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isabelckl · 1 month ago

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texting loser!ellie that you have n!pple piercing in class 3

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

masterlist

The rest of the month bled together in that soft, glowing kind of way—every day bookmarked by the same routine. E in the morning. E during class. E when you were brushing your teeth or pretending to do homework. You talked about everything. Or nothing.

She kept you sharp. Made you laugh when your head was splitting from school noise. Kept you just distracted enough to forget you were tired all the time. And somewhere along the way, you stopped wondering who she was. Because it felt like she already knew you. Not the polished version people saw. You.

You’d stopped counting how many pictures you’d sent. Nothing technically scandalous. But enough to make her say “i’m not strong enough for this” at least three times a week.

You were on your phone, sprawled out in your usual seat in English—last sub of the day, last brain cell left.

You:

im on my last sub rn. talk to u later :(

don’t think about me too much while you’re in class

You smirked.

You:

oh i will. especially us doing unholy things rn

i’m blocking u.

You:

no ur not. u love it

You were still grinning like an idiot when the classroom door slammed open. Everyone scrambled to pretend they weren’t just throwing paper balls or stealing someone’s chair.

Ms. Alvarez was already holding a clipboard, face grim. “Alright, settle down. We’re starting a new graded requirement today—your final literature project. Half of your term grade will come from this. I’m pairing you up.”

Groans some cheers exploded. You barely registered it, still texting E something about being the main character in a forbidden library romance.

Until you heard your name.

“...and Ellie Williams.”

Your head snapped up, blinking.

A few snickers came from behind you, your friends catching it instantly.

One of them patted your shoulder, barely hiding a grin. “Oh, girl. Should we start worrying?”

You rolled your eyes and didn’t bother to answer.

Then a voice you hated piped up. Some guy you’ve never liked, probably trying to be funny.

“Maybe you could just show her your tits and she’ll do the work for you.”

You turned to him instantly.

“Shut the fuck up,” you snapped. Loud enough for people to hear.

He put his hands up, smirking. “Just suggesting.”

Ms. Alvarez didn’t seem to hear, or maybe she was pretending not to. “You’ll have six weeks. You’ll be required to sit beside your assigned partner during this class for the entire project period.”

Some complaints, some high-fives.

You grabbed your bag, eyes scanning. Ellie was still seated, alone near the front, chin in hand.

You made your way over slowly. She was on her phone, thumb tapping something out fast.

“Hey,” you said, soft and casual.

Her head snapped up. Like, immediately. Her phone vanished into her hoodie pocket so fast it was almost suspicious.

You raised your eyebrows slightly, not saying anything.

“Hey,” she replied, voice a little rough around the edges, like she’d just cleared it.

She blinked once, then moved quickly—grabbing the things from her desk and tucking them into her bag on the floor, her sketchpad sliding in last. Then, without saying anything, she reached out and dragged the desk and chair beside her, pulling them close in one fluid motion. The legs scraped loudly against the tile.

You cleared your throat, lowered into the seat, and placed your bag on top of the desk. One hand stayed tucked in the pocket of your skirt, curled loosely around your phone.

You didn’t say anything else and neither did she.

You both just sat there as Ms. Alvarez started droning about the project.

“This is a character-driven piece. Something with personal stakes. Introspection. Conflict. Subtext. You have six weeks.”

You barely heard her.

You unlocked your phone under the desk.

You:

i just wanna go home now and talk to you

(not being clingy)

You smirked without meaning to, biting the inside of your cheek.

You waited for her response.

Ms. Alvarez was saying something at the front—project guidelines, probably. But her voice felt like it was coming through a thick wall of static. You just kept your gaze on your screen. Quiet and expectant.

Still nothing.

She usually replied right away. Even in class. Even with “busy” in her bio.

You stared at the chat a moment longer, thumb hovering over the screen. Not that you were being clingy. Obviously.

You bit your lip and glanced sideways.

Ellie was hunched over her notebook, scrawling notes in the margin like her life depended on it. Her leg bounced under the desk. Her grip on the pen was tight. Too tight. Like it might snap in half if she pressed any harder.

You sighed, leaned back in your seat, and slid your phone back into your pocket.

