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themindofachronicdaydreamer · 3 months ago

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Perspectives

marshmallow floof plot: Megumi recalls you and Gojo falling in love through his eyes. content: fem! reader, megumi is in denial about caring about Gojo, Gojo is obsesseddddd with you shamelessly, but its okay because so are you with him! warning!: megumi is not good with emotions :/ or tolerating Gojo word count: 5.7k satoru gojo x reader note: can we pretend utahime and gojo are the same age pls and thank u - also i am delusional and in my head suguru did not defect so gojo never had to go thru all of that okay <3333 anywau i hope you enjoy!! put a lot of thought and love into this!

At only six years old, Megumi was already quite intelligent. As an extremely perceptive child, he understood far more than he should have at such an age. Typically, kids his age were naive and gullible; Megumi however was the complete opposite, and that was partially due to his aloofness.

When Satoru Gojo first met Megumi, he felt like he was talking to a grandpa in a miniature body, sassing anyone who dare interact with his little self. As stern and as gloomy as the boy persisted on to be, though, Gojo picked up on hints of tenderness and compassion laced between every word Megumi spoke about his sister, Tsumiki. Easily, Gojo could discern what he deemed too much deeply rooted pain and defensiveness in the young Fushiguro. Having his guard up was engraved into his mind; the wall he placed between him and the world had it's own sector in his immune system and acted with automaticity, an innate defense mechanism.

Despite all of the anguish intertwined in every breath Megumi exhaled, and despite his cold nature he employed to protect himself from being hurt again as he has before; despite being abandoned, and despite not being surprised he was; despite not even hitting double digits, yet already carrying the attitude of a the wisest owl; despite all of the thoughts racing through Gojo's head, he knew Megumi was special. Though a part of it may have been due to the responsibility he felt over the boy after murdering his father, Satoru Gojo was confident in one thing: he would take care of this kid like his life depended on it.

From then on, Gojo took the role of Megumi's benefactor, funding him and his sister so that they could live without worry. Megumi begrudgingly allowed him to endow his life, though it was rather difficult. The guy was so over-the-top and bothersome when he decided to actually go and physically check up him. Visits from were sparse, though, if Megumi really cared or needed anything, Gojo was always a text away.

And soon he would learn that you were, too.

The first time your existence was brought to Fushiguru's attention, it was mildly unintentional on Gojo's end. He was completing his routine check-in on Megumi about six months after taking him under his wing, ensuring he was doing fine in school - other than the fights he found himself in every now and again, of course. And after everything checked out okay, he rambled on about his week and how exhausting it was being the strongest, greatest individual to exist in this time and how much Yaga has been up his ass since he was promoted to principal and blah blah blah...

"Can you believe he was expecting me to get to the school before nine A.M.? Hah! Funny man. I need my beauty sleep. How else would I always look this handso- Oh!"

Megumi, who was in no way religious, praised in that moment whatever God up above sent a call to Gojo's phone at that exact moment, for he failed to believe he could have pretended to listen to another second of his unimportant and unnecessary rant. It truly was over-the-top, and Megumi was not a fan. He had never, nor did he think he would ever, warmed up to the way Gojo's ego seems to make a nearly empty room feel claustrophobic.

"Heyyyyy!" Gojo dragged, acting like a highschool girl with the way he twirled the end of his hair and giggled at whoever was at other end of the phone. If Megumi cared to look closely enough (which he totally doesn't, since he is so disinterested in Gojo and does not dare to look at him too long or he will automatically become annoyed), a rosy hue could barely be seen on the apples of the older man's cheeks, growing more and more apparent the longer the phone call went on.

Obviously, Megumi did not want to listen to the likely boring conversation, but since he was stuck in the same room as Gojo, he had no other choice but to eavesdrop on the phone call. Or, more accurately, he was playing detective to solve the mystery of who on the other end was transforming Gojo, as childish as he is, into a tweenage boy talking to a cute girl for the first time.

"I'm with Fushiguru, actually," Megumi overheard, his interest only minutely piqued after hearing his name. Whoever was on the other end must have known who he was already given the way Gojo did not feel the need to elaborate on who exactly Fushiguru was. That irked Megumi.

"Yeah, just hanging out, you know. I'd say we're best buds! Right, Megumi?" Gojo moved the phone away from his ear and looked at the boy across from him expectedly.

"No," is all Megumi spoke in response.

Gojo's eyes widened slightly, not expecting such a response, before he laughed and continued, "Silly guy! Such a silly guy."

The call took way too long and Megumi was half tempted to leave the room, but he was still getting used to Gojo and did not fully understand what his role was in his current situation. Was Gojo considered a houseguest? Was Megumi supposed to have something prepared as a thank you? Even if he was, he wouldn't do that for Gojo. What if something went wrong, or Gojo did something stupid? Tsumiki was at her after school club, being the natural social butterfly she was. Megumi had assumed the role of the man of the house at merely seven, and he was not going to disappoint her or let anything go haywire on his watch. This was his roof, and nothing would happen to their humble little abode under his watch.

Finally, Gojo said his goodbyes to whoever he was speaking to, set his phone down, and sighed in the most i-must-be-living-in-a-daydream-because-there-is-no-way-life-can-be-this-good-and-i-am-so-in-love-but-i-dont-even-know-it sort of way.

"You would like her," Gojo broke the silence after a few moments of savoring the butterflies in his stomach.

"Who was that?" Megumi queried, and if Gojo listened closely, he could hear echos of intense interest in the boy's simple question.

"A friend from work."

"You don't have friends."

"Hey!"

-----

After your existence was brought to light, it became a thing that whenever Gojo visited, he spent half the time on the phone - whether texting or on a phone call, it didn't matter. He was always talking to you.

Megumi supposed he should have felt grateful since Gojo finally became less unbearable. His check-ins, although hard to predict when they would be or how long in between they would reoccur, became less about how much Gojo loves himself and more about... well, you. It was a nice change from hearing his neverending egocentric comments, to be fair. Megumi was not complaining.

"You remember her, right, Megumi?" he asked while walking Megumi home from school one day. He was on a tyrant about something that had happened at Jujutsu High a few days prior before realizing he might had forgotten about the most important detail: you. The chance that Megumi may not even know who he was speaking about generated a sharp gasp escaping from Gojo's lips.

"Yes. She's all you talk about," Megumi deadpanned. What a stupid question, the boy thought to himself, when Gojo asked this every single time he bothered to show his face around here.

Gojo chuckled, responding in a voice that was way up in the clouds, as if he was skipping through a meadow abundant with good feelings and the potential for new relationships, "Hm, yeah. I guess you're right! Sorry, kid. Just had to make sure you knew."

At this point, Megumi learned a lot about you: You taught second-year sorcerers at Tokyo Jujutsu High, you went to Kyoto Jujutsu High, you were in same year as Gojo was, you were acquaintances for a while, your best friend (unfortunately so, as Gojo whined when he told Megumi) was Utahime, who was oddly protective of you and rude for no reason to Gojo (it is most definitely within reason), you were the most selfless person to walk the surface of this planet, you cared more for others than for yourself, and you and Gojo were really, really, really good friends now that you worked together and you two were close and he was friends with you and you texted him all the time and hung out too and you spent time together and you are theprettiestpersonhehadeverplacedhissixeyeson-

Basically, Megumi knew more about you than he comfortably should, and you were all Gojo seemed to talk about now.

