocking your fingers, but there's something about him that sets him aside from normal sorcerers.

he seems real. he seems as though, powers and fortunes and family names aside, he has some substance about him.

"do you want to?" you ask then, voice almost inaudible quiet from a day spent conversing with guests at your wedding.

he doesn't hear you, so he dips his head in your direction; you repeat yourself and wait, hoping you hadn't pressed the issue.

his composure doesn't crack, but something flashes in his eyes as he processes your question. he has such control over the movements of his features, over every expression in his body, except for his eyes, you think.

maybe you just happen to be good at reading him.

he mulls it over for a second, his grip on your hand never slacking.

"i want to," he finally admits. "i've wanted to for a while, truthfully. I've spent a lot of late nights picturing how it would feel to be inside you, to hear what my name sounds like when you say it. but i only want that if you want it too."

you smile without meaning to. "you imagined that from just reading a few letters?"

"yes, and it's a testament to my trust in my new wife that I'm telling you that," he replies, still polite but tinged with amusement.

it feels strange standing at your bedroom doorway, hand in hand with this almost-stranger, imagining what it would be like to indulge in these thoughts you've both been having, spending your first night together tangled up in the sheets and allowing some of the indulgence you've long denied yourself.

duty gets tiring. for a long time, you've been unsure what it feels like to genuinely want something.

now, you're pretty sure it feels something like this. it's organic and unforced, a natural desire that sends heat curling in the pit of your stomach.

wordlessly, you guide nanami into your room, closing the door behind you. there's a hint of a smile on his lips as you ask him for help to untie your wedding dress, the intricate pattern of buttons trailing up your spine proving too technical for your own hands. he's methodical in his work, careful to not damage the delicate clasps.

soon your dress is loose around your hips, your chest covered by the thin slip you wore underneath. you set the garment carefully aside before returning the favour and starting to undo nanami's shirt, avoiding eye contact as your hands expose more and more of his bare chest.

you want to do this, you know that for sure, but that doesn't mean you won't feel a bit of awkwardness at the start. you're not well practiced, having had too busy a life for romantic relationships until now. you hope that instinct will kick in sooner than later, but you've no doubt nanami will help you along the way.

when you finally build up the nerve to glance up at him as he shrugs off the shirt, he's looking at you as though you're the only person he ever wants touching him.

you hear the soft clink of metal and realise he's undoing his belt.

"are you sure?" he asks one more time.

that one question, and the earnestness with which he speaks, erases the last shred of doubt you had. you place your trust in him for the second time today.

you nod and reach across to his belt in the same breath, helping him pull it free from the loops to be tossed by the armchair near your desk.

you move as though controlled by something other than yourself, the decisions coming so naturally it feels as though you've been imagining it for weeks as well.

and maybe you have, you think to yourself, as you confidently guide him back slowly until he's sitting down on the plush armchair, his suit pants still on as you crawl onto his lap, pressing your chest against his. the thin fabric of your slip means you can feel the heat of his body against your skin, nipples hardening as they graze against his muscles.

you've just about balanced yourself, carefully perched on his lap when you feel his hand on the nape of your neck, pulling you in for a kiss that has you grinding against his thighs before you can even catch your breath.

you've never been kissed like this. the few kisses you've had before have been with partners who see you as a means to an end, be it for your family name, your reputation, or just for sex. you've never been kissed by someone who seems to get more from your pleasure than from his own.

you now know he meant it when he said he's been picturing this.

you kiss him for as long as you can, and you're not sure if it's for seconds, minutes, hours. you kiss him until there's a heat burning between your thighs you can no longer stand, that you need to have satiated by the visible, prominent bulge in the front of his suit pants.

when you finally break away, lips numb and kiss-slick, nanami's hair is touselled - you don't remember running your hands through them, but you must have at some point - and he reaches up to run his fingers under the straps of your slip, asking with his eyes if he can guide them off your shoulders.

you nod, and your chest is exposed to the cool night air for a split second before nanami's mouth is on one of your nipples, tongue circling the sensitive skin and making you cry out.

one of the words you moan must be his name, because you feel him smile as he turns his attention towards the other nipple, hands now at the small of your back to keep you close to him.

you can't take it much longer. you need to be touched so badly, you didn't even think you were capable of wanting it this much -- and you only want him to do it, now and maybe forever.

maybe he can read your mind or maybe you babbled out the request, but nanami finally takes pity on you, giving your nipple one final lick before resting his shoulders back against the cushion of the armrest and sliding his hands up your thighs, hooking your underwear with his fingers -- you lift your hips up to let him slip them off.

his composure slips further when he finally touches you between your legs, feeling how wet you've gotten for him, seeing how you react when he slips his index finger inside.

your head falls back and you hold a breath, focusing all of your attention on the sensation of him inside you, on the way he curls the digit ever-so-slightly before pulling it out and fucking you with two this time, almost -- almost -- tipping you over the edge.

"such a pretty wife," he mumbles almost under his breath, voice and gaze reverent as he watches you rock yourself against his hand. "my beautiful, perfect wife, aren't you?"

you want to answer him but can't, lungs feeling near-empty as you fumble with the buttons of his pants.

"i will never be able to think of anything else but you, i think," he muses, half-smiling. "you in my lap ... you making those pretty little noises ... i might be a ruined man, you know. and I'm glad of it."

he only stops speaking when you finally get your hand on his clothed cock, his breath catching in his throat as you trace it with your fingers.

you want tonight, the first of many times together, to start with you cumming on your husband's cock.

nanami just watches as you finally pull him out of his underwear, his length thick and hard in your hand as you give it a few messy strokes. it's all the both of you can manage before you need to have it inside you -- you shift your hips to sit on it, nanami's eyes fixed on the site of the head slipping inside.

it's a stretch, as you expected, but one you've been craving since you closed the bedroom door. you take him inch by inch, lowering yourself down as his breath quickens, clearly battling the urge to thrust up inside you.

but he's careful with you, and doesn't want to hurt you. his wife.

you lift yourself up too much and his cock slips out, slapping aginst his stomach and you nearly cry at the sudden emptiness, eager and clumsy as you guide him back inside you.

he kisses you when you sink down next, tongue massaging your own until the feeling of almost-too-full turns to a perfect, satisfying heat in your core.