Your eyes stayed on the front of the room, but you weren’t really listening. Words blurred. The only thing in focus was that weird thrum in your chest. Like something off-key in a song you’ve heard too many times.

After a moment, your eyes drifted back to Ellie.

Her auburn hair was tied loosely at the base of her neck, strands slipping free at the sides and curling against her cheek. Her eyes flicked between the teacher and her notes, sharp and serious, like she was actually locked in.

You stared at her.

Just for a second too long.

Her brows were pinched in thought. She twirled her pen once, adjusted the way she sat, and pulled her hoodie sleeve down over her hand like she was trying to disappear into it.

You pressed your lips together, fingers tapping soundlessly against your arm as you crossed them tight over your chest, waiting for your phone to buzz.

Ms. Alvarez finally wrapped up her monologue with something about “use your time wisely” and “brainstorming starts now.” She sank into her desk after like she was already exhausted by all of you.

Ellie cleared her throat, quietly turning toward you.

She pushed her notebook halfway across the desk, her handwriting a little messy but precise enough to follow. She didn’t look at you at first—just tapped the edge of the page once, offering it like a peace treaty.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the desk and your chin on your knuckles. Watching her.

She glanced up, finally meeting your eyes. “Do you have anything in mind?”

You did.

Maybe E.

But you didn’t say that, of course.

You reached over and plucked the pen from her hand. Your fingers brushed for just a second—warm

You lowered your eyes and started scribbling into the corner of her notes.

Fantasy. Coming-of-age. Drama. Romance. Sapphic.

You underlined the last one.

When you slid the notebook back, she tilted her head at it. Just slightly. Her eyes skimmed the list, and then her lips twitched—barely noticeable. But it was there.

“Sapphic,” she repeated, like she was tasting the word.

You shrugged, eyes flicking up. “Just a suggestion.”

She looked at you again. Not judgmental. Not even surprised.

You raised your eyebrows at her—challenging, almost daring her to say something.

Ellie leaned back slightly. Her voice dropped just a little. “Are you sure?” she asked, voice low and husky. “I mean… you’ve got a reputation.”

You didn’t bother hiding the eye roll that followed.

With one hand, you slid the notebook back across the desk toward her. “You can suggest what you think,” you said flatly. Your voice calm and measured.

She picked up the pen again and wrote underneath:

Agreed.

You raised your eyebrows again.

That’s it? She just… agreed?

“No suggestions?” you asked, skeptical. “Nothing on your mind? You just agreed we write a sapphic book?”

Ellie didn’t even look up. “Nope,” she said, the pen already back in her hand, sketching something random in the corner of the page. A shape. A line. A loop.

You narrowed your eyes at her, gaze flicking over her blank expression. “Well,” you muttered, scanning her with a mock offense, “I expected something much more from you. I mean, you’re the nerd here.”

That earned a glance—sideways, brief. The corner of her mouth tugged, like she was fighting off a smirk.

“Well, I also didn’t expect you to suggest writing a sapphic book,” she replied, voice very dry.

You tilted your head. “Why not?”

Ellie shrugged. “You’ve got a reputation, remember?”

You didn’t even flinch. You let out a breathy scoff, leaning forward on your elbows again, voice low but pointed. “I just told our classmate to shut the fuck up because he said I could show you my tits and you’d do the work for me. Do you think I care about reputation?”

That caught her.

Ellie blinked, startled for a beat, then let out a short breath—half laugh, half disbelief. “Jesus,” she muttered, her gaze flicking to yours. “Didn’t know you were like that even in personal.”

You frowned. “Huh? Like what?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just glanced down at the notes again, something unreadable twitching in her expression.

You scoffed softly and leaned back, arms folding across your chest again. Your eyes darted to Ms. Alvarez, who was now busy at her desk, rifling through a drawer.

“And oh, please,” you said, dry. “It’s not like Ms. Alvarez isn’t gay either.”

Ellie looked at you, blinking.

“That’s why she has no husband at her age,” you went on, tone casual like you were talking about the weather. “She likes girls. And the rumors, Ellie—you’ve heard them. She won’t mind reading a sapphic piece.”

You tilted your head, lips twitching.

“And I bet she’ll like it very much.”

Ellie stared at you for a moment longer and looked away.

But not before you caught it—that flicker of a smirk, barely there.

