cece.

jjk men with sanrio gifts

downbad bf megumi! x reader

megumi x clingy reader texts

needy choso who just can’t get enough of you after you came back from a trip

warning: nsfw, minors dni

The apartment felt too large, the silence too heavy. For Choso, time without you wasn’t just boring; it was an ache. Being a being built from blood meant he felt every pulse of your absence like a physical withdrawal.

When the door finally clicked open, he was already there. He didn’t wait for you to drop your bags or kick off your shoes.

"You're back," he murmured, his voice sounding like it had been scraped raw by the days of silence.

Before you could even get a greeting out, he had his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his nose brushing against your skin as if he were trying to memorize your scent all over again.

"Choso, I was only gone for four days," you teased, though your hands immediately found their way into the soft, messy dark hair at the nape of his neck.

"Four days is a long time to be without my heart," he rumbled against your skin.

He didn't pull away. Instead, his grip tightened, his large hands sliding down your back to press you even closer, molding your body to the hard planes of his. There was a desperate, heavy heat radiating off him. Choso wasn't a man of many words, but the way he touched you? a mix of reverence and a terrifying hunger spoke volumes.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb tracing the line of your lower lip. His eyes, usually so somber, were dark and unfocused, fixed entirely on you.

"I didn't sleep," he confessed, his thumb dipping slightly to tug at your lip, revealing the pink of the inside. "Every time I closed my eyes, I realized the bed was cold. I realized you weren't sleeping next to me."

The tension in the hallway was thick, static-heavy. You could feel the slight tremble in his fingers, the raw need he had been suppressing while you were away. When you leaned up to kiss the bridge of his nose right over that dark horizontal mark he let out a low, shaky breath that vibrated through your entire frame.

"I missed you too," you whispered.

That was all the permission he needed. His hand slid from your waist to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he tilted your face up. He didn't kiss you softly. It was a deep, demanding claim, his tongue tracing your lips until you opened for him. It tasted of longing and a slow-burning heat that made your knees go weak.

He backed you up against the closed door, his body pinning you there. One of his hands moved to your thigh, hitching your leg up around his waist to bring you even tighter against him. The friction of his heavy trousers against your skin, the weight of his body, and the way he groaned into the kiss made the world outside your apartment vanish.

"Don't go away again," he muttered against your mouth, his lips swollen and red. "I don't like who I am when you aren't here."

He scooped you up, your legs locking around his hips as he carried you toward the bedroom, his kisses never stopping, marking every inch of your jaw and throat. The trip was a distant memory; the only thing that mattered now was the way Choso was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that could make him feel sane right now.

Choso didn't carry you to the bed so much as he pressed you into it, his weight a grounding, heavy heat that finally stilled the restless ache in his chest. He came down over you, his large frames caging you in, his eyes dark with a hunger that had been simmering for every hour you were gone.

"Choso," you breathed, your hands sliding up his chest to the collar of his shirt. "You’re being… intense."

"I have too much blood in me," he rasped, his voice dropping into a low, jagged register. He leaned down, his lips ghosting over the pulse point at your neck. "When you're away, it feels stagnant. Heavy. I need to feel you to make it move again."

He didn't waste time. His hands, usually so careful, were urgent as they slid the fabric of your clothes away. He moved with a focused, quiet desperation, his mouth marking a trail of heat from your collarbone to the swell of your breast. Every time he made contact, he let out a low, vibrating hum a sound of pure relief.

When his skin finally met yours, the friction was electric. Choso was built of broader lines and harder angles, and the way he molded himself to you felt like a physical restoration. He shifted, his thigh sliding between yours, the pressure deliberate and slow. He watched your face, his dark eyes tracking every hitch in your breath, every flush that crept up your chest.

"You like this?" he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip while his other hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to expose your throat.

"Yes," you gasped, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back.

He moved against you then, a slow, rhythmic grind that forced a sharp moan from your lips. He wasn't rushing. He wanted to feel every vibration of your reaction, to soak in the way your body arched toward his. The air in the room was thick, humid with the scent of sandalwood and the rising heat of two people making up for lost time.

His kisses became deeper, wetter, his tongue tasting you with a possessive rhythm that matched the movement of his hips. He was worshipful but demanding, his hands roaming over your skin as if he were trying to claim every inch of you before the sun came up.

"Stay like this," he whispered against your mouth, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. "Just let me feel you. Only you." He shifted and settled between your thighs, the sheer weight of him was a sensory overload. He was burning up, his skin flushed a deep, feverish red that matched the dark intensity in his eyes. He didn't just want to be near you; he wanted to be part of you, to erase every millimeter of distance that those four days had created.