eventually you're ready to quicken the pace, bouncing on his cock before long, your mind working too fast for you to keep up as you see nanami's cheekbones flush pink, his pupils dark as you ride him until your thighs ache.

you power through the sensation, nanami helping you along by meeting your hips with his, his thumb tracing uneven circles on your puffy clit. he calls you perfect and other beautiful words; you don't say anything besides more, more and, soon after, nearly there, nearly there, please, please, I'm so close --

your entire body lights up with the most wonderful sensation, hitting you like a wave and sweeping you away in its warm glow, with nanami's hands now on your hips, guiding your movements in exactly the way you need it -- not too hard, not too slow, not too fast.

you're still pulsing around him when you feel his body stiffen, his strong thighs tensing as he groans through gritted teeth. he pulls you in for a crushing kiss as he finishes, filling you up and thrusting as deep as he can until oversensitivity takes over.

the afterglow has you a contented and exhausted mess, muscles aching but satisfied in a way you'll spend forever seeking.

reluctantly, you slip off his cock to retake your place on his lap, marvelling at how undone you both have become, a far cry from your perfect wedding appearance.

you look perfect to him, though, you know as much from the kiss he presses to your sweaty forehead and the way his arm wraps around your shoulders.

"we didn't even make it to the bed," you observe, eyebrows raising as you finally return to your own body. "i ... wasn't expecting that."

"we have a lifetime to spend in bed," he replies, a smile in his voice.

and once again, for reasons you still don't understand, you believe him.

#nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami x you #need him so bad it makes me look silly #may tries to write #nanami x y/n #nanami kento x y/n #nanami kento smut #nanami kento fluff #nanami smut #nanami fluff #nanami kento x you #nanami fic #nanami fanfic #nanami x fem!reader #marriage of convenience #husband nanami

5K notes · View notes

kathaelipwse · 4 months ago

Text

Contract, Cooked & Kissed | C.Seungcheol

Pairing: Chef!Seungcheol × Journalist!Reader

Requested: Yes

Word Count: 8256 words ; Reading Time: 30-ish mins

Trope: Arranged Marriage | Strangers to Lovers | Mutual Pining | Secret Softies

Warnings: angst, mentions of family pressure, suggestive language, slow burn, Mingyu is cheol's bestie and woozi is the the reader's bestie, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE

Synopsis: A rising journalist. A quiet chef. Thrown into a contract marriage to please their families, neither expected the late-night meals, soft silences, or stolen glances. But what happens when pretend becomes too real… and time runs out?

Author’s Note: This one’s for the foodies and the pining girlies. Cheol is soft, hot, and fully whipped—just how we like him. Hope you fall in love bite by bite.

The scent of freshly baked bread hit you before anything else. But it wasn’t the comforting, cozy kind that made you think of home, of cinnamon and shared laughter. No, this was the suffocating kind—the kind that followed a man who showed up forty minutes late to a dinner you didn’t even know was a marriage meeting.

You stared across the meticulously set table, chopsticks frozen mid-air, the half-eaten plate of what your mother had enthusiastically described as "a very auspicious pasta with a secret family sauce" suddenly tasting like ash. The front door creaked open, and in walked him.

Rolled-up sleeves revealed forearms dusted with a fine layer of white. A flour-dusted apron was still tied firmly at his waist, a testament to whatever culinary emergency had delayed him. Dark hair, usually neat in the photos your mother had subtly (and not-so-subtly) shown you, was ruffled like he’d run his fingers through it repeatedly in the car. His expression didn’t read "sorry I’m late." More like, “I’d rather be elbow-deep in fish guts than here.”

Same. A silent, emphatic agreement settled in your chest.

Your mother turned to you with that practiced smile—the one she only pulled out when she was scheming, a smile that promised both sugar and a hidden agenda.

“Y/N, darling, this is Seungcheol. Seungcheol, this is my daughter.” Her voice was saccharine sweet, the kind that usually preceded a request to call some distant relative you’d never met.

You managed a tight smile, the muscles in your cheeks protesting the forced pleasantry. “Wow. What a totally casual and not-at-all-orchestrated dinner. The surprise element really adds to the charm.”

He raised a dark eyebrow, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Did you also get tricked into this elaborate carb-loading session?”

“Absolutely. I was promised jjajangmyeon and a quiet evening with Netflix, not a proposal disguised as a pasta night.”

A snort escaped him, a genuine, unguarded sound that surprised you. His eyes crinkled at the corners, softening his otherwise sharp features. “Good. Then we’re on the same sinking ship.”

You didn’t expect to laugh. But there it was, bubbling up like a secret understanding between two strangers thrown into the same ridiculous, sauce-splattered situation.

Dinner passed in a blur of polite conversation that felt anything but. Your mom gushed about your burgeoning writing career, exaggerating your freelance articles into the next great literary sensation. His father, a stern-faced man with kind eyes, boasted about his son’s Michelin-starred potential, his words painting a picture of a culinary prodigy. You exchanged increasingly bewildered looks with Seungcheol every five minutes, a silent language passing between you that translated to: is this real life? Are our parents actually serious?

And then came the bombshell, delivered with the same casual sweetness your mother reserved for offering you a second helping of suspiciously healthy vegetables.

“We’ve drawn up a six-month agreement,” your mother said, her smile unwavering. “Live together. Get to know each other. See if… compatibility blossoms. If it doesn’t work, no harm done. We’ll simply consider it a well-intentioned experiment.”

Your wine glass hit the table a little too hard, the clink echoing in the suddenly tense silence. A splash of red stained the white tablecloth like a dramatic punctuation mark. “I’m sorry—what agreement?”

Cheol didn’t look surprised. Just… resigned. A weariness settled on his face, etching lines around his mouth.

“They talked to me about it last week,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the intricate pattern of the tablecloth. “I said no. Several times.”

“So did I,” you echoed, the absurdity of the situation hitting you with the force of a rogue wave.

A beat of silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken expectations and parental determination.

Then:

“We’re still doing it,” your mom said, her tone leaving no room for argument. That was that. The finality in her voice was a familiar, frustrating force of nature.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of hushed phone calls between your parents and his, logistical nightmares disguised as helpful suggestions, and a growing sense of surreal detachment. You found yourself signing papers you barely read, nodding along to conversations you only half-heard. It felt like you were sleepwalking through a bizarre play where you’d somehow landed the lead role in a romantic comedy you definitely hadn’t auditioned for.