She shook her head once, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Unbelievable,” and went back to scribbling.

Ellie tapped her pen a few times against the edge of the desk, then tilted her head slightly.

“So,” she said. “What’s it gonna be? Angsty? Enemies to lovers?”

You squinted at her, lips already twitching. Without saying a word, you reached out—snatching her notebook and pen in one smooth motion.

Ellie blinked, caught off guard.

You scribbled one word in bold, all caps:

SMUT.

You slid it back to her with a raised brow and the kind of smug grin you only pulled when you were being very annoying on purpose.

Her eyebrows shot up.

“Smut?” she repeated, slow, confused. “How… it’s not appropriate, I think.”

You bit back a laugh. “Of course it’s not,” you scoffed. “I’m just fucking with you.”

She stared at the word a second longer.

You plucked the notebook back and crossed out SMUT with a dramatic scribble, then started writing again beneath it.

“Anyway, I think something like friends to lovers or whatever,” you said, voice a little more thoughtful now. “It’s the easiest for me to write.”

You kept jotting down rough plot beats, loose ideas—nothing concrete yet. Just bullet points. Your handwriting was starting to drift sideways, slanted and lazy.

When you glanced up again, Ellie was watching you.

Her chin rested in her hand, elbow propped against the desk, eyes steady on your face like she was studying something. Like she was seeing a new side of you.

There was something unguarded about her in that moment. Something soft around the edges. Like maybe—for just a second—she forgot to keep her usual walls up.

You paused, blinking. “What?”

She didn’t answer nor move.

You raised your eyebrows. “Oh,” you said slowly, tilting your head to mirror her. “You’re interested in writing that smut?”

That seemed to break the spell.

Ellie blinked, straightened slightly. “No,” she muttered, her voice low and curt as she grabbed the notebook back from you.

You watched her quietly as she flipped to a clean page and started jotting something down like nothing happened. Like she hadn’t just been staring at you for maybe… kind of a long time.

Her pen scratched against the paper. Her face calm again. Composed. But her ears were slightly pink.

“You’re red,” you said, your voice teasing, a smirk tugging at the edge of your lips.

Ellie didn’t look up. “It’s warm in here.”

You raised a brow. “Right. Sure it is.”

She clicked her pen once—sharp and deliberate—then turned to you with a look so flat it could’ve been carved from stone.

“Better red than desperate for plot-driven foreplay,” she said, completely deadpan.

Your mouth fell open.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, scandalized. “You are thinking about the smut.”

Ellie didn’t respond. Just returned to her notes like nothing happened, but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth gave her away.

You grinned, triumphant.

You watched her for another beat, amused. “You didn’t deny it.”

Ellie didn’t look up, but her pen paused. “I’m ignoring you.”

You leaned over, voice lower now. “You’re failing miserably.”

That got you a side glance from her. Brief and sharp, but not annoyed. More like she was trying not to smile and losing the battle entirely.

You tapped her notebook with your nail. “So, what is this groundbreaking lesbian epic we’re writing?”

“Plot ideas,” she said, clearing her throat. “Since you keep distracting me.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Am I allowed to see, or are you gonna bite me if I try?”

Without a word, she tilted the notebook your way.

You leaned closer.

There was a character with too many feelings and a bad temper. Another one with trust issues and what looked like “shitty taste in people” scribbled in parentheses.

You frowned, eyes skimming back over the notes. “‘Shitty taste in people’?”

Ellie didn't say anything at first, she twirled her pen between her fingers, like maybe if she spun it fast enough, she wouldn’t have to answer. But eventually, she shrugged.

“Some people keep going back to things that hurt them. It’s realistic.”

You stared at her for a beat. The way she said it wasn’t casual. It wasn’t dramatic either—just honest, like she’d written that trait from experience, not imagination.

You leaned back a little. “Nope.”

Ellie blinked. “What?”

“Nope,” you repeated, already reaching for the notebook. “Too depressing. I’m not writing about heartbreak or sad girls with commitment issues. I’ve got enough of that in real life.”

She didn’t stop you as you turned to a fresh page, clicking your own pen open with purpose. “Let’s try this again.”

You started scribbling, words forming in fast, slanted loops.