Megumi found it sort of... endearing how much Gojo spoke about you. For someone so certain in himself and all of his glory, it was nice to hear him talk about someone else that way. He discerned an innocent intent in Gojo's actions, from the soft grin that graced his face when he rattled on about you, to the way he had begun to ask eight-year-old Megumi for advice on women (which he has surprisingly been helpful with - especially the time when Gojo didn't know if you'd prefer a specific flavor of mochi over another, and Megumi's suggestion ended up being the perfect one because it was your favorite). And though he would never, ever utter the words out loud, Megumi enjoyed hearing Gojo talk about you. It brought him down to earth and made him feel more like a mortal being; even Satoru Gojo crushed, fawning over you like you were a brand new toy and he was a toddler unwrapping gifts on Christmas Day. Even the man who had everything in the world simply wanted just like the rest of the world; he yearned for things in life that he did not ("Not yet, but surely soon!" Megumi was certain Gojo would say if he could read minds) have.

The two boys sat together at Megumi's, eating some sweets Gojo brought back from his mission. Gojo had a bouquet of flowers set delicately on the table in front of him, preparing himself to go to your house after his pep talk with Megumi and ask you on a date. Finally.

Staring at the flowers beside him, Gojo resolved to pick a flower out of the bouquet; a pretty, pale pink daisy that reminded him of the shade of your cheeks when he teased you. He rolled the green stem of the daisy back and forth between his index finger and thumb while echoing the declarations of his planned speech confessing his feelings for you. He had his heartfelt soliloquy memorized, but he was still feeling... apprehensive.

"She loves me," Gojo began, plucking a petal off of the flower and setting it delicately on the table. He spoke lowly, as if his life depended on the resolution he would find when he would extricate the last of the daisy's petals.

Megumi looked up from the book he was reading - a true crime mystery he had been quite invested in - to figure out what the man next to him was doing.

"She loves me not," Gojo plucked another petal, placing it on top of the other one he had already taken off.

Ah, Megumi understood it now. He's transforming into a child; his obsession with you had turned his brain to mush. He had now, mentally, been beat by Megumi, descending into the intellect a five year old smitten with a kindergarten crush.

"She loves me!" Gojo chirped. He plucked another petal before reporting with a glum tone, "She loves me not."

This went on and on. Megumi observed without a word and Gojo continuing the game that is so typically played on on a children's playground.

How on earth did you have such a drastic effect a man so above the rest of society? The man put on a pedestal by all of the Jujutsu world; the one who could take on any obstacle and leave without a scratch; the same guy who died and brought himself back to life; he could isolate himself from the rest of the world in an instant using only his limitless technique, yet, you always found a way to draw him back him - and somehow, somewhere in the mix, you had The Strongest Sorcerer wrapped around your finger.

"She loves me, Megumi!" Gojo proclaimed when he picked the final petal from the flower. "I mean, of course she does. Look at me."

Ah, there was the daily dose of Gojo's big ego; his head was as inflated as expected, but was on display little later than usual. Megumi referred to it as The Daily Dose of Gojo: DDG. He was bound to hear at least once a day about how much Gojo loved himself, whether through text or in person. But today, it was more like he was venturing to persuade himself on that fact, too.

Megumi then realized that this was the first time he had seen Gojo nervous.

He wondered what about you could make Gojo nervous, because not even the strongest of curses causes The Strongest Sorcerer to break into a sweat. What exactly is it that you have that grants you the title of the one human who could make Satoru Gojo nervous? He understood that you were special to him, but he still had never met you, and he is starting to want to.

He wasn't sure why he felt so protective over you. You were a twenty-year-old woman who he has never even met in person, even though he knew from Gojo the color of your eyes and the smell of the perfume you always wore. One thing was for sure, though: if Satoru Gojo messed with your heart, Megumi would fight him with all of the effort his child body could exert in one go, then kick his ass all the way to the core of the earth to be at such a heat that his infinity disfunctioned, ensuring he suffers for ever even considering toying with your feelings.

-----

"Fushiguru!" Gojo hollered as Megumi exit his elementary school.

Megumi glared at the white-haired male as he stalked toward him, untrusting of the motives at play. Gojo watched the child over the rims of his sunglasses, a toothy smile spread across his face while he waved excitedly. He had something planned, as per usual.

"What do you want?" Megumi groaned, and he eyed the two individuals in front of him with suspicion, though he already had an idea on who you were.

It was an uncommon sight for him to be picked up from school, but for Gojo to be accompanied by someone other than Ijichi was borderline shocking. There was only one person you could be, however, and Megumi suppressed the fluttering of excitement he felt as he saw you.

"Hey! Rude to speak to your elders like that," Gojo jested flippantly. "I want you two to meet!"

Fushiguru listened as Gojo repeated every syllable of your name that he has repeated a million times before. It rolled smoothly off of his lips, like caramel drizzle on the sweetest treat from his favorite bakery. It has been about two months since you, somehow willingly, agreed to a date with Gojo. It has been about a month since you agreed to officially be his girlfriend, which Yaga was not the most pleased to hear, but Gojo dealt with that and ensured the security of both of your jobs.

"Hi, Fushiguru!" You waved, a wide smile adorning your face. "Nice to meet you! Gojo talks about you all of the time."

"Hi," Megumi quietly said. He suddenly felt shy in your presence. You stood in front of him in all of your beauty, with the kindest smile on your face and the softest look in your eye, gazing at him as if he were the most important person in the world. Gojo did not do you justice when describing you to him.

And suddenly, everything Gojo ever said about you made complete sense - now, he finally understood how even the famed Satoru Gojo fell victim to the enigma that was you.

"I'm a friend of Gojo's! I wanted to meet you, and I don't know if you would want to, but I would love to get to know you," you offered. You folded your hands together in front of you and smiled politely toward the young boy. You were doing your best to not look too nervous because you really did want to get to know this kid, but from what Gojo's told you, he was not the most sociable character. Something about his melancholy aura is rather intimidating, to say the least, and you were doing your best to accommodate.

"...will he be there?" the kid questioned after some thought. As he spoke, he pointed his thumb toward his benefactor who immediately took offense to whatever he was implying, whining loudly in the background of what had become the two of yours conversation.

"Who, Gojo? Oh, well, he doesn't have to be," you suggested over Gojo's objections. "It can just be you and me. Or, if you are more comfortable with it, he can come with-"

"No. No Gojo," he interrupted. Gojo continued in his protests, but they all drowned into white noise as Megumi continued. "But sure."

You craved so badly to smile widely, high five Gojo for the feat you just accomplished, jump up and down, and display your excitement for his agreement on your face. But you were so worried you would scare him off, so instead, you opted for a soft smile while you said, "Great! Is now okay?

"Sure," he returned, emotionless as always.

"Perfect. Your pick on what we do. And it's on Gojo!"

And you walked away, ignoring Gojo whining after you. You'd coddle him tonight when he would inevitably pout to you about abandoning him for a little kid. For now, though, the important task at hand was getting to know Megumi Fushiguru - who reluctantly held your hand as you walked to the arcade he selected.

From then on, you were a common face in Megumi's life.

When he was in fourth grade, the two of you started a tradition where every other week, you would pick him up early from school and get ice cream and talk (as much as Megumi was willing to, at least). You had surprised him after school one day a couple months ago, and the routine stuck after he asked you to go again the couple weeks later. Not that you ever complained - you would never in your right mind take for granted Megumi willingly hanging out with you.

