pairing: m! bunny hybrid x gn! reader
word count: 1.2k
author’s note: please leave me some ideas!! classes are such a bitch, so much work to do....
have a small daydream i had, inspired by Follo from Gachiakuta. man, i love him sm.
not proofread, too lazy :pp may or may not expand on this, or edit it when i wake up.
the thing is—you don’t even realize you’re doing it half the time.
it’s just…natural.
human.
because where you grew up, soft things got taken care of. pets got fed first. smaller animals got watched over. you were taught, wired into your brain, that things with twitching noses and wide eyes and gentle dispositions needed someone a little bigger, a little stronger, to keep an eye on them.
and now?
now there are hybrids. you knew they existed…just, humans and hybrids never interacted daily much. not until recently.
and your brain doesn’t quite separate it the way it should.
so when his ears twitch at a loud noise, your attention snaps to him before you even think about it, already offering him your headphones. when he forgets to eat because he’s too focused on notes, you’re already sliding food across the table. when the halls get too crowded, too loud, too predatory, you step just a little closer without realizing, a subtle barrier between him and everything else.
your bunny hybrid! classmate. someone you’d gotten close to in one of your minor subject classes.
you don’t mean anything by it.
you really don’t.
but he notices.
he notices the way you always check if he’s eaten. the way your voice softens just a little when you talk to him compared to everyone else. the way your hand hovers—always hovers—like you’re one second away from reaching out.
like he’s something that needs handling.
“did you eat?” you ask, not even looking up from your notes as you push a small container toward him.
his ears flick.
“…i can feed myself.”
“i know,” you mumble. “just making sure.”
it’s automatic.
it’s always automatic.
and that’s the problem.
because across the table, his grip tightens just slightly around his pen.
he knows you don’t mean to be condescending.
he knows you care.
that’s what makes it worse.
because every time you do it, it reminds him—
of what he is.
prey.
small. safe. weak.
something to take care of.
and he’s so, so tired of it.
especially when your friends show up.
loud, broad-shouldered predator hybrids. a wolf who grins too sharp, a tiger who takes up too much space without even trying. even your smaller friends—taller, stronger, buffer - easy confidence in the way they move and meld with you.
you fit with them.
you laugh with them.
you don’t soften around them.
but with him?
you tilt your head. lower your voice. watch him like he might get hurt if you look away for too long.
he hates it.
he hates the way his ears pin back when the wolf hybrid slings an arm around your shoulders, all teeth and confidence, and you just laugh like it’s nothing.
he hates the way your hand finds his sleeve right after, like you’re checking if he’s okay.
he hates the way you look at him.
like he’s less.
and it builds. slowly, quietly.
until it topples over, too heavy to contain.
“are you okay?” you ask one afternoon, leaning in just slightly, fingers brushing his sleeve without thinking. “you’ve been quiet.”
his ears twitch.
“i’m always quiet.”
“yeah, but—” you frown, thumb catching on the fabric of his sleeve. “you seem off.”
there it is again.
that look.
soft. careful. human.
something in him snaps.
“i’m not fragile.”
you blink.
because that—that—wasn’t soft.
“i didn’t say you were—”
“you treat me like it.”
your hand stills.
slowly, you pull it back.
“…i don’t—”
“you do.” his voice is tighter now, ears angling back before forcing themselves upright again. “you hover. you check on me. you step in like i can’t handle anything on my own.”
you open your mouth.
close it.
because—
he’s not wrong.
“i just worry,” you say, quieter now. “it’s not—i’m not trying to—”
“i know.”
he cuts you off before you can finish.
and that hurts more than if he didn’t.
because he does know.
he knows it’s instinct. knows it’s the same way you’d treat a rabbit back home, or a stray cat, or anything small and soft and easy to hurt.
and that’s exactly the problem.
“i’m not a pet,” he says, softer now, “i’m not something you look after because it feels natural.”
your chest tightens.
“i don’t see you like that.”
his gaze sharpens.
“don’t you?”
that—
that makes you hesitate.
because buried under all your good intentions, all that instinctive, human wiring—
there’s a sliver of truth you don’t want to touch.
he sees it in your silence.
of course he does.
his jaw tightens.
and then—
he stands.
you barely have time to react before he’s stepping into your space, not hesitant, not soft—not anything like you’ve been treating him as.
close enough that you have to lean back slightly, your lower back hitting the edge of the desk behind you.
his ears are upright now. alert.
his eyes aren’t gentle.
“i’m not weak,” he says.
quiet.
steady.
your breath catches.
because this—
this isn’t the boy you’ve been fussing over.
this is something else entirely.
“i don’t need you to protect me,” he continues, one hand bracing against the desk beside you, caging you in without quite touching. “and i don’t need you treating me like i’m going to break.”
your heart kicks a little faster.
instinct again.
but not the same kind.
“…okay,” you murmur, eyes wide, ears burning.
he studies your face, searching for something.
maybe doubt.
maybe pity.
you don’t give it to him. not this time.
you can feel something.
change.
rewire.
in he way he doesn’t step back. in the way your usual instincts—fix it, soften it, make it gentle—don’t quite come as easily right now.
because he’s not letting you.
“…good,” he murmurs.
but he doesn’t move.
doesn’t give you back that space.
instead, his gaze flicks—brief, sharp—to where your friends had been earlier. the wolf. the others. the way you’d laughed with them, easy and unguarded.
something flickers in his expression.
jealousy. a burning, ugly green.
“you don’t act like this with them,” he says.
you swallow. “they don’t need it.”
“neither do i.”
he leans in slightly.
not enough to touch.
enough that you feel it anyway.
“stop treating me like prey,” he adds, voice lower now.
your pulse stutters.
because there’s nothing prey-like about him right now.
nothing soft.
nothing small.
you nod, slower this time.
“…okay.”
another pause.
then, quieter—
“then don’t look at me like that anymore.”
“…like what?”
his ears flick once.
his gaze doesn’t waver.
“like i belong under your care.”
the words sit between you.
heavy.
and for the first time since you met him—
you don’t know what to do with your hands.
or your instincts.
or the way your heart is beating just a little too fast for this to be simple anymore.
“…i’ll try,” you admit.
his shoulders untense, just slightly.
but still, he doesn’t move away.
and when he finally does—
it’s slow. deliberate.
like he’s making sure you see it. see him.
not small.
not soft.
not something to take care of.
something that can stand on his own. something that can step into your space and not get pushed back out. and as he turns, ears flicking once, voice quieter—
“…good.”
© jusfneo
a/n: i’m just imagining a prey hybrid who’s so sick of being doted on, and a predator hybrid who’s eating that shit up ‘cause a human just can’t stop their urge to pet anything fluffy—even when that fluffy thing happens to be a damn leopard or polar bear. lololol