Two characters. Childhood friends who lost touch. One returns unexpectedly. Maybe there’s a stupid school festival involved. Maybe someone’s in denial. Maybe they’re both idiots, and it takes a whole novella of almosts before anything actually happens.

You glanced sideways to find Ellie watching your hand move. She didn’t interrupt. She was staring like she was trying to match the rhythm of your pen to the shape of your thoughts.

You paused, tapping the page. “This is better.”

Ellie tilted her head. “Friends to lovers?”

You nodded. “Less depressing. More yearning.”

“Yearning is depressing.”

“It’s a good ache.”

She was quiet for a second, then let out a tiny exhale—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Alright,” she murmured. “Let’s write something stupid and soft.”

Ellie took the pen from your hand without asking and leaned over the notebook again, brow furrowed in thought. You didn’t say anything. You just watched her as she wrote—quiet, focused, occasionally pausing to tap the pen against her chin. The sunlight from the classroom windows had shifted, painting her in a late afternoon haze of gold and orange. It softened the sharp lines of her face, caught in the ends of her lashes and the auburn strands of her short hair.

She looked like a photograph that could blur if you stared too long.

The bell finally rang, loud and abrupt. Ms. Alvarez raised her voice over the sudden scrape of chairs and chattering students, tossing out reminders about deadlines and word count minimums. Nobody listened.

Ellie shut the notebook with a quiet thud and began gathering her things, slipping the sketchpad into her bag and adjusting the strap of her guitar case. You stood, grabbing your own bag from the desk and sliding your phone from your skirt pocket out of habit.

Your fingers unlocked the screen before you could stop them, eyes drifting to your last message to E. Still no reply. You stared at it for a moment longer than you meant to. The bubble of words just sitting there. Unanswered.

You let out a breath, sharp and quiet, then turned to Ellie just as she slung the guitar over her shoulder.

“By the way,” you said, holding your phone out toward her, “I need your number.”

She glanced at you, nodded, and took your phone without a word. Her fingers moved fast, thumb flying across the screen before she handed it back and silently offered her own. You typed yours in, quick and neat, and gave it back with a nod.

The room was already half-empty, filled with leftover noise and footsteps in the hall.

You walked out, phone back in your hand, your thumb instinctively brushing over the screen. You opened your messages again.

Still nothing.

Your eyes stayed on it as you moved with the current of students spilling into the hallway—sunlight flickering across lockers and tile. You didn’t notice when Ellie fell in step beside you until she asked, casually, like it was nothing.

“You waiting for someone to text you back?” Ellie said as she walked past, not even slowing down.

You blinked, glancing up—but she was already a few steps ahead, her guitar slung over her back and her hoodie pulled up.

You didn’t answer. You looked down at your phone again, just as a message from E lit up your screen.

Your chest tightened with that familiar tug—the kind you only ever felt with her.

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#isabelckl #ellie williams #ellie williams x fem reader #tlou ellie #ellie fanfic #nerd ellie #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams fanfic #ellie tlou #ellie x reader #friends to lovers #eventual smut #loser ellie #wlw #lesbian #ellie the last of us #the last of us #ellie williams fanfiction

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cipheress-to-k-pop · 24 days ago

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daddy j.t.

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Word Count: 1.5k words

A/N: Despite the title i swear this is an innocent fic. i actually kinda hate it cuz it went better in my head but this is really more of a rando fic abt y/n ft. jason but oh well

credits to @saradika-graphics for the dividers!

The end of the day was always a little bittersweet.

The scent of Play-Doh clung to the air, the carpet was speckled with glitter and suspiciously sticky spots, and somewhere behind you, a rogue pipe cleaner poked out from under a beanbag like a warning. But the chaos had quieted. The last of your tiny humans were zipping up backpacks, putting on Velcro shoes with dramatic effort, and waving their latest masterpieces in the air like sacred scrolls.

“Dorothy,” You called one of the little girls in the class, her parents were waiting at the door to pick her up, “Your mummy and daddy are here!”

“Mummy! Look!” The child beamed, clutching their drawing with pride.

You loved your job. Even on days when your knees hurt and you were 98% made of hand sanitizer, there was something sacred about teaching kindness, counting, and how to open a banana without crying.

The last kiddo was scooped up by their parent with a tired smile and a thank you, and as the door shut behind them, you exhaled.