"So, how has school been?" you probed, Megumi begrudgingly held your hand as you walked through the busy streets of Tokyo (he claimed he was old enough to walk on his own, but you told him it was just for your own sanity in the scary world of Tokyo and when he turned ten you wouldn't do it anymore, and who was he to deny you of peace of mind when that is all you ever wished upon everyone els?).

"Fine," Megumi muttered. He was not the most fond of crowds, which was glaringly obvious as he squeezed your hand more aggressively the farther you ventured into the city. So yeah, maybe he did kind of appreciate your overprotectiveness.

That was the day you learned Megumi had his first crush.

Well, okay, it wasn't really a crush. He just thought someone was cute.

As you sat side-by-side, he ate his vanilla ice cream cone with chocolate sprinkles, you ate your choice of ice cream, and the two of you chatted - meaning you talked, and he occasionally threw in a word or two.

"Any girls you think are cute? Or guys?" You sought, emphasizing the teasing nature of your question by tapping your elbow into his side. Megumi glared up at you through the strands of his hair, but you could see the red tint on his pale skin - a sign you were on to something. "Ooooh! Tell me all about them!"

"Stop it," he sulked and stared off into the distance, ice cream forgotten in his hand. You could tell he was thoroughly embarrassed, but you just could not for the life of you get over how adorable he looked.

"Aw, Megumi. I'm just teasing. But you can always talk about that with me, you know?" you offered. "I can give you all the advice on girls. I would not recommend asking Gojo about them. His flirting skills are... unconventional. Plus, I know I'm your favorite. So just gives an excuse to rub it in his face!"

"Thanks," Megumi spoke broodingly. His ice cream was starting to melt a little down the side of the waffle cone. The treat regained his attention as he finally noticed the melting mess, and immediately, he tackled cleaning it up. He hated messes.

"So... does that mean I'm your favorite?" you interrogated. This had been a debate between you and your boyfriend for a long time now.

"Sure."

And amongst the crowds of people, you - a full grown adult - hollered and jumped up and pumped your fist in satisfaction, because that was the best thing anyone had every said to you.

-----

Megumi took back whenever he had the ignorant thought that Gojo was becoming more bearable. Completely rescinded it. He was absolutely the most unbearable human to ever have walked this planet; residing in the same millennia as this man was barely tolerable, let alone inhaling the same air or sitting in the same room.

Gojo wanted to propose to you and he wouldn't stop talking about it.

Or asking Megumi for advice.

Yeah. Satoru Gojo was asking an eleven-year-old boy for help proposing to his long-term girlfriend.

You had been dating for over three years, and Gojo was growing impatient; he wanted you to be fully his. Not that you weren't already, but he wanted to be officially - by the law, by the symbol of marriage, and by the ceremony that accompanied it. He wanted you to take his name and be a new addition to the Gojo lineage, and if it came to the day, maybe add some little ones to the family. It was getting the point where want wasn't enough to describe how he felt - it was a necessity to marry to, to be yours forever.

Megumi had grown a lot closer with you with the past months, even opening up a little. He mentioned to you his internal debate regarding "good people" and "bad people", to which you listened, you heard him, and you cared. Genuinely. You hugged him, and in that moment, he felt so loved, he never wanted to leave your arms - the arms that would protect him from anything scary, like nightmares or curses, and shield him from experiencing any more hardships. He wasn't used to that - yeah he had his sister, whom he loved so dearly and she did in return, to be cared by a motherly figure was something he had barely experienced.

For the life of him, he could not figure out how or why you willingly, even happily, subjected yourself to the hinderance that was Gojo. Every time he asked you why, you respond, "Oh, Megumi, you're a funny one!" and laughed the heartwarming laugh that made him feel like home. Megumi knew, deep down somewhere he wouldn't ever like to admit, that you were happy, and Gojo made you happy. He knew you loved Gojo. He was fully aware of all of that. And he had witnessed as your relationship grew more serious with time Gojo beginning to think for more than just himself - he grew as an individual, doing what he thought was best for the ones he loved, rather than what suited him best. Megumi knew that come to it, Gojo would lay down his life for you. If it meant making a deal with the most dangerous curse, or if it meant sacrificing his soul, Gojo would do it for you, and honestly, Megumi had the inkling that Gojo would do it for him too.

"What if I have a plane do the whole 'marry me?' in the sky? Ugh, but that is so overdone. I need to be creative and go all out for her. What do you think, Megumi?" Gojo inquired, to which Megumi only tuned back in because he heard the sound of his name.

"Just ask her. You know she'll say yes," Megumi grumbled what he already knew was fact.

"Well, of course she will. Who would turn down my handsome self?" Gojo gestures to his person, a confident smile on his lips. "But you're right. Ugh, Megumi, what do I do?" Gojo held an ebony ring box, anxiously passing it from one hand to the other and back, the piece of jewelry it contained an indicator of how serious he was about this. Why he was carrying such an expensive ring around so casually was beyond Megumi's pay grade, but he knew Gojo would not let anything happen to it.

"You'll figure it out," Megumi said, as he had no ideas either - you deserved everything in the world, and no proposal or material thing would be enough to thank you for all you have done for everyone else.

"Oh my god, I did!" Gojo jumped from his seat, giddy as a little kid, and celebrated whatever idea he came up with. He placed the ring box in his pocket, where he would protect it with every cell in his body.

"Great," Megumi said. He prayed to himself that Gojo would now finally get out of his hair.

"I'll take her on a nice trip - she's always wanted to sightsee in Europe, but hasn't had the time - and then, once we land in Greece, I'll do it there and- and I'll leave it at that. Don't wanna spoil the surprise yet for everyone. Thanks Megumi!"

And Megumi smiled a tiny little smile to himself as Gojo exited his house, excited for the two of you.

And he congratulated you when you came home from the trip Gojo planned for the two of you. You visited him and ran up, showing off the ring you were sure Gojo spared no expense on. Though, Megumi had already seen it from the hundreds of times Gojo showed him it, and not to mention all the pictures you send him from overseas.

And he continued to be excited for you as he helped you with planning - because if there is one thing to know about Megumi, it's that he is organized. So he helped you figure your ceremony out by ensuring all the paperwork you had and the appointments you booked and all of your purchases were kept track of, or else the wedding would have been a disaster. If Gojo asked him for help, though, he would laugh in his face and say absolutely not.

And then, before he knew it, the wedding was there. Megumi was the ring bearer, of course. He was almost 13 at that point, and he was starting to grow into himself and show signs of growing up (puberty!).

He felt... happy.

Happy for you. Happy for the new and official makeshift family that established itself. Happy to know that you were genuinely happy, and that for all of the love you constantly gave to others without hesitation, someone gave finally was giving you that love back, and then some. Because he saw how much Gojo adored you, and honestly, there was no one else he would want to be with you.

Now he stands, at Tokyo Jujutsu High for his first year at the school. His benefactor who drives him up the wall is his teacher, and now, not only does he have to deal with him normally, but he actually has to listen to him.

But at least you're there too. He has you, always.

And for that, he smiles. A rare smile reserved for the sparse moments where he is genuinely happy - and he is, because he knows you'll save him from Gojo if he needs you to.

The improvised family he's found himself in may not be exactly what he dreamed of, but he's happy with it nonetheless.