Then came the day you found yourself standing in a sterile, brightly lit room, the scent of industrial-strength cleaner overpowering even the nervous sweat prickling your skin. A justice of the peace, a woman with tired eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, droned on about the legalities of marriage. Your parents beamed from the front row, their faces radiating a triumphant “we know best” glow. His parents, while less overtly enthusiastic, offered polite, if somewhat strained, smiles.

Beside you stood Seungcheol. He looked… surprisingly calm. He wore a simple but elegant dark suit, the flour long gone, his hair neatly styled. He looked like he belonged here, in this official setting, taking these serious vows. You, on the other hand, felt like an imposter in the borrowed cream dress your mother had insisted on, your hands clammy as you clutched a small bouquet of white roses.

You hadn't had a proposal, no romantic declarations, no whispered promises under a starry sky. Instead, you had a late dinner, a shared sense of being tricked, and a six-month agreement. Yet, here you were, about to legally bind yourself to a man you’d met less than a month ago.

The justice of the peace turned to you. “L/N Y/N, do you take Seungcheol to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Your throat felt dry. You looked at Seungcheol, really looked at him. Beyond the initial annoyance and shared disbelief, you saw a flicker of something… else. A quiet understanding, a shared burden, maybe even a hint of reluctant curiosity.

Taking a deep breath, you said, your voice surprisingly steady, “I do.”

Then it was his turn. “Choi Seungcheol, do you take Y/N to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

He met your gaze, his dark eyes holding a depth you hadn’t noticed before. There was a seriousness there that went beyond the absurdity of the situation. “I do.”

And just like that, with a few signatures and the exchange of simple, unadorned silver bands that felt more like handcuffs than symbols of love, you were married.

The apartment you moved into together a week later was bigger than you expected. Minimalistic, all neutral tones and clean lines, with a kitchen so pristine it clearly belonged to someone who knew how to use it. Aka, definitely not you.

“You take the left room,” he said, lugging in a surprisingly heavy box labeled “Spices – Handle with Extreme Care.” “I’ll take the right.”

“Thanks. Also, no offense, but if you burn something past midnight and set off the fire alarm, I will throw you and your precious spices and you off the balcony.”

“Fair. And if you leave so much as a single strand of your hair in the drain, I’m reporting you to the housing gods for crimes against plumbing.”

You smiled, a genuine smile this time, as you set your suitcase by the door of your designated room. “Sounds like the beginning of a beautiful fake marriage.”

He turned away, his shoulders slightly hunched as he wrestled with another box. But not before you caught it—a small, real smile playing on his lips.

That night, you lay in bed, the unfamiliar silence of the apartment amplifying the frantic spinning of the ceiling fan. From the kitchen, a soft clinking of pots and pans drifted through the thin walls. Maybe he was cooking, a late-night creation born out of habit and passion. Or maybe, like you, he was stress-baking his way through the sheer, unbelievable reality of it all.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Woozi : please tell me this isn’t real please tell me he’s not hot You sighed, picking up your phone and typing back, a small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips. You: he showed up with flour in his hair and he made me laugh. and yeah… he looked surprisingly decent in a suit today. so yes. I’m doomed.

Deadlines felt less like a ticking clock and more like a pack of rabid badgers gnawing at your sanity. You’d been surgically attached to your laptop for what felt like a geological epoch, the blue light from the screen tattooing itself onto your retinas.

Eight hours. Eight glorious hours spent wrestling with the elusive nuances of Seoul’s underground supper club scene, a world apparently fueled by more secrecy than the CIA and questionable amounts of soju. Your editor, bless their demanding soul, had graced your inbox with a string of three increasingly frantic question marks.

Your stomach, meanwhile, had long since moved past rumbling and was now emitting a low, mournful groan that echoed the general state of your existence. You were too caffeine-addled and deadline-induced to even register hunger as a tangible sensation.

So, when the unmistakable aroma of garlic sautéing in sesame oil began to snake its way under your door and infiltrate your cramped office-slash-bedroom, your initial reaction wasn’t a Pavlovian surge of appetite.

No, it was a sharp pang of guilt, the kind that usually accompanied forgetting your best friend’s birthday or accidentally liking a tweet from 2012. This guilt, however, had a distinctly culinary origin. You knew exactly who was responsible for the tantalizing scent assaulting your senses.

With the slow, deliberate movements of a zombie emerging from its digital grave, you swiveled your chair around.

The kitchen lights blazed with an almost aggressively cheerful brightness, illuminating Seungcheol as he navigated the small space with an unnerving level of calm. Olive oil hissed gently in a pan, a soft sizzle that spoke of practiced hands and controlled heat. With a casual flick of his wrist, he sent a shower of perfectly diced carrots into a gentle, aromatic tumble.

He looked… composed. Unflustered. Like he wasn’t currently orchestrating a meal for a roommate who had communicated with him solely through a series of increasingly desperate Slack messages to her editor and the occasional frustrated sigh that probably vibrated through the shared walls.

“I… didn’t ask you to cook,” you mumbled from the hallway, your voice raspy from disuse and the sheer effort of forming coherent words.

He didn’t even glance up, his focus entirely on the sizzling vegetables. “Didn’t ask for your permission either.”

You blinked slowly, the sarcasm bubbling up despite your exhaustion. “Wow. How utterly… romantic. Should I expect a serenade next? Perhaps a sonnet dedicated to the exquisite aroma of sautéed onions?”

“I’m not trying to be romantic,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of any playful inflection. “I’m trying to prevent you from collapsing face-first onto your keyboard and leaving a permanent imprint of the ‘shift’ key on your forehead.”

His bluntness, while undeniably practical, still managed to make your ears burn with a faint blush. You opened your mouth to deliver a suitably withering retort, something about the inherent dangers of unsolicited culinary interventions, but the way he was now meticulously plating fluffy white rice into a bowl stopped you. There was a quiet focus in his movements, a deliberate care that seemed at odds with the forced nature of your cohabitation.

Then, with a silent grace that felt almost theatrical, he slid the filled bowl across the countertop towards your designated spot at the small kitchen table.