Peace.

For about seven seconds.

A soft knock sounded on the doorframe. You turned to find your supervisor, Ellen, standing there with a polite smile and her signature clipboard clutched in one hand. You’d worked with her long enough to know what that clipboard meant: You were not in trouble, but you were about to be annoyed.

“Got a second?”

You gave her a tight-lipped smile, “Always.”

She stepped into the room, glancing around at the day’s chaos, “Your class room is always too clean after arts and crafts day, (Y/N). I'm impressed.”

“I almost got shanked with a glue stick during Free Play.”

She didn’t laugh, which meant: yes, this was definitely a clipboard conversation.

“So,” She began carefully, “I got an email this afternoon. From one of the parents.”

You nodded slowly, “Let me guess. Someone thinks snack time is pushing a pro-fruit agenda again.”

“It’s about something you said,” She said, a little sheepishly, "It was Elliot’s mom.”

Of course it was.

You’d dealt with Elliot’s mom before. Perfect nails, perfect teeth, perfect judgmental stare. The woman wore yoga pants like battle armor and asked things like “Have you disinfected the ball pit between uses?” as if you had a pit crew hiding in the janitor’s closet.

“What about Elliot’s mom?” You asked, already mentally bracing.

“She said she was uncomfortable because you called her husband ‘Daddy’.”

You blinked, “...What?”

“She just said she didn’t like it and would prefer if you didn’t use that language when referring to them.”

You squinted, “Did she mention me calling her ‘Mummy?’ Because I always say both. ‘Mummy’s picking you up,’ ‘Daddy’s gonna love that drawing.’ That’s just how the kids talk about their parents.”

Ellen shrugged helplessly, “She didn’t mention that. Just that she doesn’t want you using those terms anymore.”

You paused, “Okay… can I say Mum and Dad then?”

“That’s fine,” Ellen nodded, “As long as you’re not using ‘Mummy’ and ‘Daddy,’ she’s happy.”

You tried. You really, really tried.

After your chat with Ellen, you scrubbed the words "Mummy" and "Daddy" from your vocabulary like you were preparing for court. When it came to Elliot, you retrained your habits, rewrote your daily phrases, and caught yourself at least five times a day before you slipped into the dreaded forbidden words.

"Here’s your bag—Mum will be here soon." "That’s a drawing for Dad, right?" "Let’s put that in your folder so Mum and Dad can see it tonight."

And Elliot, sweet sponge-brain that he was, picked it up almost immediately.

Which is how you ended up here, standing in your classroom during pickup, facing the one woman who made your blood pressure spike worse than juice-box cleanup day.

Elliot’s mom.

She walked in with her usual tight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, designer tote slung over her shoulder like she was late for a brunch reservation. Elliot skipped over to her with the unfiltered joy of a four-year-old, shouting:

“Mum!! Look what I made for Dad!”

You smiled, crouching down to his level, “You tell Dad that’s going right on the fridge, okay?”

“I will!” He chirped, grabbing her hand.

You saw it happen in real time—her face twitching, smile faltering, lips pressing into a line of thin disapproval.

She turned to you.

“Can we talk for a second?”

You glanced at the drying station, then at your imaginary patience, “Of course.”

She waited until Elliot was distracted with a beanbag chair before leaning in, arms crossed.

“So… Elliot doesn’t say ‘Mummy and Daddy’ anymore.”

You blinked, “Right. I’ve been saying Mum and Dad, like you asked.”

She narrowed her eyes, “And now he says it. Like you.”

You tilted your head, trying very hard to keep your voice pleasant, “That’s… kind of how language modeling works in early childhood.”

“Well, I didn’t ask for you to change the way my child talks.”

You blinked again, slower this time, “You… asked me not to say ‘Mummy and Daddy.’ I adjusted.”

“I meant you, not him.”

You opened and closed your mouth, “...That’s not really how it works. The reason I use ‘Mummy and Daddy’ in class is because the kids internalize it. When adults model language, children mimic it. That’s literally how early language development works.”

She narrowed her eyes, “Don’t patronize me. You don’t say ‘Daddy’ to the other children’s fathers the way you say it about my husband.”

Your brain screeched to a halt.