And he still struggles with the dilemma of what is good or bad, and he still struggles to find his purpose in the world, and he is still angry at the universe for putting him in this world when there was no reason for him to be there, and he still struggles with the pain of abandonment and his found comfort in solidarity.

But that's okay. It'll be okay. He has you. He has you because Gojo brought you into his life.

He's grateful for that.

Megumi hopes one day he can find the love you share for himself. But that's a problem for the distant future. And when he has another crush, you will be the first to know - not because he would admit it to you, but because somehow, you always know. You know him better than he knows himself at this point, and it's a scary talent you have, but one you most definitely possess.

With that, Megumi steps forward, walking alongside you into the building he will be at almost everyday for the next few years. While he wasn't holding your hand like old times, it was okay. Because he was growing up, and he had a future ahead of him that made you so excited for him.

"I'll see you later, Meg. Got a long day ahead," you bid farewell and ruffle his hair. The two of you stop in the barren hallway facing each other, and you are disappointed at how he keeps growing, and at some point in the near future, he will surpass your height. It feels like you're shrinking, honestly, with how fast he's growing.

But you always knew he would at some point, just like you knew that he would one day decline holding your hand while in public, and how one day he would outgrow your ice cream runs (though they still happen every now and then, just not as frequent as in the past).

"See you," Megumi responds.

"Love ya!" You lean and place a chaste kiss on the side of Megumi's head. You remember when you used to be able to place one on the top of his head without going on your tiptoes, but times are changing, or you're shrinking or whatever, and the side of the head will do.

"Yeah, love you, too," Megumi says, rushing the end of the sentence and turning around to walk away. You say it to him so often, and he loves you, but it's still difficult for him to express that.

But that's okay. It's all okay.

He knows whatever is in the future, you will protect him, and Gojo will watch over him, and everything will be okay. The two of you will love him unconditionally, even if he struggles to say it back.

And he'll never admit it, but if there is one thing he's grateful for in life, it's Gojo, for he brought you into his life, and what a blessing it is to exist at the same time as you do.

"So, let me get this straight," you begin, staring at the three individuals in front of you. "You sent Megumi alone to find Sukuna's finger at some school, which was taken by random students who tried to unravel it, which ended in this kid-"

"Yuji Itadori, sensei!" Yuji introduces himself, saluting to you for some reason.

"Right. Itadori ate the finger. Sukuna's finger. And he is now Sukuna's vessel."

"Yup!" Gojo confirms and he gives you a thumbs up. "That about sums it up."

"So tell me why when I asked about three hours ago why all of the higher-ups were acting like they were shitting themselves, you didn't think to tell me what happened?" you ask, irritation with your husband woven in between every syllable you speak.

"I did, but I knew it would be fine, so I didn't want to worry you."

"Worry? Really? Do you know how worried I was when they said Sukuna was there?"

"Honey, you know I'm strong. I can face him."

Itadori looks to his new comrade, Fushiguru, to see if he was uncomfortable to watch the couple argue in front of them. He fails to be consoled when he sees Megumi wasison his phone nonchalantly as if nothing's wrong. Yuuji assumes Megumi was just tuning them out as a student being used to teachers bickering, so he decides to try to do the same. But it's not working.

"I don't care about your strength, I care about Megumi, and I care about the lives of those students, and-"

"Hey, Fushiguru?" Itadori says, and Megumi hums in response. "Is this normal?"

"-they were put at risk, Satoru! Do you understand that?"

With the couple continuing to argue in the background, Megumi looks up from his phone finally, answering, "Huh, this? Yeah. Get used to it. He's an idiot."

"Yes, baby, I understand, but I made a judgement call and I stand by that. I'm sorry-"

"Ah. Well, um. Can we leave? Do we have to stay?"

"-for not keeping you informed, but I promise you, I had it under control."

"Yeah. They won't even notice we're gone until one of them asks for our opinion and then they notice we're missing. It's just funny to watch them sometimes."

"The higher ups want to execute him! An innocent kid! And I know you got sweets in the middle of all of that. Are you serious-"

"You're used to this?" Itadori inquires, a naturally curious kid.

"-ly telling me that nothing different could have been done to prevent this?"

"I guess you could say that."

rawrrrr thank u for reading i love you SMMMM i loved writing this hehee <33333

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syneilesis · 10 months ago

Text

[fic] Pampertime

Pampertime

Love and Deepspace | Xavier (Shen Xinghui) x Main-Character!Reader | Explicit | 6.7k words | ao3 link

Butler Rule No. 1: From the moment you accept the role, be prepared to obey your lady’s every command. The bunny butler outfit makes a grand return. In bed.

Content tags: Established Relationship, PWP, Roleplay, Bunny Butler Xavier, Dom/sub elements, Sub!Xavier, Strip Tease, Hand Jobs, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Cunnilingus, Face-Sitting, Cowgirl Position, Riding, PIV sex, Creampie

A/N: My contribution to the bunny butler Xavier train. Only gave a cursory edit once, so any mistakes still my fault. I'm just glad I'm done, whatever. Divider by @/saradika

One bright and sunny afternoon, Xavier texts you: Emergency can U come up here to help me?

You're in the middle of cleaning your living room, after weeks of neglecting your household responsibilities due to the sudden influx of Wanderers in the neighboring city. The Hunters Association had been scrambling to send out their hunters due to the sudden invasion of Wanderers that resembled bafflingly like corgis—which was both a blessing and a curse, if one were to be asked. Blessing because, well, they were a breed that incited cute aggression and fluffiness, and civilian evacuation had resulted in minimal problems, if one ignores the influx of people into doglike Wanderers. A curse, because—well, they did look like corgis—fluffy like a bread with a cute butt, the kind that you would expect to see in the plushie line sold at Twinkle Toys Store. They're irresistible to drag your hand across their soft coat. A not-inconsiderable number of hunters realized the error of their ways in overlooking the fact that these floof of creatures were still Wanderers, and as a consequence, Linkon hospitals suddenly found themselves busier for a week or two.

Regardless, the corgi Wanderers were easy to take care of, once you saw past their clever ruse. The difficulty lay in the numbers. Like a relentless tsunami flooding the city, they undulate in droves, shaking their butts and bouncing around and generally making an oxymoronically cute menace of themselves.

As one of the hunters dispatched to the area, you valiantly resisted the siren cute-call and eliminated as many as you could. It took you and your team more than a week, and it would have been shorter than that, had Xavier been in the fray. But he had been sent in another region the week before, and was unable to join you in your fluff-filled resistance.

But now it seems that he's back and is in need of your assistance. Flashback to that time when his oven exploded due to his attempt at baking tarts, and you drop everything you're doing and fly outside, towards the elevator, fueled by fear and sheer panic.

When you burst into his apartment, using the spare key he left you, you cry out, “Xavier! Sitrep!”

A cursory survey of the area indicate neither fire nor flood, and his apartment seems undamaged. Fear subsiding, you finally take stock of the situation.

Perhaps it's not a kitchen emergency after all? There’s no smell of something burning, thank heavens for that. You do not want to apologize to his neighbors in his place again.

You call once more, “Xavier?”

“In here.”

His voice is coming from the bedroom, and that makes you waver. Why is he still in his bedroom? Maybe he's stuck in bed? Did he sleep for three days and wake up in an unusual position and in need of assistance to set back his limbs again? Weirder and weirder thoughts spiral in your head, and your lack of response prompts him to speak once more.