You froze, halfway between the hallway and the kitchen. The aroma hit you then, fully, and it was like a punch to the gut. It was your comfort food, the culinary equivalent of a warm hug on a bad day. Soy-braised beef, cooked the way your mom used to make it.

The meat was impossibly tender, glistening with a hint of honey in the rich, savory glaze. And the carrots… the carrots were cut into perfect little stars. Your mom had always insisted on that flourish, a ridiculously time-consuming detail that had annoyed your younger self to no end, but now… now it just felt like a memory, warm and unexpected.

“How did you—?” The question hung in the air, a mixture of disbelief and something akin to… gratitude? You weren’t entirely sure.

He finally wiped his hands on a clean kitchen towel, his expression still neutral. “You mentioned it in passing last week. Something about childhood comfort food and the psychological benefits of star-shaped vegetables. I Googled a bit.”

“You… Googled the recipe of my childhood comfort food?” The absurdity of the situation almost made you laugh, a dry, humorless sound.

You sat down slowly, the wooden chair scraping against the linoleum. You picked up the offered chopsticks, the smooth bamboo feeling strangely foreign in your hand.

You didn’t say thank you. The words felt too inadequate, too… real for this bizarre, orchestrated reality.

But you cleaned the bowl. Every last morsel of tender beef, every star-shaped carrot, every grain of rice soaked in the sweet and savory sauce. You even used a stray piece of lettuce to mop up the remaining glaze, a testament to your unexpected hunger and the undeniable deliciousness of the meal.

Later that night, the glow of your laptop screen finally fading, you padded out of your room in search of water, your bare feet silent on the cool wooden floor. Sleep clung to you like a heavy blanket, blurring the edges of your vision.

The faint sliver of light emanating from beneath Cheol’s closed bedroom door caught your attention. You were about to shuffle past, heading straight for the blessed oblivion of the kitchen sink, when a soft sound made you pause. The rhythmic click-click-click of a mouse. And then… a familiar headline.

Your name.

Curiosity, that insidious little gremlin, nudged you forward. You stepped closer to his door, your ear pressed lightly against the cool wood. The soft glow intensified, illuminating the space just beyond the frame.

He was reading your article. The one that was currently three frantic question marks away from being submitted.

You peeked just enough to see his screen. Your opening paragraph, the one you’d rewritten approximately seventeen times, was highlighted in a soft blue. His head was tilted slightly as he read, his brow furrowed in concentration, his mouth quirked in that thoughtful way you’d briefly observed during your disastrous first dinner. Then, a small, almost imperceptible huff escaped him. Was he…? Was he actually… smiling?

Panic, swift and sharp, shot through you. You backed away from the door as if it had suddenly become electrified, your bare feet padding silently back towards your own room.

Once inside, you leaned heavily against the closed door, the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat echoing in your ears.

He made you your mom’s ridiculously specific dish.

He was reading your work.

You were so utterly and completely screwed. This wasn't just a bizarre living arrangement anymore. This was… something else. Something unsettlingly domestic. Something that threatened the carefully constructed wall of sarcasm you’d erected around your unwilling participation in this matrimonial farce.

Whereas, cheol's phone kept buzzing.

mingyu: sooooooo mingyu: she licked the plate clean, didn’t she? Those star carrots really did the trick, huh? You're practically a culinary Cupid. cheol: shut up mingyu: OH MY GOD HE RESPONDED. The silent chef speaks! And with such eloquence! This is progress, my friend. Next thing you know, you'll be holding hands and gazing longingly at each other over a shared bowl of tteokbokki. cheol: blocked

This was going to be a long six months. A very, very long six months filled with unexpected acts of kindness, the lingering scent of delicious food, and increasingly uncomfortable eye contact that hinted at a reality far more complicated than a simple agreement.

Next Morning <3

You’d barely managed to peel your eyelids apart when the email notification chimed, a digital herald of the day’s impending absurdity.

Subject: New Series: Love in the Everyday—Couples Who Cook Together, Stay Together Your marriage is adorable. Myself as a editor, I am obsessed. First article & content due next week. Go wild, Mrs. Choi ❤️ Your lovely, Unhinged editor!

You stared at the glowing screen, the word “adorable” practically dripping with saccharine irony. Your contract marriage. Adorable. The sheer audacity of it made you want to bang your head gently against the headboard.

This was supposed to be a strategic alliance, a mutually beneficial arrangement built on tax breaks and convenient cohabitation, devoid of any genuine sentiment. Yet, your professional life was now hinging on convincing the world that you and your fake husband were the poster couple for domestic bliss.

Your life had officially devolved into a poorly written rom-com where the leads were constantly improvising a love story they weren’t actually living.

You found Cheol in the kitchen, a serene island of culinary focus amidst your internal storm. He was meticulously chopping vegetables, the rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of his knife a stark contrast to the chaotic thoughts swirling in your brain. He looked effortlessly domestic, a stark reminder of the role he was about to play.

“Hey,” you began, the laptop clutched under your arm like a shield against the impending awkwardness. “So, about this video series… the editor really wants us to lean into the ‘adorable married couple’ thing.” You cringed internally at your own words.

He didn’t look up, his concentration unwavering. “Adorable, huh? Should I start wearing matching aprons with little hearts on them?”

“Please, no,” you pleaded. “Just… you know… the usual. Cooking, maybe some light banter. But she specifically mentioned wanting to see the ‘husband and wife dynamic’ shine through.”

Cheol finally paused, wiping his hands on a pristine kitchen towel. “So, more… ‘my wife this’ and ‘my wife that’?”

You nodded, a wave of secondhand embarrassment washing over you. “Pretty much. Apparently, the readers are eating it up.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Eating up a lie. Fascinating.”

“It pays the bills,” you reminded him, a weak justification for the charade.

“True,” he conceded with a sigh. “Alright, Mrs. Choi. Let’s give the people what they apparently crave: a heaping serving of marital fiction.”

The first video shoot felt like a masterclass in forced intimacy. Every time you fumbled a step, Cheol would smoothly step in, his hand briefly covering yours as he corrected your technique, murmuring a casual, “My wife always struggles with this part.” The phrase felt foreign and yet… strangely natural coming from him.

“My wife has a particular fondness for extra garlic,” he’d declare to the camera, adding another clove with a knowing smile that wasn’t directed at you.