You stared at her, “I—what?”

She leaned in like she was sharing some scandalous secret, “You have this little look when you say it. Like you’re thinking about something filthy.”

You paused. Visibly. Dramatically.

You blinked, “…Are you—Ma’am. What look?”

She didn’t flinch, “Don’t play dumb. You know what you’re doing. You say ‘Daddy’ like it’s some kind of game, like you want him to look at you.”

You blinked, absolutely stunned, “Ma’am, what—what are you talking about?”

“I saw that smirk,” She cut in, “You slut.”

That one hit like a record scratch in a preschool. You stared at her, stunned into absolute silence.

“In a nursery?” You said, voice sharp now, “You’re using that kind of language in a nursery now?”

She crossed her arms triumphantly, as if she'd uncovered a grand scandal, “You don’t have to pretend. I saw it. I see everything. That little smirk, that smile—”

“I smile at everyone’s parents.” You said flatly.

“Yeah,” She said, leaning in with mock sincerity, “But you don’t say ‘Daddy’ like that when it’s anyone else.”

You blinked. Then laughed. Just once. Incredulously.

“I have a boyfriend.”

She raised her perfectly plucked brow, “Oh sure you do.”

Your patience, already hanging on by a thread, snapped with a quiet, deadly precision.

“Your husband,” You said, “is not my type.”

“Oh really?” She snorted.

Before she could clap back, the door creaked open behind you—and speak of the devil.

That was the moment the door opened.

And in walked Jason.

He carried his motorcycle helmet in one hand, his leather jacket half-zipped over a black T-shirt that stretched snug across his broad chest. Built like a double-door fridge, he was easily twice as tall as Elliot’s dad. His shoulders were wide, and his presence filled the doorway without effort, making it clear he wasn’t someone you’d want to cross.

“Hey, babe,” He said, glancing at the parent you were with before checking his watch, “I thought you finished at 5?”

You turned slowly, “Hi, sweetheart. Yeah, we were just... clarifying a few things.”

Elliot’s mom turned slowly. Her eyes landed on Jason. Then traveled up. And up.

Her entire face paled.

Jason looked between the two of you, then walked over and casually pressed a kiss to your temple, “Need me to wait outside?”

“No,” You said sweetly, “We were just finishing up.”

You caught Elliot’s mom actually take a step back.

She looked between you and Jason. And then, with the elegance of a crumbling meringue, she grabbed Elliot and left—no goodbye, no “thanks,” no passive-aggressive parting shot.

Just silence and retreat.

As the door shut, you exhaled. Jason turned to you with an amused grunt.

“So�� what was that about?”

You rubbed your temples, exhaustion catching up with you, “Apparently, I’ve been seducing people’s husbands by saying ‘Daddy.’”

Jason blinked, clearly trying not to laugh, “...I mean, I do get a little twitchy when you call me that.”

You swatted his arm, lowering your voice, “Jason. This is a nursery.”

Jason laughed softly, hoisting his helmet under one arm as you headed for the door.

As you stepped outside, you caught voices drifting from the hallway behind you.

Elliot’s mom, speaking loudly and with venom, was complaining to Ellen, “That man—that man—he has a record, I’m sure of it! It’s unsafe for him to be around our children! I want him banned from this nursery, and I want her fired. She shouldn’t be allowed to bring someone like him here."

Ellen’s tired, no-nonsense reply came seconds later, “He wasn’t even inside the building, just at the entrance to pick up a member of faculty. You need to stop stirring up problems and just—get out.”

There was a long pause.

Then a faint sound of flustered, sputtering denial.

You exchanged a look with Jason—who was trying very hard not to laugh.

You slid your hand into his as you headed out the door.

“Ready to go, Daddy?” You teased.

Jason smirked, “Always.”