“You can go in, if that's what stops you.”

“Why can't you just go out?”

“I ... can't.”

The hesitation captures your attention. Xavier is probably entangled in the bed. You may as well help him.

“All right, I'm coming in then.”

When you open the door, you're expecting some sort of layers and layers of blankets, a sea of them, not just on the bed but also on the floor and other furniture. Xavier might be underneath in any of those blankets, and it's your duty to locate him and fish him out. You're ready to swim against these blankets, fight your way into it. Do your utmost duty as a combat partner.

Except.

Except it's not a sea of blankets that welcome you once you enter the room. It's—different.

So different.

So utterly different that you drop your phone. It clatters muffled against the carpeted floor, where it slightly nudges a gift-wrapped box. And that gift-wrapped box sits next to another gift-wrapped box, and another. And another. Until you lift your widening gaze to see that Xavier's bedroom is littered with a lot of them. And Xavier—

He's on the bed, all right. But he's—

He grins lightly, leaning back from his sprawled position. The pillows behind him sink under his weight.

“Kjalfjdsj?” you say, eloquently.

“I'm glad you came ...” A pregnant pause, before he drops the bomb. “My lady.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Xavier is sprawled on the bed, bunny ears on his head, waistcoat and tie, and—you just know, you can feel it in your bones—bunny tail on behind. It's exactly what he wore when you had your couple's photos back then. The fact that he's wearing it and, judging by the sudden change of interior design of his room, that he's replicated the decoration of the studio—actually, you don't know what you can glean from those points, because you're too busy picking up the remains of your brain matter to form a coherent thought.

He drops another bomb: “Why are you just standing there, my lady?” he says, and going by the quirk of his lips he knows the effect he has on you. Compared with the first time it happened, the shy reluctance is no longer present. “This bunny butler is ready to serve, just say the word.”

Your brain melts.

“Wha—I mean—um, guh—” You studiously reacquaint yourself with the concept of words. “I just—what is going on?”

Xavier blinks, and the bunny ears on top of his head twitch as if they are truly connected to his head. Your fingers twitch themselves in response, that urge to touch and feel them again.

“I just thought,” he begins, slowly at first as if testing the waters, “that you need to relax and get pampered after that difficult mission you've just had.”

The words percolate in your mind and you scrabble for an appropriate reply to that. To be fair to the man, Xavier is sweet thinking of your well-being like that. Or maybe he's guilty that he wasn't there to help during that corgipocalypse of a week. Regardless of his intent, you have to ask:

“You thought I need to relax and your solution is to dress up as a bunny butler?”

He has the gall to think about it at length. “Yes, my lady.”

You don't miss the way he spreads his legs a little wider at that.

And really—you're only human, with wants and needs and desires. It just so happens that the common denominator of those three aspects point to the ridiculous man before you, in that ridiculous bunny butler getup that you secretly love and hope to see again. Which—yeah, it's definitely the perfect solution.

Stomping your hesitation and pride, you stride towards the bed, and Xavier, watching your every step, reclines further, giving you space for you to place your knee on the soft mattress, between his legs.

The bedfoam dips, and he shifts to avoid sinking down the indent your knee makes. Your other knee follows, and you move towards him until the heat of his inner thighs touch the outer sides of yours.

At the proximity between the two of you, Xavier tips forward, and in spite of your positions he doesn't need to tilt his head much upward to meet your deliberating gaze. An anticipatory sharpness falls on his expression and, oh, you realize, he must've wanted this too.

Which is all that you need to fall into this completely.

And it's a transformation: a reshifting of limbs and the straightening of spine, something like a lock unlatching.

“Mr. Bunny Butler,” you begin, low and relishing and shy of being predatory, “bow your head.”

Xavier's nostrils flare at that. After a couple of seconds he complies, and seeing the sliver of his exposed nape opens something within you.

Against your shoulder the bunny ears snag, their length not allowing to fall along Xavier's pose. You bring one hand up to trace an invisible line across an ear, the fur short and soft. Xavier's quiet beneath you, but you can feel him stiffening at your every move. Braced a little behind his sides, his hands clench tightly.

“Can you feel it?” you ask, pinching the colored tip of the ear, pushing it back to observe its make. It's well-made, and you wonder if this one costs more than you'd expect.

Xavier shakes his head. You want to hear him, however, so you tap the back of his head in warning. He exhales loudly; breathes out, “No ...” and then tacking on: “Master.”

Your eyes narrow in pleasure, the flesh of your cheeks bunching from how wide your smile is. “That's my good bunny,” you praise him, caressing the curve of his head. He shivers—whether from the praise or the touch or both, you don't know.

To see him like this—a formidable hunter with centuries of experience, the force of stars pulsing underneath his skin, ready to rupture at his command—head bent low before you, hands closed in restrained fists, the lines of his body intersecting into a show of surrender. Yielding. It heats the core of your belly and your blood, and you can't help but bite your lip as you savor the image.

Leaning back and sitting on your calves, you catch Xavier's downcast stare. His brows furrowed as if concentrating, and when he notices you trained on him, his eyes do something that reminds you of the existence of the concept of puppy dog eyes.

Every time he does that, you think, you want to gobble him up.

Closing in on his face, you raise your left hand and cradle his jaw, tipping it up, gazes never leaving each other. Then you draw nearer, and nearer, until your lips almost brush against his. The sharp sound of his inhale is deafening in this lack of distance. Your eyes never leave his, but his drop down, nearly crossing, as he's distracted by your lips. His breaths are hot on your skin, and finally you aim at the corner of his mouth, and open your own to say:

“Don't move.”

And then you descend, trailing butterfly kisses along the edge of his lips, his cheek, his temple. Xavier goes spine-rigid at the first contact, forgetting to breathe for a second, before slowly exhaling, as if trying to hold himself together. His brows knit again and his eyes flutter closed, the line of his lips sloping downward.

He's controlling himself. And that delights you so much that you shift to kiss his earlobe and tug it once, then whispering directly to his ear, “That's my obedient bunny. Keep this up and I'll reward you.”

You stop to wait, and when nothing happens, you tug his jaw and take a bite at the shell of his ear—he gasps—and continue:

“What do you say?”

Xavier's shoulders lurch. He breathes once, twice, before answering.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Good boy.”

The first reward: a kiss on the lips. A quick, initial press before you pry him open with tongue, and he welcomes you eagerly from the way he surges to meet you. The hand on his face holds him back, but his own hands fly to your hips and plant themselves there.

You slap them away, he resists. You break the kiss, and he makes a disappointed sound, chasing you, and then realizes what he's done.

“I'm sorry—my lady,” he stumbles, putting his hands back in their previous position. He looks so properly chastised, you love it.

Outwardly, you sigh in disappointment, and he whips his head up, stricken. “After I said that you're obedient, you do this. What shall we do, Mr. Bunny Butler?”

“What—” He swallows. “What do you want me to do, my lady?”

In all the times you've tried to fluster him, Xavier doesn't really redden. At best his skin produces a soft sheen of pink across his cheeks that linger over his ears. Never tomato-red though.

But now, his face glows bright pink that gradiates to a noticeable crimson, ending at the tips of his ears. This is good development, you decide, something that you want more of. So you push further.

“Are you truly sorry, Mr. Bunny Butler?”

He nods meekly.

“Then”—a finger pokes at the center of his forehead and pushes, his head docilely tilting back, exposing his slender, beautiful neck—“don't move this time.”