“Actually, my husband here sometimes overdoes it,” you’d retort, forcing a playful eye roll that felt about as genuine as a three-dollar bill.

By the third video, a strange rhythm had developed. Cheol seamlessly integrated the “my wife” moniker into his explanations, his tone a casual blend of affection and mild exasperation that, you had to admit, sounded surprisingly convincing.

“My wife insists on adding this much chili,” he’d say, holding up a generous pinch of red pepper flakes, a slight shake of his head that somehow conveyed years of loving compromise.

“Well, my husband has the taste buds of a toddler,” you’d fire back, a genuine smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

The fan comments exploded with even more fervor. @ KitchenGoddessFan: OMG the way he says “my wife” # marriedlife # soinlove @ KDramaObsessed: Their chemistry is OFF THE CHARTS! He’s totally whipped for his wife! # husbandgoals @ SwooningStans: Every time he calls her “my wife” I get butterflies! This is the cutest couple ever!

You tried to remain detached, reminding yourself that it was all an act, a carefully constructed performance for an audience that believed your carefully curated online persona. But with each casual “my wife,” a tiny crack seemed to appear in the wall you’d built around your emotions.

One evening, while filming a particularly chaotic attempt at making homemade pasta, flour dusted both of your faces. Cheol reached out, his thumb gently wiping a smudge from your cheek.

“My wife is a disaster in the kitchen,” he said to the camera, his voice softer than usual, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he looked at you.

Your breath hitched. The warmth of his touch lingered, and the casual endearment, spoken so naturally for the camera, resonated in a way it shouldn’t have.

Later, while editing, you replayed that moment countless times. The way his eyes had crinkled at the corners. The almost imperceptible tenderness in his touch. The easy, possessive way he’d said “my wife.”

It was all for show. You knew that. But a small, treacherous part of you couldn’t help but wonder if, somewhere beneath the layers of performance, a sliver of something real was starting to emerge.

Your phone buzzed.

Woozi : okay that “my wife” compilation your fans are making is genuinely concerning it’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion You: tell me about it i think i need to move to another continent Woozi : maybe just… stop letting him call you his wife so much on camera? You: easier said than done bestie the editor is OBSESSED with the “husband and wife dynamic” i think i’ve created a monster

One month after the “Love in the Everyday” videos had inexplicably turned your bizarre contractual arrangement into internet gold, you found yourself wishing for the sweet oblivion of a root canal. Family gatherings on your mother’s side were less about familial warmth and more about a meticulously orchestrated judgment parade, with you and your life choices invariably taking center stage.

And tonight’s special guest of honor? Your husband. Your arranged husband. Choi Seungcheol. The chef. The infuriatingly talented, quietly observant, and undeniably attractive man who had a disconcerting habit of positioning himself just slightly behind you in social situations, as if unsure if he’d been granted permission to occupy the spotlight.

Apparently, some things never changed, even with a burgeoning online fanbase and articles dissecting your “adorable” marriage.

“Ah, the literary sensation graces us with her presence,” your Aunt Hyemi sang out as she greeted you at the door, her arms opening wide in a gesture that felt more performative than welcoming. “Still churning out those little think pieces that set the internet ablaze, dear?” Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes, which held a familiar glint of condescension.

Then, her gaze slid to Cheol, lingering for a moment as if he were an unwelcome piece of furniture she hadn’t noticed until now.

“And the… husband,” she drawled, the word stretched out like a particularly unpleasant note in a poorly sung song. “Still… playing with food?” The implication hung heavy in the air: while you were out conquering the world with your intellect, he was merely toiling away in a kitchen.

Your grip on Cheol’s hand tightened instinctively, a silent offering of solidarity. He, as always, responded with a gentle squeeze and a polite bow, his expression serene.

"Still cooking, yes, Auntie. Someone has to ensure Y/N eats something other than lukewarm coffee and deadline-induced anxiety,” he replied, his tone even and devoid of any defensiveness. “Her work is important. I’m just here to… support her endeavors.” His choice of words, “support her endeavors,” felt deliberately understated, a subtle deflection of the implied slight.

You knew that smile. It was the carefully neutral mask he wore when people became too loud, too invasive, too prone to making assumptions based on outdated societal norms. It was the smile that preceded his polite but firm deflections when people asked him what it felt like to be married to someone “more successful” or when they patted him on the back and told him he’d “landed himself a good one.”

Your aunt tilted her head, her gaze sharp and probing. “Mm. Must be… peculiar, though. To be constantly in your wife’s shadow. A man… defined by his wife’s accomplishments.”

You choked on the lukewarm tea you’d just been handed, a sputtering cough escaping your lips. Cheol, however, didn’t so much as flinch.

He simply chuckled softly, the sound surprisingly genuine despite the underlying tension. “I find immense satisfaction in Y/N’s achievements. Being ‘in her shadow,’ as you so eloquently put it, doesn’t bother me in the slightest. We’re a team. Her wins are my wins.”

You weren’t sure if the sudden heat rising in your chest was pride at his quiet strength or a simmering fury at your aunt’s blatant rudeness. Perhaps it was a volatile cocktail of both.

Your aunt snorted, the sound akin to a cat hacking up a hairball. “That’s what men with no ambition say. A man content to stir pots while his wife ‘conquers the world’ with her… little articles?” She punctuated her statement with a loud, brittle laugh that echoed through the suddenly hushed living room. “He’s practically dirt under your heels, sweetheart. A charity case you keep around for the cooking and… well, whatever else a docile husband is good for.”

The room went utterly silent. Forks paused mid-air, halfway to pursed lips. Snippets of conversations died mid-sentence. Every eye in the room swiveled towards the unfolding drama.

Something inside you, something you hadn’t even realized was holding itself together with frayed edges, finally snapped. It didn’t crack subtly; it shattered into a million sharp pieces.

You stepped forward, your grip on Cheol’s hand tightening until your knuckles were white. Your voice, when it finally emerged, was low and sharp, each word clipped and cold as glass. “Say that again, Auntie.”

Your aunt blinked, her painted eyebrows arching in feigned surprise. “What, dear?”

“No, I want you to repeat it. Every single condescending, belittling word you just spewed about my husband. Go on. Say it again so I can hear just how utterly pathetic and small-minded you sound.” The polite facade you usually wore at these gatherings had completely crumbled, replaced by a raw, protective anger.