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rawjutsu · 2 months ago

Text

chapter two.

pairing: snow leopard hybrid!gojo x bunny hybrid!femreader

keep up here

while you’re not fully adjusted to city life yet, it’s getting easier. you don’t think you’ll ever be completely accustomed to living with gojo satoru, but that’s getting a little easier too.

you’ve learned some survival tricks. like always showering before him. and always putting on a sweatshirt—or at least a bra—before you leave your room, because he loves keeping the ac cranked to arctic tundra levels. another thing?

don’t try to befriend him. because he will take it too far.

you’d figured, since you're stuck living with this guy until you can afford your own place, you might as well try to get along. you can’t help it if your rabbit instincts scream predator every time he so much as glances your way—but you can try to ignore them.

it starts with dinner. you’ll never forget the first time you sit across from him at the little kitchen table, sliding over a plate of leftover sushi rolls with a shaky little “thanks for letting me crash here” smile.

satoru freezes mid-bite, blinking like a cartoon character. then he flashes you that grin that makes your fur stand on end.

“aww, how sweet. bunny girl’s finally coming around.”

now… dinner becomes routine.

you still flinch when his knee bumps yours under the table, but the urge to flee has dulled into a low, steady thrum instead of a full-blown siren.

dinner was tolerable. then satoru started insisting on tagging along for errands. he called them “roomie bonding days.” grocery shopping. helping you lug a new dresser up five flights of stairs. even walking with you to the landlord’s office to drop off rent checks.

it was weirdly domestic. and the rabbit part of you—wired to crave comfort and routine—secretly loved it, no matter how hard you tried to stifle it.

like now, when you’re checking out at the grocery store and satoru swipes his card before you even unzip your wallet, the old lady cashier squints at the two of you and makes a little noise.

“you and your boyfriend make quite the pair,” she says, nodding as she bags up satoru’s absolutely unholy mountain of meat.

you laugh politely. “he’s not my boyfriend, ma’am.”

satoru’s already grinning. “nah, but she wishes.”

you scowl, but the old woman completely ignores him.

“oh, that’s a relief,” she says, casual as anything.

you both blink. “…oh?”

she hesitates, then continues, “well… the world’s different now, i know that. but a small hybrid like yourself should really be with others like you. biology is biology,” she adds, like she’s saying something wise, not offensive. she flashes gojo a tight little smile. “it just wouldn’t work.”

you open your mouth to laugh awkwardly—keep the peace, be nice—but then something warm wraps around your waist.

you freeze. it’s satoru’s tail.

it curls around you like it belongs there.

“oh, it works, lady,” he says, dangerously smooth. “matter fact—”

he reaches toward the display near the register, grabs something, and slams it on the counter with a smirk.

“—ring this up for me.”

you look down. your brain short-circuits. a box of extra extra large condoms stares back at you.

the cashier sputters like she’s choking on air.

your mouth opens. no sound comes out.

then satoru hums, looking thoughtful. “hmm… actually, we don’t need ’em.” he grabs your hand and the rest of the bags in one go, then drags you out of the store before you can even breathe.

satoru, to his credit, doesn’t say anything about the deep flush still burning across your cheeks as you storm down the sidewalk, fuming and trying to match his long-legged stride.

“she was an old lady, satoru! you could’ve just ignored her!”

he shrugs, cool and unbothered. “i don’t stand for discrimination.”

“no, you just love humiliating me!”

“humiliating?? that old hag should be the one humiliated.”

“oh my god—the condoms, satoru!”

he stops walking abruptly, turning to face you. there’s that little smile again—and even with his sunglasses on, you can feel the glint in his eyes.

“huh. so that’s what this is about. you mad i didn’t actually buy them?” his voice drops an octave. “don’t worry, little bunny. i’ve got some back home.”

your eyes go wide. "you're an idiot!" you hiss, dropping your grocery bags to the hot concrete. “and you can carry these yourself!”

you whirl around and storm off toward the apartment, small fists clenched at your sides, ears twitching in agitation. your face is burning so bad it practically sizzles under the sun.

you’re back at the apartment, curled up on the sofa and angrily flipping through channels, trying not to feel guilty about ditching him to carry all those bags in the heat.

when he finally walks in, he’s glistening with sweat, white bangs plastered to his forehead, tail swishing like an agitated metronome.

he drops the bags on the kitchen counter with a dramatic sigh. “do you not know what a joke is?”

you scoff. “a joke? it’s a joke to imply you’re having sex with me?”

gojo groans, dragging a hand down his face. “that wasn’t about you. i was putting that crusty old fossil in her place.” he mutters the next part under his breath, “clearly we’re not having sex…”

you don’t hear it.

you frown. “you kept going, even after we left the store!”

he sighs again, this time deeper. “okay. yeah. that was too much. my bad.”

you blink. he looks—ugh—actually guilty. which is disarming. and yeah… he’s still sweaty. you sigh.