You slip two fingers under his tie and pull it loose. The unobstructed slide of the silken fabric echoes around the room, punctuated by the hitch of his breath. The bunny ears jerk. To his credit, he's still as a statue, and the giddiness that you've been feeling for a while now mounts to a dull yet insistent ache that pools between your legs.

Then you unbutton his collar, which reveals more of that pretty neck. An alarmed sound forms in his throat, and you call his name in warning. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows whatever he's about to say.

And that Adam's apple becomes your next target: your mouth molds around it, sucking, and Xavier gives a full-body shudder. A groan bursts out of him. He's trembling, his hands—leather-gloved and creaking at the strain of his fists—his thighs, his shoulders. You can see how he wants to turn his head, to retreat from your hot mouth, but thinks himself the better of it.

You place your left hand under his head and kiss him under the angle of his left jaw.

“Ah—”

With your free hand, you trace down the outline of his neck to shoulder. His breath catches, he jolts away, his eyes shoot you a betrayed look.

“My lady—”

You plant another kiss in the dip of his collarbone. “What does Mr. Bunny Butler want?” you ask against his moist skin.

He releases a shuttered exhale. Behind you, his legs move in a way that comes across as avoidant, as if he's hiding something from you. You glance down and realize the reason for his discomfort.

Saliva pools in your mouth.

But you swallow the surging desire ignited by the image of his arousal. It isn't time yet; you want to draw this out as long as you can.

Head still tipped back, Xavier doesn't see your discovery of his want, his eyes half-mast and his focus directed on reining himself in. If you remove yourself from the scene and study him from head to toe, you'd find Xavier the perfect picture of temptation, restrained, controlled on the surface but a collapsing star underneath, gravity pulling you to him and there's no way to escape.

Not that you'd like to escape in the first place.

You repeat your question, this time against his Adam's apple: “What does Mr. Bunny Butler want?”

“My la—” He chokes. Tries again. “Whatever my lady wants.”

Ah. Such a good bunny.

Your hands drift down to the next closed button. His tie is loosened enough that you can remove it in one hard tug. And isn't that a nice thought: one strong pull and he's dragged along by the force, his lips inevitably landing on your lips, a welcome collision.

But you don't follow that path; instead, your hands drop lower, to the last button of his waistcoat. The sides of your hands brush against the seam of his pants, dangerously close to his already obvious bulge, and it dawns on Xavier that you're already aware of his worldly response, if the widening of his eyes is an indication. He whips his head to shoot you a meaningful look, as if begging you to ignore his lapse of control—as if that is an unwelcome development.

Sometimes, you think, Xavier wants to show you a side of him that only exudes assurance, a sharp blade and sturdy shield that envelop you in sidereal protection. Be it from outside forces and his own—and even yours. Physical dangers, most especially, but curiously enough: information. Knowledge. The matters of the past. The matters of the heart. The both of you may have confessed that day, the words of your promises embedded in your heart like an oath under the stars, but there are times when a shadow passes through Xavier's expression, and he seems so far away. Light-years away.

But right now, that thought isn't at the forefront of your mind: it is the way the redness climbs up his neck, his face, his cheeks, painting him a beautiful hue that reminds you of a recently blossomed rose. He truly is gorgeous this way.

One of his hands encloses around yours, stopping your ministrations. Minute tremors hum under his callused palm.

“I'm—” A quick breath. “I'm supposed to serve you, my lady.”

Ah. Truly such a good bunny.

You capitulate, hands retreating from the button of his pants, but not before caressing his trembling hand and squeezing it once. An indulgent smile unfurls in the line of your lips, and you make a snap decision.

The second reward: freedom. Xavier has expressed his desire to serve, to please, and you'll give him the freedom to choose how to enact it—

Under a specific instruction, of course.

“Yes, of course,” you say, tapping his warm cheek fondly with your index finger. “Serve me, then, Mr. Bunny Butler. Strip for me. Slowly.”

He catches that finger quickly with his mouth, bites it lightly, like it's a warning—or a promise. You let him nibble and lick your finger for a couple of seconds, the wetness sending electricity down your spine, and you can't stop the shiver that echoes throughout your body. Xavier narrows his eyes in satisfaction at your response, hints of a smirk around his lips, and that's insubordination if you saw one. So you snatch your finger away from him, and punish him by dragging your wet finger along the column of his neck.

He jumps at the sensation.

“Strip, Xavier,” you repeat firmly. “Make sure it's a good show.”

It just proves how dedicated he is at this roleplay: by this point he should have already ended this little act and would have taken over, but he's holding your critical gaze as his hands settle over the topmost button of his vest.

“I'll try, my lady.” His voice drops to a low, husky murmur, one that summons pinpricks down your nape and the back of your shoulders, crawling in a slow, deliberate tease.

He does try, indeed. He moves back, affording you space to see his torso without having to change your position. One hand to brace his weight, the other deftly maneuvering each button at a comfortable pace. For every button opened, he takes a deep breath, gives you a confident smile, albeit awkward at the edges. But the rhythm of it lulls you, and you find yourself playing with his bunny ears again—a right decision, because he makes a surprised sound, which morphs into a moan.

The returned proximity grants you the ghostly brushes of his knuckles against your clothed stomach when he opens another button. Because of this, the way your stomach contracts every time he brushes you becomes known to him, and Xavier huffs a laugh, and proceeds to be more purposeful with it.

You tug at his bunny ear, hard. “Mr. Bunny Butler,” you warn.

His shrugs his vest off as his reply.

Now, only left with shirt and tie, Xavier stares down at them, thinking about what to do next. You help him by pushing yourself flush against him, making sure that your thigh grazes his cock. He judders, shoving his face on the crook of your neck and groaning. Idly, you continue playing with the furred ears.

“My lady, my lady,” he mutters, and you feel him sighing, “don't tease me.”

You hum. “Then put more effort in your show.”

He peeks up at you under those pretty yet underhanded lashes of his, and you spy hints of a smirk in that mouth.

But before you can question him about it, a hand grabs yours and guides it to his tie, wraps it around the silk fabric, and pulls. Slowly, carefully. From this angle more skin is revealed under your wandering gaze—the tease of a nipple, flashing beneath that white shirt—and you gulp at the flutter in your belly.

Once the necktie is completely off him, he takes it from your hand and, indeed like a show, re-ties it around his neck, a ribboned gift. At this point you're ready to combust—and he's not even naked.

“Do you like it, my lady?”

“Yes,” you rasp, suddenly off-kilter, “very much.”

“Then ...” He resumes undressing, the buttons of his shirt easily extricated, his movements economical, and bit by bit his bare torso opens before your anticipatory eyes.

He stops at the tucked-in part of the shirt. Glances at you, bites his lip, and goes back to pull the front off so the shirt opens just below his shoulders, presenting you such a gorgeous view.

Xavier sinks into the propped-up pillows—and you unconsciously follow—and smiles. “All yours, Master.”

He knows—that little shit—the allure of incomplete nakedness. The gap, the gape, the patches of exposed skin surrounded by fabric. Xavier's using it to his utmost advantage.

By now you could have clawed his clothes away from his body, but somehow, this tastes more delicious, the promise of a tease, the prolonged heat-pulse that thrums in your core, and you're pretty sure, if Xavier's shallow breaths are an indication, that he's into this too.

Well. May as well take advantage of this luxurious present.