She recoiled slightly, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Excuse me, young lady—”

“No, you excuse me,” you interrupted, your voice rising slightly. “You think because he chooses to work in a kitchen, because his passion lies in creating something tangible with his hands, that he’s somehow less of a man? He runs a kitchen that feeds hundreds of people every single day. He manages a team of skilled individuals. He knows more about the complexities of human nature in an hour of observing his diners than you’ve learned in a lifetime of judging others over lukewarm tea and stale gossip.”

You could feel Cheol’s steady gaze on your back, a silent presence of support.

“He has more strength, more integrity, more sheer grit in his pinky finger than half the men in this room who are currently trying to impress each other with their fancy business cards and hollow boasts. And if you genuinely believe that the size of someone’s bank account is the sole measure of their worth, the only reason to marry someone—then frankly, Auntie, I’m eternally grateful that your husband chooses to sleep in a different room, likely to escape your poisonous opinions.”

A stunned silence descended upon the room, thick and heavy. Your aunt’s perfectly painted mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish gasping for air. Someone coughed nervously. Another relative muttered a low, impressed “damn.”

Cheol was still quiet, but the tips of his ears were flushed a delicate shade of pink, a rare outward display of his usually well-contained emotions.

You took his hand, your grip firm and possessive, and turned to address the rest of the room, your gaze sweeping over their stunned faces. “Anyone else have something they’d like to add? Any other insightful commentary on my husband’s chosen profession or his supposed lack of… backbone?”

They didn’t. The silence remained unbroken, save for the faint clinking of silverware as someone nervously resumed eating.

Later that night, after the tense atmosphere had (somewhat) dissipated and you’d retreated to the guest bedroom, you found a small tray outside your door. On it sat a bowl of still-warm stew, the comforting aroma filling the hallway. A neatly folded napkin lay beside it, and beneath it, a simple, handwritten note.

“You’ve been standing for me since day one. Let me be your place to fall. – Cheol”

You found him in the kitchen, the familiar quiet of his sanctuary enveloping him. His elbows were resting on the cool countertop, his dark hair tousled as if he’d been running his fingers through it, his gaze fixed on some unseen point in the distance.

He didn’t look up when you walked in, his posture radiating a quiet weariness. “I didn’t expect you to go that hard.”

“I didn’t expect her to be that… cruel,” you admitted, the anger from earlier having receded, leaving behind a hollow ache.

“She’s your family,” he said softly, a statement of fact, not an excuse.

You walked over to him, the silence between you comfortable and understanding. You pulled out the chair next to his and sat down, the wooden legs scraping softly against the floor.

“You’re my husband,” you said, the words spoken softly but with a newfound conviction that surprised even yourself.

Cheol finally looked up, his dark eyes meeting yours. For the first time since the ink had dried on the ridiculous contract, his carefully guarded expression cracked, just a little. A flicker of something vulnerable, something real, softened the sharp angles of his face. It was as if the lines between the performance and the unexpected connection you shared were finally starting to blur beyond recognition.

He smiled. Not the polite, reserved smile he offered to the world. This was a different smile. A real one. A smile that reached his eyes and held a hint of something… more.

You didn’t sleep in the guest bedroom that night. You found yourself drawn to the quiet comfort of the hallroom's couch. You fell asleep with your legs tangled together, your head resting on his steady chest, his hand gently resting on your waist, a silent promise of support and understanding passing between you in the darkness.

Next day, you find woozi's texts, you had vented to him….you always did. After all he is your bestfriend.

💬 Woozi : You defended him in front of your entire family? Like a freaking knight in shining armor? 💬 You: I wasn’t about to stand there and let her talk about him like he was disposable. Like his worth was tied to a paycheck. 💬 Woozi : Girl. You are so screwed. You know that, right? This isn't just some cooking show anymore.

The silence in the apartment had become a tangible thing, a heavy blanket suffocating the vibrant energy that had once flickered between you. It wasn’t the comfortable quiet of shared understanding, but a hollow echo in the spaces where laughter used to bounce off the walls. A silence that felt stolen, a temporary reprieve before the inevitable storm.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours ticking down with agonizing slowness until the contract expired. Until the apartment keys were exchanged, his worn leather apron would be folded away into a box, the subtle, comforting scent of his cologne would vanish from the bathroom counter, leaving behind only the ghost of his presence.

You’d meticulously constructed a narrative of readiness in your head, a mental checklist of practicalities and detached acceptance.

It was a lie. A pathetic, paper-thin fabrication that crumbled a little more each day.

You felt his absence in the way your hand instinctively reached for his when you navigated crowded spaces, only to grasp empty air. In the way your footsteps hesitated outside his closed bedroom door at night, a silent plea for connection warring with a stubborn refusal to acknowledge the ache in your chest. It intensified with the muffled sound of his laughter during phone calls with Mingyu, a pang of longing twisting in your gut because that unrestrained joy wasn’t directed at you.

And then Woozi, bless her oblivious heart, had dropped a conversational grenade with the casualness of commenting on the weather.

“You gonna write about his Paris job in the last article?”

Your feet had slammed to a halt in the middle of the living room, the mundane task of watering the wilting basil plant suddenly forgotten.

“His what?” The question hung in the air, laced with a dread you couldn’t quite articulate.

Later, with a trembling hand, you’d navigated to his open laptop, the screen glowing with an email that felt like a betrayal waiting to be discovered.

Subject: An Invitation to Paris – Chef Choi Seungcheol Chef Seungcheol, We are thrilled to extend an invitation to join our esteemed team in Paris… Our establishment boasts three Michelin stars… We offer a long-term residency with full creative freedom…

It was everything a chef of his caliber dreamed of, the pinnacle of his profession. A chance to truly shine.

And you hadn’t heard a single word.

He walked in later, the familiar comforting scent of cinnamon and star anise clinging to his clothes. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the familiar dusting of flour, his dark hair endearingly messy, his cheeks flushed a healthy pink from the kitchen’s heat. He looked vibrant, alive, on the cusp of something extraordinary.

You stood frozen at the counter, his laptop screen a silent accusation between you.

He stopped dead in his tracks, his easy smile fading as his gaze landed on the open laptop.

“You got an email,” you stated, your voice flat, devoid of inflection.