“it was a lot. but… i get it. in your own ‘satoru’ way, you were just standing up for yourself. or… for us, i guess. it’s not easy dealing with people like that.”.”

he doesn’t respond, just gives a vague nod, and you grimace.

“also,” you say quickly, “not to excuse your behavior or like… totally erase my anger, ‘cause i am still upset—but i get kind of extra sensitive when my heat’s coming. around certain themes.”

gojo’s expression flickers.

“themes?” he echoes, but his voice is suddenly lower. throatier.

you wave your hands like a maniac. “like—sex themes! i mean—not like sex-sex, just… the concept. and it’s hot! like, the weather is hot! it’s just… a bad combo!”

he lets out a slow exhale and makes a small “oh” sound, lips forming a perfect o. but there’s a tightness in his jaw you didn’t notice before. you think he’s looking at you, but you can’t really tell behind those stupid sunglasses.

“gotcha,” he says a little too fast. “so—no more sex jokes for now.”

“forever,” you deadpan.

“right. yeah.” he waves you off vaguely, turning around and practically bolting toward the hallway. “i’m gonna shower. i’m all sweaty thanks to you. don't bother me.”

he disappears into the bathroom before you can blink.

you frown. that was weirdly abrupt.

later that night, you’re buried in your sheets, eyes wide open as you stare at the ceiling in the dark.

you’ve flipped your pillow three times. turned on the fan. turned it off. even pulled out your phone and scrolled mindlessly through apps you weren’t even looking at.

but nothing helps.

because all you can think about is that damn box.

extra. extra. large.

you groan and bury your face in the pillow.

did he grab it just to mess with the lady? or… had he actually known exactly what size to reach for?

you shift in bed, thighs pressing together as an ache begins to settle deep in your belly. it’s stupid. hormonal. biological. you’re pre-heat, and your body’s craving comfort, intimacy—touch. but even knowing that, your brain still clings to the memory of gojo’s smug grin, his tail wrapped protectively around your waist.

your ears flatten in frustration. you are not going to think about him while you do this.

but ten minutes later, you're digging in your nightstand, grabbing your little pink vibrator. the second it buzzes to life, your breath catches.

you bite your lip and carefully pull your thin shorts down, exposing skin that’s already flushed and damp from the heat. the vibrator presses against your inner thigh first, teasing your sensitive skin as you close your eyes, trying to drown out every noisy thought.

your breath hitches when you finally slide it between your folds, soft and slick. the vibration throbs in waves, teasing your clit, sending sharp jolts of pleasure that make your toes curl.

your free hand grips the sheets tight as your hips start to rock involuntarily, seeking that perfect angle, that perfect pressure. your body trembles with each pulse, hot and sticky with sweat and desire.

you try not to think about him—his long legs, the way his tail sways, those mischievous dark eyes behind the sunglasses—but every memory is like a spark that sets your skin on fire. you imagine his fangs sinking into your neck, his rough tongue flicking over your skin, and your knees clench tighter.

the buzzing grows louder in your ears, mixing with your ragged breathing and the faintest whimpers that escape your lips. your ears flatten, cheeks burning as you squeeze your eyes shut, picturing the way your nose scrunches when you glare at him, how your floppy ears pull back in fear or frustration.

you’re so close now, hips trembling with the delicious tension, your heartbeat pounding in your ears like thunder.

you don’t know it, but just a wall away, satoru’s eyes snap open.

his ears twitch.

and then flatten back against his head.

the low, steady hum of your vibrator is faint—but he hears it. he can’t not hear it. his hearing picks up everything. the way your breathing catches. the soft shuffle of your sheets.

and that tiny, nearly inaudible moan.

gojo clenches his jaw so hard it aches. his fists twist in his sheets. his cock is already hard, throbbing against the band of his sweats, angry and hot and desperate.

but he doesn't move.

he just lays there, teeth bared, tail flicking in agitation.

this is your fault.

you're the one touching yourself.

you're the one being unbearably cute and annoyingly sexy without even trying.

and he's the one losing sleep over it.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹

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