One hand descends on the side of his neck, and you see him tamp down the surprised jolt. This hand, light in its touch, ghostly, virtual, traces the edges of the necktie. You can hear Xavier's bated breath, waiting for your next step.

Then down, down, down to his collarbone, the dip of it, your index finger making laps twice, end to end.

Then further: his chest. And this time, it's not only your hand that wants to participate. You brace yourself on his shoulder and bend down to kiss the center of his chest. Xavier lets out a sound, and inhales sharply.

Next: his left nipple, with an additional teasing nip. His hips buck from the sensation.

You stay where you are, lifting your gaze to ascertain his expression. His head is turned away, hiding his face, a hand covering half of it. But it's useless for him to hide, because his ear is in your direct line of vision, and it's a glaring red.

This propels you to indulge more: the hand on his shoulder slides down to pay his other nipple attention. His legs shift, restless. The sounds of his gasps and moans occupy the room. You feast on him, laying your tongue flat on him and dragging it wetly until you hear him stutter your name.

“M-My lady—I—”

You surge forward, and the force topples the stack of pillows behind him. In the midst of this, you reposition your legs so that you're finally straddling Xavier, your skirt bunching up just below your waist, and—teasingly—grind against his straining cock.

He jerks, grabbing at your hips, attempting at more friction, but you remind him who's in charge, and he eventually relents, taking deep breaths to calm himself.

“Sorry about that, my lady. I'm—I'm good now.”

“That's my good bunny.” Then you continue exploring his body with your tongue.

He tastes faintly of sweat but also the scent-taste of his body wash. He's showered just before calling you up. And for some reason, that does you: you rise to kiss him again, and your free hand sneaks itself under him—and grabs his bunny tail.

Xavier yelps, scarlet, shocked at the action, gaping at you and your smug face.

You squeeze the fluffy ball of a tail in response.

“M-My lady...!” he blurts.

“Shame that I didn't get to play with this last time,” you muse, feeling up the soft thing. It twitches under your curious touch. Delighted, you shift around Xavier's torso to lift his hips and study and poke at the tail repeatedly, entranced at the bounce and fuzziness of it. “A wasted opportunity, don't you think so?”

When you check Xavier's reaction, you have to hold back your laugh. He's clearly uncomfortable, but the discomfort is brought upon by embarrassment, as evidenced by his squirming and the persistence of his blush.

Words have left him, so he just averts your leery gaze, bury his face into the nearest pillow, and groans.

Taking pity on him, you release his tail—but not without giving it one last flick; he jolts—and slide your hands around the waistband of his pants. You're fumbling for the button and then the zipper when two gloved hands hinder your actions.

Xavier's face is rearranged into an indulgent yet mischievous smile. “My lady can enjoy me as long as you like. There's no need to hurry.”

But that's the thing, isn't it? You have already enjoyed him so much and enough that at one point things are bound to snap. He as your focal point of your want, the desire that thrums alongside your veins, almost like blood.

“But Mr. Bunny Butler,” you start, adopting a light, airy voice and tilting your head up at him, “there are a lot of things to enjoy from you. I'm not sure if one evening would do.”

Before Xavier can even get a word edgewise, you tear his pants open and yank his boxers down, freeing his cock.

“My la—”

His cock is a firm, solid weight on your hand, and Xavier bucks at the first contact, a halfway gasp ripping out of him. You watch his reactions as you stroke him slowly—painfully slowly, tantalizingly slowly—as your other hand crawl up his waist, flat palm spanning his side.

You know, intellectually and objectively, that Xavier is pretty. Gunmetal-grey hair that shimmers under the starry night sky. His smooth, unlined skin that you're harboring unholy envy for, soft under your curious fingers, almost pristine, untouched all his life. The column of his neck, strong bones underneath the layer of skin and muscle, the prominence of his Adam's apple. The outline of his body—even and proportioned, balanced like a finely crafted sword. And most of all: his eyes, the most expressive part of all of him. The color of an unperturbed sky, always clear and never lost. A steady glister in the darkness.

Right now, though, he's different altogether. Almost otherworldly in the way he's unraveling under your clever fingers. A shift of pressure and he's biting down the meat of his hand in a poor attempt to muffle his groans. A fleeting trail across the slit of his cock and his eyes flutter shut, his hips jumping off the mattress. He thrashes in chase of the pressure and pleasure you're providing him in crumbs, your need to see him lose that frustrating control of his. You keep stroking him and watching him blossom before you, petal by petal, limb by limb, nerve by nerve.

“My lady—” He's panting, running out of breath, his voice gaining that frenzied quality. It's music to your ears. “Master—Master, haa—”

He's coming, you can feel it. You can see it through his quickening breaths, the flush of his skin all over his body, the white-knuckled fist of his hands, the throb of his cock.

“My lady, I'm co—”

You release him, and the slow transformation of his face is such a fascinating phenomenon. From the crunch of pleasure, then crumpling into confusion. He raises his head to see you leaning back, hands away from him, his hazy eyes taking in what's happening—or its lack of. Then they widen, his mouth dropping open to release a sound of distress, round and full and cracking.

“Why did you ...”

You tug at the ends of the ribbon-necktie. He clicks his mouth shut.

“You said I can enjoy you as long as I like. There's no need to hurry.”

His gaze finally clears, and he gulps, nodding. Near your hips, Xavier's cock leaks.

“Then ...” You lay on top of him, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, your belly pressing against his pulsing cock (he freezes at this, and then continues to freeze), and place your arms on the sides of his head so your hands can reach the bunny ears. They still react delightfully under your roaming touch. “I'm going to enjoy these a little more. Don't move too much, okay?”

The room becomes pinched with quiet, and while you're intent on the furry ears atop Xavier's head, you can sense in your periphery his eyes on you. He's careful not to jostle you, the air he breathes catching on your skin, and you feel his arms snaking around your waist, settling on the small of your back.

“You really like the costume that much, huh.”

You hum in acknowledgment, rubbing the area where accessory meets scalp. You scratch it with your light fingernails, and Xavier sighs at the feeling.

When you leave the ears, you turn your attention to Xavier's expression next. He's still observing you, his flush now pale but enduringly distinct across his cheeks, and that entices you to meet his lips in a slow, patient kiss.

“It's nice, seeing you go through such effort to make me happy,” you answer him after you separate, punctuating the statement with a pleased, narrow-eyed smile.

A thought takes over Xavier, with the way his brows knit. Moments pass, you regard him, until he finally opens his mouth to articulate whatever has occupied him.

“My lady,” he begins, hesitant at first, but each word gains confidence, “there's something I want to do for you.”

“Speak.”

“I want you to”—and here his stare morphs into that puppy dog eyes again—“sit on my face. Please.”

You're stunned. The room continues to be quiet, and you're stunned. Xavier doesn't add anything after that; just waiting for your response. He's probably not sensing how you've finally shut down. You, felled by nine words, the last one an imperative period that brooked no refusal.

When he calls you, his face and his voice are tinted with uncertainty.

“Stars, Xavier.” You scramble up to reposition yourselves in accordance to his request. During this transitory moment, Xavier removes his gloves with his teeth. Now bare, both his hands come up to hold your thighs from behind, adjusting their spread and angle. You want to whine self-consciously, but glimpsing Xavier's eager expression as you move towards his head, you stamp that part in your mind. “Okay down there?”

He doesn't reply—instead he just goes for it.

