“Don’t Call Me That (Unless You’re Mad At Me)”

“Don’t Call Me That (Unless You’re Mad at Me)”

Pairing: Ellie Williams x fem!reader

AU: College AU, established relationship

Length: ~1.7k

You’re sitting on the couch trying to salvage a half-baked group project presentation that’s due tomorrow, staring at a slide that literally says “Capitalism be wild” in bright pink font when Ellie walks in and drops her keys like she wants an audience.

She kicks her shoes off too aggressively and flops onto the couch next to you with the dramatic sigh of someone who just got dumped and evicted in the same day.

“Don’t ask,” she says, already face-down into the cushions.

You don’t. You just glance at her and go back to the war crime that is your shared Google Slides.

She rolls over. “You’re seriously not gonna ask what happened?”

“No,” you say, deadpan. “I assume it’s mildly inconvenient. Like your favorite pen ran out.”

Ellie sits up and blinks at you. “Okay, rude. But kind of accurate.”

You smirk, still not looking at her. “Shocking.”

There’s a pause. Then—

“Ellie, what happened,” you mutter without looking up.

Another pause. Then a sharp inhale.

“You just called me Ellie.”

Your fingers freeze over your trackpad.

“…Yeah?”

“No baby? No babe? No ‘you absolute freak’?”

You look over at her. “I literally just said your name.”

Ellie squints at you like she’s trying to determine if you’re possessed.

“You never call me that unless you’re annoyed with me.”

You blink. “I’m not.”

“Liar.”

You finally set the laptop aside. “I’ve been staring at Comic Sans for forty minutes. If I sound irritated, that’s why.”

Ellie’s already climbing over you like a cat determined to be in your way. She sits sideways in your lap and rests her chin on your shoulder.

“I just think it’s kinda harsh,” she says casually. “Dropping government names like we’re not in love.”

You snort. “You’re so dramatic.”

She shrugs. “I’m sensitive.”

“No, you’re a menace”.

“Menace with standards,” she mumbles, half-buried in your hoodie. “I still expect to be called baby.”

You glance at her, unamused. “You’re getting nothing until I make it through this slideshow without ripping my hair out.”

Ellie groans. “Wow. So this is how it ends. Cold shoulder over Google Slides.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You watch one psychology TikTok and now you think you’re a licensed therapist.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Okay, Dr. Williams.”

“I like the sound of that,” she says, sitting up straighter. “Say it again.”

“Only if you stop talking.”

She squints. “You’re being so cold to me today. Is this about the last slice of pizza last night? Because I genuinely didn’t know you wanted it.”

“I didn’t. But now I do, retroactively.”

Ellie looks offended. “You can’t just claim food in hindsight.”

“You can if you’re petty.”

Ellie huffs but doesn’t move from your lap. Instead, she hooks her arms around your neck.

“I liked it better when you called me gross pet names in front of your friends.”

“You mean when I said ‘hey loser, come here’ and you acted like I gave you an engagement ring?”

“Exactly.”

You laugh softly and tilt your head forward until your forehead bumps hers. She smiles, eyes closing, her whole body softening against you like it always does when you’re quiet like this.

“You’re so annoying,” you say gently.

“Say it nicer,” she murmurs.

You lean in and kiss her cheek. “You’re my favourite headache.”

She opens one eye. “Still not ‘baby,’ but I’ll allow it.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re really gonna act like this over a nickname?”

“Yes,” she says immediately.

You tilt your head. “What if I started calling you something worse? Like El.”

She physically recoils. “Don’t you dare.”

“El.”

“I swear to god—”

You grin. “E-dawg.”

“Stop.”

You’re laughing now, and she’s pretending to be offended but already smiling, already giving herself away.

You shift slightly, readjusting your laptop and giving her a half-hearted pat on the thigh. “If you get up and make popcorn, I’ll call you baby.”

She considers this like it’s a high-stakes negotiation.

“Movie night?”

“Yeah.”

“Your pick or mine?”

You pretend to think. “Yours. But nothing that’s, like, sad for no reason.”

“Fine,” she says. “But if I see one more Google Slide with neon fonts and drop shadows, I’m unplugging the router.”

“Deal.”

She finally gets off you and heads toward the kitchen, mumbling something about kettle corn.

You reopen your laptop, adjust the disaster of a slide, and call out casually, “Thanks, baby.”

There’s a pause, then—

“I forgive you!” she yells from the kitchen.

Of course she does.