His hands slid under your hips, lifting you to meet him as he moved with a slow, agonizingly deliberate friction. Every time his skin dragged against yours, a low, guttural growl vibrated in his chest. He was watching you like truly watching you; his gaze never leaving your face as your eyes fluttered shut and your back arched off the sheets.

"Open your eyes," he commanded softly, his voice a jagged rasp. "I want to see you when I do this."

When you looked up at him, his expression was a mix of raw devotion and unbridled hunger. He reached down, his fingers tangling with yours and pinning your hands to the pillow on either side of your head. It was a position of total surrender, and the heat in the room seemed to spike as he leaned down to catch your moans with his mouth.

The rhythm he fell into was punishingly slow at first, a rhythmic, heavy press that made your toes curl and your breath hitch in broken gasps. He was savoring the way you came undone beneath him, the way your inner muscles tightened around him in a desperate plea for more.

"You're so warm," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that was just short of painful. "I've been thinking about this since the second you walked out that door."

As the pace quickened, the sound of skin hitting skin and the ragged, shallow breaths filled the silence of the room. Choso’s composure was completely gone, replaced by a frantic, driving need. He let go of your hands to grip the headboard, his arms straining with the effort of holding himself over you as he drove home, each movement deeper and more desperate than the last.

The build-up was a tidal wave, a pressure in your chest that finally snapped, sending waves of heat through your entire body. Choso felt it he way you tensed, the way your name fell from your lips like a prayer and it pushed him over the edge. He buried his face in your shoulder, his body shuddering with a violent, final release that left both of you tangled and breathless in the dark.

For a long time, he didn't move, just stayed buried deep inside you, his heartbeat a frantic drum against your ribs, finally satisfied now that he had you exactly where he needed you.

The low hum of the dorm’s common room was a sharp contrast to the suffocating silence inside Megumi’s room. You were sitting on the edge of his bed, scrolling through your phone, while Megumi sat at his desk. He wasn't working; he was just staring at a fixed point on the wall, his shoulders tense.

The air had been thick since you walked in. Earlier that evening, a guy from another class had stopped you in the courtyard, talking to you for entirely too long, his hand lingering on your shoulder as he laughed at a joke you hadn't even found that funny. Megumi had seen it from the window.

When your phone buzzed with a new notification a follow request from the same guy and the sound seemed to echo in the small room.

Before you could even see the name on the screen, Megumi was there. He moved with a quiet, sudden speed that forced you to look up. He didn't say anything as he reached down, his fingers brushing yours as he took the phone from your hand and set it face-down on the nightstand.

"Megumi?" you whispered, your heart jumping.

"Would you not answer that?" he said. His voice was a low, rough vibration, devoid of its usual calm. He didn't step back. Instead, he leaned over you, bracing one hand on the mattress on either side of your legs, caging you in.

The height difference was palpable now. He was in a simple black tank top, the shadows of the room carving out the sharp lines of his collarbones and the lean muscle of his arms. He looked less like the disciplined student you knew and more like someone who was seconds away from losing his patience.

"It was just a notification," you said, your voice wavering. "He was just being friendly."

"He wasn't being friendly," Megumi snapped, his jaw tightening so hard you could see the muscle jump. He leaned in closer, his face inches from yours. The scent of him, clean laundry and that faint, sharp hint of coffee was everywhere. "I saw the way he was looking at you and tried to touch you” Like he thought he had a right to stand that close."

The intensity in his dark eyes was staggering. It wasn't just any frustration; it was a raw, unfiltered possessiveness that made the air in your lungs feel thin. He shifted, his knee pressing into the edge of the mattress between yours, forcing you to lean back against the headboard.

"Are you actually jealous?" you asked softly, your fingers tracing the hem of his sleeve.

"I don't like other people touching what's mine to look after" he muttered, his voice dropping into a dangerous, private register. He didn't use the word belong, but the way his hand slid from the bed to the curve of your waist, his thumb pressing firmly into your skin, made the statement clear enough.

He tilted his head, his gaze dropping to your lips and staying there. The tension was a physical weight, thick and demanding. You reached up, your hand sliding into the dark, messy spikes of hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down that final inch.

He let out a low, frustrated sound against your mouth as he finally kissed you. It was deep, hungry, and tasted of a jealousy he was tired of hiding. He moved his hand from your waist to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair to hold you exactly where he wanted you.

When he finally pulled back to breathe, he didn't move away. He stayed right there, his forehead resting against yours, his thumb still tracing slow, possessive circles against your hip.

"Stay here." he breathed against your lips, a quiet demand that felt more like a confession.