Your hands shoot for the headboard, a surprised cry shocked out of you. Is this Xavier's way of revenge for denying his orgasm earlier? The way he confronts you is not unlike a battle, with his single-minded focus on his goal and his preciseness. He parts your folds with his tongue, pays attention to your clit first: sucks it lightly before dialing it up. You convulse, your hips digging down, and he moans, the vibration thrumming your flesh.

“Xavier,” you sob, “Xavier. Xavier.”

He laps around your clit like a thirsty man, hands kneading your thighs. He must've been thinking about this for a while now, with how methodical he's going by it, strategized to push you into becoming a complete and utter wreck. He kisses your clit then mouths it, moves his tongue in lateral glides that have you thrashing on your position. You grind against him, and he welcomes it wholeheartedly, and behind you his hips thrust helplessly in air, his stubbornly hard cock drooling with pre-come.

One hand nudges you forward and you follow, until his tongue enters inside you—you gasp and shiver at the slick intrusion—drinks you with such loudness that you wouldn't be surprised if his neighbors overhear what the two of you have been doing.

He knows how to prolong the barrage of pleasure, that heat and swell around your core, your undulating hips, sustained until you buckle and collapse from the force of it, your orgasm torrential like a storm.

When Xavier emerges between your legs, his face shines from your slick and his saliva. A fond smile slips out of you, and a finger traces the length of his lips; then your entire hand, cupping the side of his face, a tender caress. A smile of his own appears and he nuzzles your hand, kisses the center of your palm, eyes closed and sated.

“Good boy,” you praise, and he sighs happily. “So good for me. Have to reward you, don't I?”

The third reward: release. You move back to pull his pants and boxers off him completely, and Xavier just watches you with anticipation, breaths in quick bursts.

“You know the drill: don't move.” You underline this order with a tease of his cock, a line-trail from the tip to the base and then a quick squeeze of his balls.

When you align yourself above him and begin to sink down, Xavier goes rigid-stiff, daring not to breathe, careful not to move. You pause from your progress, and send him a worried look.

“Xavier?”

“I—I'm—” He bites his lip, exhales through his nose. “I'm okay, I just. I'm just trying not to react too much.”

“Why?”

He casts you a helpless gaze. “Because, my lady, I'm afraid that my control would slip, and I would have my selfish way with you.”

You falter at that. To be honest that's not such a bad idea at all, but Xavier knows that this is for you and your needs, and what you need right now—and what you want, if one were to ask—is him under you, at your mercy. Just as he is right now.

So you move lower, feeling the head of his cock open you up, slowly. And you can hear the hitching breaths unwittingly made by him, his eyes shut and his whole expression folded inward, as if he couldn't handle the pleasure descending over him.

A groan tumbles out of his lips, low at first, quick and fleeting, but as you inch lower and lower, the feel of his cock molding you inside, the wanton sounds he makes lengthens, gets louder, until he parts those glistening lips and vocalizes his satisfaction.

“My lady—you feel so—”

“Good, I hope.”

He doesn't wait until you bottom out; he bucks his hips to sheathe himself inside you completely in one smooth motion. You cry out from his action, his cock pulsing against your walls, and the feeling of him pulls you in further bliss that your eyes flutter closed and your back arches as the pleasure spreads throughout your body.

“The best, my lady.”

He gasps when you clench around him, your wetness dripping between your joined bodies.

You really think the best position Xavier has ever been is here right now: underneath you, helpless to your demands, seized by pleasure that you're giving him and taking from him. The way his face doesn't know what to do in the undulating waves of pressure as you begin to move above him, your hips lifting and then slamming back down; the film of sweat coating his skin all over, moistening the sheets beneath the two of you. The severe grip of his hands, bunching up the blankets in their deathly clutch. His rapid heartbeat under your palm as you support your weight by bracing yourself on his chest. His moans, his filthy, filthy moans—his moans that you will remember until your dying day because they are so far out of his cultivated normalcy—open-mouthed, slack-jawed moans that come from the core of his abdomen, surging upwards, frantic, crazed, melodiously and sublimely wanton.

“Look at you, Xavier,” you pant, and one of Xavier's legs kicks out. “Look at my bunny butler.”

“Master—Master—”

“What do you want, darling?” you ask, shakily tracing the side of his face. When your fingers near his mouth he turns his head to place a kiss at your fingertips, then drags his tongue out to lick at their length. Your index and middle fingers press flat at his tongue, and he groans around them. His puffs of breath beat in time with the movement of your hips.

One hand crawls towards your thigh, haltingly slides upwards, up to the junction of your hips, where it disappears under the spill of your skirt. Then it reaches behind to squeeze at the meat of your ass, and you gasp, stuttering your pace.

You take out your fingers so he can answer you, but Xavier grabs your wrist with his other hand and brings it back to his lips, trails kisses on each finger, murmurs nonsensical things against your saliva-coated skin until, louder, he tells you—

“Everything you can give me, my lovely Master.”

And, oh, isn't that a wonderful thing to hear? That readiness of his—be it in battle or in bed, he rolls with everything you throw at him, as though there's nothing that can taint you in his eyes, no betrayal to feel forsaken by. As though all that he's done, all that he's doing, is in service to you.

And it's because of this that you use the same hand to cup at his jaw and jerk it in your direction, bowing down to kiss him, bite his lower lip, thrust your tongue inside, lick the roof of his mouth, suck his own tongue—devour him fully and utterly.

He meets your intent with his own, just as intense, just as parched and hungry as you are for him. Every exhale is accompanied by a soft sigh, and you swallow his every sound—that lovely and soothing voice that lingers in your mind and haunts the edges of your dreams. His reaction just drives you to speed up your pace.

He's trembling all over, and tries to shift the angle from which you're riding him. Doing so affords his cock to hit something inside you, lighting up your body, starburst behind your eyelids, and you jolt, a whimper tearing out of your throat that Xavier drinks greedily. His hand on your ass traverses to your clit and plays with it, intensifying the blast of sensations on your lower body.

Obstructed by your mouth, Xavier tries: “My lady, I think—I'm close.”

“Me too, I'm—don't hold back—”

He doesn't. And he doubles his efforts in relentlessly stroking your clit and pounding up inside you, and the pleasure crests and crests and crests until you pulse and clench and come, sobbing at the white-hot crash flooding your nerves, collapsing on top of Xavier, mouths still connected.

And he doesn't stop. This time both his hands bracket your hips; grinds you down as he pushes deeper and deeper inside you. You're oversensitive but you don't stop him, just clinging to him and whimpering, and he begins to assail your ear, his panting tangible and hot against your skin.

“My lady, my lady,” he chants, voice shattering like glass. “My lady—Master—”

His orgasm feels like an echo of your own release, his spend filling inside you. Xavier gives a few more thrusts before slowing down and stopping. A self-satisfied sigh ripples over his relaxed body, and his hands climb to your back, guide you to pillow your head on his chest, embracing you as you melt on top of him.

Minutes pass, and his breathing evens; you expected him to fall asleep after, but when you look up his eyes are emphatically open.

“Aren't you sleeping?”

He glances down at you. Quirks a smile. “No, not yet.”

“Oh ...”

“We're not finished, my lady.”

“Huh?”

“You've had your fill, Master.” He smirks. Then flips you over, reversing your positions so he's now on top of you. He starts unbuttoning your shirt. “Now let me have mine.”

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