Cheol didn’t move, his eyes locked on the glowing screen. “You… you read it?”

You nodded, your fingers gripping the cool edge of the marble countertop as if it were the only thing anchoring you to reality.

“You weren’t going to tell me.” The words were a quiet accusation, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging within you.

“I was going to,” he said, his voice low, defensive.

“When?” you pressed, the question laced with a bitter edge. “Before you packed your knives? Or after the plane took off, with a casual postcard saying ‘Wish you were here, wife’?”

His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking visibly. He finally broke eye contact, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere over your shoulder. “Why does it matter? This… this was always fake. Right?”

The air in the kitchen seemed to thicken, the comfortable warmth replaced by a glacial chill.

“You made it very clear from day one,” he continued, his voice tight. “We do the contract. We play the part. We get what we need. Then we leave. No strings. No… expectations.” He still wouldn’t meet your eyes, and the avoidance felt like a physical blow.

You opened your mouth to argue, to deny the sudden, sharp pain that pierced through your carefully constructed indifference, but the words caught in your throat. He was right. That had been the agreement.

But the agreement hadn’t accounted for the unexpected warmth of his smile, the quiet understanding in his eyes, the way your lives had inexplicably intertwined in the shared space of your fake marriage. The agreement hadn’t factored in the terrifying realization that you were falling for the man you were contractually obligated to leave.

That night, for the first time in what felt like a lifetime of shared meals, you cooked. You hadn’t done it in months. Not since the wedding, a distant, surreal memory. Not since he’d started anticipating your hunger, feeding you without a word, without expectation. Not since you’d realized how much you’d come to rely on his quiet care.

You made something simple, something that tasted of home before home became this strange, temporary space with him. A comforting kimchi jjigae, the familiar spicy aroma filling the silent apartment.

He took one tentative bite, his eyes closed, and then slowly, deliberately, set the spoon down.

“What?” you asked quietly, your voice barely a whisper in the echoing silence.

He shook his head, his gaze distant. “Tastes like… distance.” The word hung in the air, a heavy, unspoken truth.

The apartment became a battleground of unspoken words and averted gazes. He retreated to the comforting chaos of the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans a stark contrast to the heavy silence emanating from your closed bedroom door where you furiously typed words that refused to capture the storm raging within you. Dinners were eaten hours apart, cold and solitary affairs. Your carefully synchronized routines, once interwoven like delicate threads, now lay untangled, frayed at the edges.

But your heart, that stubborn, foolish organ, never stopped searching for him in the empty spaces.

Two nights later, with a heavy heart and trembling fingers, you submitted the final article draft. The one your editor had eagerly anticipated – the grand finale of “Love in the Everyday,” featuring you and your adorably, undeniably real-seeming husband.

But the words on the screen weren’t the lighthearted anecdotes she expected. You didn’t write about the joy of shared cooking, the enthusiastic fan comments, or the viral videos that had chronicled your fabricated romance.

Instead, you wrote about him.

About the quiet strength with which he carried your world, never demanding center stage. About the way he’d wait patiently outside your office with a packed lunch, a silent gesture of care amidst your chaotic deadlines. About the fierce, unwavering support he’d offered that night with your family, standing steadfastly behind you, unflinching in the face of their cruel judgment.

You wrote about the terrifying, gut-wrenching realization of falling in love with someone who had never explicitly stated if he was allowed to love you back, within the confines of your bizarre, temporary arrangement. You poured your raw, vulnerable truth onto the digital page, a confession disguised as a farewell.

You hit send before your courage failed you, the click of the button echoing the finality of the impending goodbye.

💬 Mingyu : You really gonna leave without telling her how you feel, you idiot? She practically went to war for you. 💬 Cheol: What if… what if the ‘my wife’ thing was just for the cameras? What if the comfort food was just a nice gesture? What if I’ve completely misread everything? The contract ends in two weeks, Mingyu. Two weeks and this whole… performance is over. 💬 Mingyu : She made you dinner, Cheol. After finding out you’re leaving for Paris. A home-cooked meal filled with the taste of… distance, according to you. That’s not just a friendly gesture. That’s practically a declaration in Y/N-speak. She might as well have proposed with a side of kimchi. Don’t be a fool.

Choi Seungcheol, a man who could coax flavor from the simplest ingredients, had become a master of emotional suppression, a skill honed in the demanding heat of Michelin-starred kitchens where sentimentality was a weakness.

He had meticulously constructed a fortress around his burgeoning affection for Y/N, each brick a layer of logic, practicality, and the stark, unyielding reality of their contractual arrangement. Mingyu’s hopeful pronouncements, filled with the saccharine optimism of a K-drama fanatic, had been dismissed as mere fantasy. Love? A dangerous delusion.

Their entire relationship had been a carefully orchestrated performance, a series of “my wife this” and “my wife that” delivered for the insatiable gaze of the internet, a cruel pantomime of intimacy. The absence of a single genuine kiss, a fundamental act of connection, underscored the hollowness of their charade.

And a persistent, agonizing question gnawed at him: did she even need him beyond the occasional recipe critique and the shared performance of marital bliss?

And so, with a heart heavier than any cast-iron skillet, he had adhered to the cold, unyielding terms of their agreement. On the fourteenth day, the expiration date circled in his mental calendar since their first disastrous dinner, he had placed the signed divorce papers on the pristine kitchen counter, the crisp finality of the document a stark counterpoint to the messy tangle of his emotions.

The silence as he’d closed the apartment door behind him had been a deafening testament to the chasm he was leaving behind. The gleaming promise of a prestigious kitchen in Paris, a lifelong ambition realized, felt like ash in his mouth, the bitter taste of what he was sacrificing lingering on his tongue.

The journey to forget Y/N, the woman he had sworn to protect his heart from, stretched before him, a desolate and seemingly endless road.

Your final article went live at 7:00 a.m., a digital ghost released into the vast echo chamber of the internet. You didn’t refresh the page, didn’t dare to scroll through the comments section, a battlefield of opinions dissecting a love story that had never truly been yours. Woozi’s frantic texts remained unanswered, each unanswered ping a testament to your profound emotional exhaustion.

Instead, you remained on the cold kitchen floor, a fetal curl of despair amidst the sterile normalcy of the apartment. Your gaze was fixed on the empty space where Cheol’s favorite skillet had hung, a phantom weight pulling at your chest.

