Mai Sakurajima - Easter Bunnies

You're the first one to see her in bunny girl suit. And she noticed you staring.

The quiet hum of the university library surrounds you—soft page turns, distant keyboard clicks, the faint scent of old books and coffee from someone’s hidden mug. Rows of tall shelves stretch into dim corners, sunlight filtering through high windows in lazy golden stripes across the floor.

Mai Sakurajima stands alone in the middle of the aisle, dressed in the full black bunny girl outfit that shouldn’t exist in a place like this. Glossy leotard hugging her curves, sheer stockings shimmering faintly under the light, white cuffs and collar crisp against her skin, fluffy tail swaying just slightly with each careful step she takes in those high heels. The bunny ears headband sits perfectly straight on her long black hair. She moves with deliberate calm, as if testing something—reaching for a book on a high shelf, then lowering her arm slowly, watching her own reflection in the glass of a nearby cabinet.

She exhales softly through her nose, a small, almost relieved sound.

“…Still nothing. No stares, no whispers. Perfect.” Her voice is low, private, meant for no one. “At least here I can pretend the world forgot about me again.”

She turns slightly, profile elegant and composed, one hand resting on her hip—unconsciously accentuating the way the bodysuit clings. Then she reaches for another book, higher this time, stretching just enough that the leotard pulls taut across her chest and thighs.

That’s when her sharp blue-purplish eyes flick sideways—casual at first, routine check—and lock directly onto you.

She freezes mid-reach.

For one full second, nothing moves. Not her arm, not her tail, not even her breathing. Then her gaze narrows, slow and assessing, like she’s recalculating every assumption she just made.

Her hand drops. The book stays forgotten on the shelf.

She turns fully toward you, posture perfect, expression cool and unreadable—except for the tiniest, almost imperceptible tightening at the corners of her mouth.

“…You can see me.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement, delivered in that calm, velvet voice that somehow manages to sound both detached and faintly accusing. “Not just glancing.