He was gone. The silence he’d left behind was a suffocating shroud, each breath a painful reminder of his absence. You replayed the soft click of the closing door in your mind, a sound that had severed the fragile thread connecting your lives. The image of his neatly packed suitcase leaning against the door the night before was a fresh wound.

And so, as the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the empty rooms, you didn’t move. You simply let him go, the unspoken words and unacknowledged feelings a leaden weight in your soul. The future stretched before you, a vast and terrifying expanse devoid of his quiet presence.

But what you didn’t know, as you sat amidst the ruins of your almost-love story, was that miles above the earth, suspended in the sterile cabin of an airplane, your raw, vulnerable words were finding their mark.

[YOUR ARTICLE: EXCERPT] "He always used to say the right meal could mend a broken spirit. I was skeptical, a cynic of grand gestures and easy comfort. But then there were nights when the weight of the world pressed down, when the carefully constructed walls around my heart threatened to crumble, and he would simply offer a warm bowl, a silent presence, a tangible act of care that spoke volumes without uttering a single word of forced comfort. He held space for my anxieties, my exhaustion, the messy, unfiltered parts of myself that I usually kept hidden from the world. He saw the cracks in my facade, the vulnerabilities I fought so hard to conceal, and instead of recoiling, he offered a quiet understanding, a shared meal that tasted of acceptance. He never demanded explanations, never pushed for vulnerability I wasn’t ready to offer. He simply was, a steady anchor in the turbulent sea of my emotions. And now, the thought of a future without the comforting aroma of his cooking filling this apartment, without the quiet strength of his presence a constant reassurance, without the unexpected warmth of his hand brushing mine in a fleeting moment of shared laughter… the thought is a vast, echoing emptiness. The idea of navigating life without his quiet support is a chilling prospect, a flavor of profound loss that no amount of professional success or fleeting internet fame can ever hope to mask."

Seungcheol sat rigidly in seat 14A of his first class, the leather of his worn satchel digging into his clenched fists. The plane remained stubbornly grounded, the pre-flight announcements a distant, meaningless drone. Outside the window, the grey expanse of the tarmac mirrored the desolate landscape of his heart.

His gaze was fixed on the illuminated screen of his phone, your words a searing indictment of his carefully constructed logic. Each sentence was a fresh wound, tearing through the layers of denial he had so painstakingly built. He saw the quiet moments you described, the unspoken language of shared meals, the fragile connection he had so readily dismissed as mere performance.

A wave of agonizing regret washed over him, a bitter taste of what he was so carelessly leaving behind. He had prioritized a lifelong ambition over the quiet, unexpected love that had bloomed in the most unlikely of circumstances. He had chosen the glittering promise of Paris over the raw, vulnerable truth reflected in your words.

With a sudden, visceral certainty, he knew he was making a catastrophic mistake. The Michelin stars, the accolades, the culinary triumphs – they all paled in comparison to the simple, profound connection he had shared with you.

He unbuckled his seatbelt with a trembling hand and stood abruptly, his bag clutched like a lifeline.

“Sir, we are now preparing for departure—” the flight attendant began, her voice laced with professional concern.

“I can’t,” he choked out, the words a raw whisper torn from his throat. “I have to go back.” He didn’t meet her questioning gaze, his focus solely on the urgent, desperate need to return to the woman whose quiet strength had unknowingly become his own anchor.

You heard the hesitant knock around noon, a fragile sound that barely penetrated the heavy silence of the apartment. You remained curled on the floor, a hollow ache where your heart used to be.

Then another knock, slightly more insistent, followed by the soft, hesitant murmur of your name. His voice. The sound, so familiar yet so unexpected, sent a jolt of disbelief through your numb despair.

With a slow, almost agonizing movement, you pushed yourself up, your limbs heavy and unresponsive. He stood in the doorway, his breath ragged, his dark hair disheveled, the familiar fabric of his apron peeking out from beneath his rumpled jacket. He looked like a man who had run across continents for a single breath of air.

“I… I came back,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes searching yours with a desperate intensity.

A single tear traced a lonely path down your cheek. “Why?” The question was barely a whisper, laced with a fragile hope you didn’t dare to believe.

He held up the small bento box, his hands trembling slightly. The warmth radiating from it was a tangible reminder of his quiet care. Inside, nestled amongst the carefully arranged ingredients, was the simple, comforting stew he had made on the night your carefully constructed world had threatened to shatter.

“I made you this,” he said, his voice low and raw. “Because… because you once said it helped you survive. And… and your words… they made me realize… I don’t want to just survive without you, Y/N.”

He took a hesitant step closer, his gaze locking onto yours, his dark eyes filled with a raw vulnerability you had never witnessed before.

“You… you’re more than just someone I cooked for. You… you help me breathe,” he confessed, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. “I was so afraid… afraid of ruining what we had, even if it was… unconventional. I didn’t know if I was allowed to feel this… this real. I was so terrified of being rejected, of misreading every small gesture…”

Before he could unravel further, you reached for him, your fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his jacket, your face pressing into the familiar comfort of his chest. The scent of him, a blend of spices and something uniquely his, filled your senses, a lifeline in the suffocating emptiness.

“You always were,” you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears, the words a fragile affirmation of the feelings you had both tried so hard to deny.

He leaned down, his lips finding yours with a desperate tenderness, a kiss that tasted of regret, of longing, and finally, of a hesitant, burgeoning hope. It wasn’t tentative, wasn’t careful, wasn’t a performance for an audience. It was real, raw, and a promise of something more than a contract.

That night, the silence in the apartment was finally replaced by the comfortable hum of shared presence. He moved around the kitchen with a familiar grace, preparing a simple meal while you sat on the counter, legs swinging, watching him with a newfound tenderness. You stole bites from the simmering pans, and he didn’t stop you, his gaze lingering on you with a soft smile. When you burned your tongue on a particularly eager taste, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle, lingering kiss that tasted of forgiveness and the promise of a future finally worth savoring.

💬 Woozi : So… real marriage now? No more pretending for the internet? 💬 You: Real everything, Woozi. Finally. And it tastes so much better than any viral video. 💬 Woozi : My best friend’s finally whipped. Beautifully, irrevocably whipped. About damn time.

THE END.

2K notes · View notes